Whether Mary is the Mother of God

While reading the Mass readings in my Magnificat this evening, I came across a beautiful excerpt from St. John of the Cross. I won’t share the entire passage, as writing it out would take some time, but it’s the kind of text that reads like a series of aphorisms. The only thing I’ve added are the numbers, to present his words more clearly.

St. John of the Cross, pray for us.

1. The further you withdraw from earthly things the closer you approach heavenly things.

2. Whoever knows how to die in all will have life in all.

3. Abandon evil, do good, and seek peace.

4. Anyone who complains or grumbles is not perfect, nor even a good Christian.

5. The humble are those who hide in their own nothingness and know how to abandon themselves to God.

6. If you desire to be perfect, sell your will, give it to the poor in spirit.

7. Those who trust in themselves are worse than the devil.

8. Those who do not love their neighbor abhor God.

9. Anyone who does things lukewarmly is close to falling.

10. Whoever flees prayer flees all that is good.

11. Conquering the tongue is better than fasting on bread and water.

12. Suffering for Gopd is better than working miracles.

13. As for trials, the more the better. What does anyone know who doesn’t know how to suffer for Christ.

May the wisdom of St. John of the Cross inspire us to strive for holiness and draw closer to Christ, following his example of humility, prayer, and trust in God. Which of his insights struck you the most?

Morning, all.

Today I’ll attempt a socratic dialogue on Mary as Theotokos, or "Mother of God."

James is the Protestant, Thomas is the Catholic.

James: Thomas, I gotta say, I don’t get how you can call Mary the “Mother of God.”

Thomas: Alright?

James: I mean, how can a finite human being possibly be the mother of the infinite God? It doesn’t make sense—unless you’re elevating Mary to some sort of divine status.

Thomas: Well, let me ask you: do you agree that Mary is the mother of Jesus?

James: Obviously, yes.

Thomas: And do you agree that Jesus is God?

James: Of course. He’s fully God and fully man.

Thomas: Then logically, Mary is the Mother of God. She isn’t the mother of His divine nature—that’s eternal and uncreated, which I think is where you’re getting stuck. But she is the mother of Jesus, the one person who is both fully God and fully man. The logic is simple and unavoidable:

1. Mary is the mother of Jesus.

2. Jesus is God.

3. Therefore, Mary is the Mother of God.

James: I don’t know… it feels like another invention by the Church to give Mary too much attention. And it’s nowhere in Scripture.

Thomas: True, the title “Mother of God” isn’t explicitly in Scripture, but neither are terms like “Trinity,” “Hypostatic Union,” or even “Bible.” The title is a theological conclusion drawn from Scripture, not something made up later. Take Luke 1:43, for instance. Elizabeth calls Mary “the mother of my Lord.” In the context of Luke’s Gospel, “Lord” is clearly a title for God.

Aristotle, in his Metaphysics, famously said:

“To say of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not, is true.”

It’s a beautifully straightforward definition of truth. But it raises a far trickier question: How do we know what is? Is it even possible to know? Or are we, as some philosophers would suggest, doomed to skepticism, forever trapped in doubt about what’s real and what’s not?

These questions have been on my mind quite a bit lately, and I touched on them briefly during my conversation with Ben Shapiro. In this short article, I’d like to dig a little deeper and flesh out some of those ideas. Let’s explore whether truth is truly within our grasp—and if so, how we might go about finding it.

Rene Descartes approached the search for truth with a bold and ambitious plan. He believed—or at least appeared to for the sake of his experiment—that to know anything with certainty, he first needed to doubt everything that appeared to be true until he could find a reason to accept it. His strategy was like trying to build a ladder: one solid rung of certainty at a time, to climb out of Plato’s cave of ignorance and into the light of ultimate truth.

The first rung of Descartes’ ladder was his famous cogito, ergo sum—“I think, therefore I am.” This seemed unshakable. Even if he doubted everything else, the very act of doubting proved his existence as a thinking being. But even this foundational rung isn’t as sturdy as Descartes thought. David Hume later argued that the concept of the self, traditionally understood, is an illusion. According to Hume, what we call the “self” is just a bundle of perceptions, constantly shifting and without a stable, unified core. If Hume is right, then Descartes’ cogito could itself be doubted, as it presupposes a continuous “I” doing the thinking—a presupposition Hume found unwarranted.

The rest of Descartes’ ladder fared no better. Each new rung required absolute certainty, whether it was the existence of God, the reliability of reason, or the trustworthiness of sensory perception. But with each step, doubt crept in. What if the external world was an illusion? What if a deceptive God (or evil demon) was orchestrating all his thoughts? Unable to construct a ladder strong enough to bear the weight of his own demands for certainty, Descartes’ project collapsed. The entire structure left him, and much of modern philosophy, stuck in the cave, skeptical of whether we could truly know anything at all.

Phenomenal conservatism (PC), by contrast, offers a much more practical and accessible approach to truth. It doesn’t demand that we start by tearing down everything we think we know. Instead, PC suggests we begin with trust: Accept what appears apparent to you until you have a reason to doubt it. It’s an approach grounded in the realities of human experience.

Unlike Descartes’ ladder, which sought absolute certainty for every step, the PC ladder is less rigid. Some rungs might be sturdier than others, and that’s okay. What matters is that the ladder holds together well enough to help us climb toward the light. PC embraces the natural reliability of our perceptions, intuitions, and experiences—not because they’re perfect, but because they’re good enough to make progress.

For instance, when we see a tree, we don’t need to demand incontrovertible proof of its existence before we trust that it’s there. Under PC, our perception of the tree is justified unless and until we encounter a defeater—like realizing we’re wearing virtual reality goggles. The same principle applies to more abstract truths: our moral intuitions, our belief in the reliability of reason, and even our awareness of the divine.

Where Descartes’ ladder demanded perfection and collapsed under the weight of that demand, PC’s ladder works precisely because it allows for imperfection. It acknowledges that we might occasionally misstep or encounter a shaky rung, but it doesn’t see that as a reason to abandon the climb altogether.

By starting with trust rather than doubt, PC bypasses the skeptical traps that ensnared Descartes. It invites us to navigate the world with confidence, even if some of our beliefs might later need revision. After all, progress doesn’t require perfection—just a functional framework that helps us move forward.