If God starts on two, so should we. For those who don’t know, this is a dancing reference—and, furthermore, the brief insight I’d like to share is a direct result of my own experience salsa dancing, combined with the thought of German-Polish theologian Eric Przywara (a major influence on Cardinal Ratzinger). A delicious combination, to be sure. But, what exactly do these two things have in common? I’ll give you a hint: the answer is rhythm, but I’ll return to that thought in a moment. For now, let me set up the problem.

I’ve recently returned to graduate school and am earning a masters degree in theology at Notre Dame and one day, I wound up chatting with an undergraduate student after class. The reason this came about was that, during the previous class’s discussion, I noticed something about his contributions that seemed… Off, lacking, or immature in some way. His comments were not wanting in orthodoxy, or even in piety or zeal—mostly, he just kept bringing up demons, and I was curious why he was so insistent on discussing this somewhat adjacent topic to the content of our readings. I wanted to investigate further, so I struck up a conversation.

As it unfolded, he revealed to me a number of convictions weighing on his mind: a heightened awareness and interest in spiritual warfare, the idea that heaven is actually very difficult to attain, the belief that most people are going to hell, and that if you don’t explicitly accept Jesus Christ in this life, except for the extraordinarily rare exception—you’re toast. Many of his beliefs I agreed with: I do believe that spiritual warfare is more relevant than what meets the eye; I believe the demand of Christ is everything, and that the cost of being a Christian is high. However, there was also something deeply wrong with all the “right” things he was saying—but I had trouble putting my finger on it. Furthermore, there were notions he expressed that I simply don’t believe are true: I don’t think any Christian is able to claim with such certitude that most people are going to hell, and I have always had the sense that the Church’s affirmation of the possibility of receiving salvation through an implicit faith in Jesus (rather than an explicit faith alone) is far more nuanced and messy in reality. It’s true, society as a whole looks dismal, but on the flip side, we already believe there is far more going on in reality than what meets the eye. Unfortunately, pushing back against such opinions gives the impression that one just doesn’t like swallowing the hard truths of Christian faith, even if this is not the case. But the way he spoke seemed to me like the mystery of God put in a straightjacket, as if to suggest that God set human beings up to play some impossibly hard game, one where most fail and receive endless torture, but for those who play their Jesus card right, and work really hard, they can obtain heaven.

Naturally, I know my interlocutor would disagree with the picture I am now painting—and yet, this is the impression these sorts of beliefs and explanations tend to offer, put all together, when handed to ye average man off the street. How might we present the truly good news of the Gospel, and not a dismal tyranny, without watering down the fact that Christianity is an all or nothing proposition? And how do we reconcile that being “nice,” while simultaneously ignoring the commandments, will not get you to heaven, and yet there is room also for the good thief? This is when I thought of Eric Przywara.

What I find so fascinating about Przywara (and now that you know, you’ll be able to spot his influence in Ratzinger) is his explanation of the “Analogia Entis,” or the analogy of being, which he draws from Aquinas. In short, you could describe it as a hermeneutic of theology, one that begins with this principle (the analogy of being) as formulated by the Fourth Lateran Council: “For between creator and creature there can be noted no similarity so great that a greater dissimilarity cannot be seen between them.” What Eric Przwara sees in this is a rhythm, an “in-and-beyond” rhythm that undergirds God’s relationship with all of reality, a rhythm even within theology itself (since, after all, it is the study of God). So, for example, God’s image truly is in man, but God is ultimately “in-and-beyond” man—and the Fourth Lateran Council emphasizes that what is “beyond” man is far greater than what is “in” him. The rhythm leans in one direction: beyond. Again, God truly does enter into history, and into our human reality, but God is ultimately “in-and-beyond” history. Therefore, we cannot confine the study of the incarnation only to the historical critical method if doing so absolutizes one aspect of the incarnation (Jesus’ historical reality) as the whole. Perhaps another way of putting it is, if we make history “in and beyond” God, we could end up with a lot of true facts, but deprived of the facts beyond its bounds, find ourselves telling a different story.

Now, what does all of this have to do with our dear undergraduate friend, or even salsa dancing? I think this same “rhythm” of the Anologia Entis can be applied to God’s justice and mercy. Forgive me for some leaps of argumentation here, but I would like to suggest that the “rhythm” of God’s actions in history looks a lot more like mercy “in-and-beyond” justice, rather than justice “in-and-beyond” mercy. One straightforward justification is the exhortation from James to: “So speak and so act as those who are to be judged under the law of liberty. For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy; yet mercy triumphs over judgment” (James 2:12-13). What James seems to suggest is that, although God’s justice is true and eternal, ultimately, God’s mercy is both the heart and final cause of his justice. Both are true, but the rhythm of God’s justice leans into mercy.

Naturally, this is a tricky thing to claim, as God is both infinitely just and merciful at the exact same time. However, I like this notion of “rhythm” because it seems to capture a very real quality of God, and the way we actually experience Him in reality. This is where the dancing analogy, I think, really clarifies things. For those of you who have never danced salsa, I am at an utter loss as to how to explain this dance by text, I’d encourage you to just watch it instead. However, for those who are familiar with dance, you know that beginning your first step on the first beat of the measure (starting on one) or the second beat of the measure (starting on two) changes the whole feel of the dance—even if you are technically dancing the same basic steps. For salsa, at least, dancing on one means you dance to the beat of the conga drums—dancing on two means you are dancing to the melody. You feel the music differently; it’s a whole different way of leaning into the rhythm, and the cues of your partner. Again, the steps are the same—but the rhythm, the pattern slightly changes, even to the point where if you have never danced on two before, you would be very confused.

Luckily, my undergraduate friend is a dancer, and he knew exactly what I was getting at. And so, I was able to make the following point: if God begins on two, we should follow. We need to make sure our theological language (especially about salvation) matches not only his steps, but echoes the same rhythm he chooses as well. That is how we know we are being good dance partners: not by self-leading, but by constantly following his cues. If God starts on two, then I start on two.  In other words, if God steps first into mercy, and then into justice, we also ought to do the same—whether we are talking to others or to ourselves. In short, we ought to echo in our actions and words God’s Mercy “in-and-beyond” Justice—for fear we prove bad dance partners to God, and lead others into (or away) from the wrong dance.

Last but not least: I made the claim that God dances on two, not on one. But how can we know for sure? I couldn’t really tell you. I just enjoy dancing on two, and even though I’m less used to it, dancing to the melody sure is fun!