Let me share with you a truth
that I hold very close, not just as a scholar but as a man who has walked many
paths of learning, teaching, and self-discovery: our power to think—what we
call the intellect—is not just a biological function or an evolved instinct. It
is a spiritual capacity. A sacred faculty. And in the Catholic philosophical
tradition, it is considered one of the most profound gifts given to the human
soul.
I’ve often asked myself: What
truly makes us human? When everything else falls away—our achievements, our
failures, our possessions—what remains? The answer, I believe, lies in our
ability to understand, to judge, to reflect, and to seek meaning beyond the
surface of things. This is the work of the intellect. And it is through this
mysterious power that we perceive not only the world around us but also the
truth within ourselves.
From the Catholic perspective,
the intellect is not just a fancy word for brain function. It is something
higher. It’s a spiritual power of the soul that goes far beyond what the senses
can perceive. Sure, our senses awaken our minds—light, sound, and touch—they
trigger thought. But the intellect takes what is sensed and goes beyond. It
asks questions. It makes connections. It sees the invisible behind the visible.
The intellect lets us pay
attention, form concepts, compare, reason, make judgments, and above all,
become aware of ourselves. That last one—self-awareness—that’s something we
rarely pause to appreciate. Animals may survive, react, and even imitate behavior.
But they don’t sit alone in the evening and ask, “Who am I?” or “What is the
meaning of my suffering?” That belongs to us. That belongs to the intellect.
Growing up, I had moments—quiet
ones—where I realized this gift was active in me. As a child, I stared at the
stars and wondered what infinity meant. As a student, I struggled with the idea
of justice—not just as a rule, but as a principle. As a public servant, I’ve
watched people make impossible choices for dignity’s sake. And as a father and
teacher, I’ve seen young minds awaken when they encounter something that makes
them think deeply, not just memorize facts.
These moments are all
intellectual. Not in a snobbish, academic sense—but in the spiritual sense.
They are moments when the soul reaches out to grasp something greater than
itself.
Now, I must be honest: today, we
live in a world that has forgotten the depth of the human intellect. Much of
modern thinking reduces the mind to a machine or a passive slate. From Hobbes
to Locke to Hume, the story shifted—no longer were we souls seeking truth, but
merely bundles of sensation, driven by impulse and reaction. Slowly, the idea
that the mind could touch the eternal was abandoned. Instead, we were told that
all knowledge comes from the senses, and anything beyond that is imagination.
But that never sat well with me.
Or with Catholic thinkers across centuries.
Take Plato and Aristotle—two
giants of ancient thought. Plato saw that there are two ways of knowing: one
through the senses, the other through reason. He taught that while the senses
show us a world of change and imperfection, reason brings us to eternal
truths—what he called the “world of ideas.” His student Aristotle agreed,
though he was more grounded. He taught that knowledge begins in the senses,
yes—but the intellect steps in to make sense of what we see, to extract the
universal from the particular.
Imagine a child seeing five
different kinds of dogs. The senses show the colors, the sizes, and the sounds. But
the intellect gives birth to the idea of “dog”—not this or that one, but the
essence of dog-ness. That concept, that universal idea, does not come from
sight or sound alone. It comes from the spiritual power of abstraction. That’s
the intellect in action.
Catholic philosophers like St.
Thomas Aquinas picked up where Aristotle left off. Aquinas saw the intellect as
both active and passive. It receives information, yes—but it also works on it.
It shines a light on the raw data of the senses and reveals the intelligible
meaning beneath. And because the intellect can grasp universal, unchanging
truths, it must be spiritual. It cannot be a function of flesh and neurons
alone.
That’s why we don’t call animal
instincts “intellect,” no matter how clever a dolphin or a chimpanzee might be.
Their actions, however fascinating, are bound to their bodies. But the human
intellect can think of God. It can reflect on love, death, and eternity. It can
write poems about silence and cry over a thought that has no image. That is a
different order of knowing.
Even language is a sign of our
intellectual nature. Words are not just sounds. They are vessels of meaning.
They carry ideas, not just images. When I say “freedom” or “mercy,” I’m not
pointing to anything I can physically touch. But you, dear reader, understand
me—because your intellect reaches into that same space of meaning.
But intellect is not born fully
formed. Like a muscle, it develops with use. In the beginning, an infant feels,
sees, and hears—but slowly begins to distinguish one thing from another. Over
time, the child notices patterns, makes connections, and finally begins to ask
“why.” This is the gradual unfolding of intellectual life. It starts from the
senses but transcends them.
And as the intellect matures, it
becomes not only a tool for knowing the world but also for knowing ourselves. It helps us discern right from wrong, remember our identity, and hope for the future. Conscience itself is the intellect 's moral function.
It reflects on actions, intentions, and consequences. It listens for truth.
When I reflect on our world
today—where truth is sometimes treated as a matter of opinion, and human
dignity is so often forgotten—I see how urgently we need to reclaim this
understanding of intellect. We are not just brains on legs. We are souls with
minds that seek what is real, good, and beautiful.
And so I say this to the young
thinkers, the tired teachers, the public servants, and the mothers, fathers, and
friends: cherish your intellect. Nurture it. Use it not just to get by, but to
understand, to grow, and to seek God. Let it be not just a lamp for your work, but
a light for your soul.
We discover the truth—and in the truth, we discover ourselves—in that light.
