The Divine Thing that made itself the foundation of the Church

The words of Charles Williams — “The Divine Thing that made itself the foundation of the Church does not seem, to judge by His comments on the religious leadership of His day, to have hoped much from officers of a church” — pierce through centuries of spiritual history like a sword of quiet revelation. Within this sentence lies both irony and holiness. Williams, the poet-theologian and companion of C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, reminds us that the Church, though born of divine intent, has always been carried by fallible hands. The Divine Thing, which is Christ Himself — the eternal Logos made flesh — did not place His trust in the power of institutions or titles, but in the hearts of the humble and the faith of those who love truth above prestige. His kingdom, Williams suggests, was never meant to be built by those who seek authority, but by those who serve in spirit and in truth.

In the style of the ancients, one might say: “Beware the throne in the temple.” For the one who came to found the faith walked barefoot upon the dust and dined with the poor, yet His fiercest words were for the religious leaders — the Pharisees and scribes — who bound others with heavy burdens and honored God with their lips while their hearts were far from Him. The Divine Thing, the Incarnate Word, judged them not by the robes they wore or the temples they adorned, but by their spirit of pride and hypocrisy. In Williams’s reflection, the warning is eternal: whenever the servants of God mistake their office for His authority, they cease to be vessels of the divine and become guardians of vanity.

The origin of this quote lies in Williams’s meditations on the mystical nature of Christianity — how divine grace often moves outside the boundaries of institution, speaking instead through poets, saints, and simple souls who love without calculation. He belonged to the Inklings, that fellowship of thinkers who sought to reconcile intellect with faith, imagination with theology. Williams, more than many, saw how the sacred could be betrayed by those who claim to own it. His words echo not rebellion but discernment: he does not condemn the Church, but he exposes the folly of believing that clerical authority equals spiritual purity. Christ Himself, he reminds us, placed His hope not in offices, but in transformation — not in hierarchy, but in holiness.

History itself bears witness to this truth. When Francis of Assisi rose from wealth into poverty, he did so not in defiance of the Church but in renewal of its soul. He saw that Christ’s command — “take nothing for your journey” — had been forgotten by leaders enamored with power. The Divine had not abandoned the Church, but the Church had strayed from the Divine. Francis became its mirror, showing through simplicity and humility what the true foundation looked like: not stone, but spirit. His life was proof of what Williams means — that the hope of the Divine rests not in the officers of religion, but in those who live the faith rather than administer it.

And yet, Williams does not despise the Church. He sees it as a paradox — both human and divine, flawed yet filled with grace. It is the Body of Christ, but its bones are made of mortal men. Thus, he writes with both reverence and lament, knowing that the mystery of divine incarnation means that God has chosen to dwell in human weakness. The same truth that lived in Bethlehem’s manger still lives in the Church: holiness born amidst imperfection. The Divine Thing may not have hoped much from its officers, yet it still works through them, as light through cracked glass. The lesson, then, is not to abandon faith, but to seek God beyond human structures, to honor the Church while never confusing it with God Himself.

Consider also the example of Jesus cleansing the temple, driving out the money changers who had turned worship into commerce. In that act, He declared that no structure, however sacred, is above correction. The Divine does not fear reform; it demands it. Williams’s insight captures this same spirit — the eternal tension between form and fire, between religion as an institution and faith as a living flame. When the Church forgets its source, it becomes merely an echo of power. But when it humbles itself before the mystery of the Cross, it becomes again what it was meant to be — a vessel of divine compassion.

Let this be the teaching for all who seek truth: do not mistake the servants for the Master. The Divine Thing — the Christ who knelt to wash the feet of His disciples — still walks among the lowly, the doubting, the yearning. Seek Him not in titles, but in tenderness; not in hierarchy, but in humility. Honor the Church as the cradle of faith, but remember that its holiness flows from the One who founded it, not from those who govern it. When leadership fails, as it often will, the Divine endures — still whispering to the heart of every soul that listens.

So take this wisdom and hold it close: true faith is never confined by authority, but illuminated by love. The Divine Thing trusted not in power, but in people — the fishermen, the sinners, the outcasts. To follow Him is to do likewise. Build your faith not upon the pillars of man, but upon the eternal foundation of mercy, truth, and courage. For the Church stands or falls not by its officers, but by its saints — those whose hearts burn with the same love that first founded it.