The author of some 90 books, G. K. Chesterton (1874 – 1936) was a British writer of unsurpassed popularity in his day. Born into a nominally Anglican family, he slid into agnosticism by the age of 16, but by the turn of the century, he was beginning to speak favorably of the Christian faith. His wife led him back into the Anglican church, and by 1908, he was professing faith in Christ. In 1922, he converted to Catholicism.

The following passage from “A Piece of Chalk,” written for the Daily News, November 4, 1905,¹ reveals his budding appreciation for the splendor of biblical morality. Here Chesterton reflects upon the frustration he felt on a summer holiday when he discovered he had left the house without white chalk. With brown paper and six bright colors in hand, he had ventured out into the countryside to do some drawing. But his palette was fatally flawed for lack of white, which is not the absence of color, but a “shining and affirmative thing” in its own right. Chesterton compares this to the virtues, explaining that mercy and chastity are not so much the absence of cruelty and sexual wrong as shining, gorgeous, and positive manifestations of moral whiteness.

[A]s I sat scrawling these silly figures on the brown paper, it began to dawn on me, to my great disgust, that I had left one chalk, and that a most exquisite and essential chalk, behind. I searched all my pockets, but I could not find any white chalk. Now, those who are acquainted with all the philosophy (nay, religion) which is typified in the art of drawing on brown paper, know that white is positive and essential. I cannot avoid remarking here upon a moral significance. One of the wise and awful truths which this brown-paper art reveals, is this, that white is a colour. It is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. When (so to speak) your pencil grows red-hot, it draws roses; when it grows white-hot, it draws stars. And one of the two or three defiant verities of the best religious morality, of real Christianity for example, is exactly the same thing; the chief assertion of religious morality is that white is a colour. Virtue is not the absence of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate thing, like pain or a particular smell. Mercy does not mean not being cruel or sparing people revenge or punishment; it means a plain and positive thing like the sun, which one has either seen or not seen. Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc. In a word, God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white. In a sense our age has realized this fact, and expressed it in our sullen costume. For if it were really true that white was a blank and colourless thing, negative and non-committal, then white would be used instead of black and grey for the funeral dress of this pessimistic period. . . Which is not the case.

Footnotes:

¹ Reprinted originally in Tremendous Trifles. Also reprinted in G. K. Chesteron, “A Piece of Chalk,” The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present, ed. Phillip Lopate (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 249-252.

Studying the Roman Catholic interest of the calendar is a fascinating exercise. In expressing the way in which time is sequenced, it gives access to what Roman Catholicism considers important for the Christian life and for humanity in general. The Roman Church has always paid great attention to establishing the rhythms of life by shaping and filling them with religious contents and symbolism. It is not by chance that our Gregorian calendar (i.e. our Western calendar) takes its name for Pope Gregory XIII who in 1582 stabilized the previous Julian calendar and gave shape to our modern one. It is worth considering that our way of measuring time was basically decided by a Roman Emperor and then by a Roman Pope.

In the Middle Ages the Roman Church punctuated the established Christian calendar centered around traditional festivals (e.g. Easter, Pentecost, Christmas) by adding the veneration of a saint for each day of the year. Popular devotion was therefore given a daily opportunity to exalt the virtues of exemplary men and women and to pray to them. The practice of the intercessory prayers to the saints was also encouraged and still remains a defining practice for many Catholics around the world. Time is marked by devotional practices that convey a powerful religious worldview.

Besides holy years, yearly festivals, special weeks, single days, and the liturgy of the hours, the Roman Catholic calendar also focuses on particular months. Different cycles of life are saturated with different liturgical and devotional exercises. One month in particular deserves some comments.

Why May?

In the Roman Catholic liturgical calendar May is traditionally the Marian month. In Marian encyclopedias and in Mariological dictionaries the only explanation that is given for the choice of this particular month is that May is the time of year when Spring shines forth with warm weather and the fields begin to show the coming and growing harvest. As nature in May, so to speak, awakens after Winter, so the Christian life reflects the reinvigoration of life. The Virgin Mary is associated with the renewal of things and the beginning of a new fruitful season.

At the end of XIX century, Mothers’ Days began to be celebrated in the West. Apparently, there was no previous connection with the Marian month which was already a well established practice in the majority of Catholic nations. Mother’s Day started with the desire to honor the memory of one’s own mother. Of course, many Catholics saw the emergence of Mother’s Day in May as a “providential” coincidence to honor the Mother par excellence, the Virgin Mary. The two meanings, religious and secular, are now blended, thus resulting in an ever more “catholic” month.

What Happens in the Marian Month?

The Marian month is celebrated in a variety of ways. The highly sophisticated Mariology coincides with popular practices that are deeply rooted in folk Catholicism. From the bottom up, grassroots Marian movements organize vigils of prayer to Mary at the parish level, with open air processions, rosaries, and chains of prayer. The idea is to mark the territory with Mary’s presence. In Marian sanctuaries activities become frenzy due to the pilgrimage of groups. In homilies references to the various Mariological dimensions are even more emphasized. In Catholic bookshops, special rosary chains and devotional tools are given special interest.

In May, even papal speeches and addresses take a more Marian slant. Between Easter Sunday and Pentecost, the Pope recites them prayer Regina Coeli (i.e. “Queen of heaven”) instead of the Angelus at midday in St. Peter’s square. Pilgrims and tourists gather to listen to and pray with the Pope. Regina Coeli is an old Marian prayer whose text contains Roman Catholic Mariology in a nutshell:

Queen of Heaven, rejoice, alleluia.

    For He whom you did merit to bear, alleluia.

Has risen, as He said, alleluia.

    Pray for us to God, alleluia.

Rejoice and be glad, O Virgin Mary, alleluia.

    For the Lord has truly risen, alleluia. Let us pray.

O God, who has been pleased to gladden the world

    by the Resurrection of your Son our Lord Jesus Christ,

grant, we pray, that through his Mother, the Virgin Mary,

    we may receive the joys of everlasting life.

Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.

In Regina Coeli Mary is the recipient of prayers and the intercessor between the faithful and Christ. This is Marian month.

Leonardo De Chirico

leonardo.dechirico@ifeditalia.org

Rome, 15^th May 2012

 

Bernard of Clairvaux (1090 – 1153) was one of the most prominent Church teachers of the Middle Ages. Though he was known as a persuasive advocate for monasticism and personal piety, Bernard also boldly preached on the issues of his day. In fact, “[i]t was said in his time that the Church had had no preacher like him since Gregory the Great.”¹ His writings and teachings influenced ecclesiastical and civil affairs outside the monastery and contributed to a renewed religious awakening in the surrounding culture. In his work, On Loving God, Bernard articulates that the essence and motive of love is God Himself. Apart from God placing His love within man, man is unable to know God. Therefore, man is driven by greed to fill his life with things that cannot truly satisfy—for what man lacks, is God Himself.

It is natural for a man to desire what he reckons better than that which he has already, and be satisfied with nothing which lacks that special quality which he misses. Thus, if it is for her beauty that he loves his wife, he will cast longing eyes after a fairer woman. If he is clad in a rich garment, he will covet a costlier one; and no matter how rich he may be he will envy a man richer than himself. . . . Do we not see people every day, endowed with vast estates, who keep on joining field to field, dreaming of wider boundaries for their lands? Those who dwell in palaces are ever adding house to house, continually building up and tearing down, remodeling and changing. Men in high places are driven by insatiable ambition to clutch at still greater prizes. And nowhere is there any final satisfaction, because nothing there can be defined as absolutely the best or highest . . . No matter how many such things one has, he is always lusting after what he has not; never at peace, he sighs for new possessions. Discontented, he spends himself in fruitless toil, and finds only weariness in the evanescent and unreal pleasures of the world. In his greediness, he counts all that he has clutched as nothing in comparison with what is beyond his grasp, and loses all pleasure in his actual possessions by longing after what he has not, yet covets. No man can ever hope to own all things. . . .

It is so that these impious ones wander in a circle, longing after something to gratify their yearnings, yet madly rejecting that which alone can bring them to their desired end, not by exhaustion but by attainment. They wear themselves out in vain travail, without reaching their blessed consummation, because they delight in creatures, not in the Creator. . . .

If you should see a starving man standing with mouth open to the wind, inhaling draughts of air as if in hope of gratifying his hunger, you would think him lunatic. But it is no less foolish to imagine that the soul can be satisfied with worldly things which only inflate it without feeding it. . . .²

Footnotes:

¹ New Schaff-Herzog Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge, s.v. “Bernard of Clairvaux,” http://www.ccel.org/php/disp.php?authorID=schaff&bookID=encyc02&page=62 (accessed February 17, 2006).

² St. Bernard of Clairvaux, On Loving God (Grand Rapids, MI: Christian Classics Ethereal Library, 2000), 13-15, http://www.ccel.org/ccel/bernard/loving_god.ix.html (accessed February 17, 2006). See chapter 7.

Both the topic and the author make this book a must read for all who are interested in present-day Roman Catholicism. Katholische Kirche. Wesen, Wirklichkeit, Sendung (The Catholic Church. Essence, Reality, Mission)[1] is the last volume by Cardinal Walter Kasper, one of the most interesting voices of contemporary Roman Catholic theology. In a 500 plus page book Kasper, now 80 years old, outlines both his theological pilgrimage in the Church and the main tenets of Catholic ecclesiology with particular reference to Vatican II. The book therefore combines autobiographical narratives and thick theological arguments.

Kasper’s previous works (e.g. Jesus the Christ, 1976, and The God of Jesus Christ, 1984) made him one of the leading theologians after Vatican II, sometimes aligned to “progressive” tendencies, but always within the borders of mainstream catholicity. The fact that he was made cardinal and then President of the Pontifical Council for Christian Unity (2001-2010) testifies to his “orthodoxy” from the Vatican’s point of view. Unlike Ratzinger, he did not take part at the Council, though he has been a fervent advocate of it, especially the call for renewal within the Tradition that Vatican II reflected.

At times, he has been played against the “conservative” Ratzinger, but to no avail. For instance, ten years ago a controversy was mounted around an ecclesiological issue between the two, i.e. the ontological primacy of the “one” Church over the particular churches (Ratzinger’s view), or the “particular” churches (Kasper’s) over the one Church. In other words, does the “one and catholic” Church come first and express itself in the particular churches or do the “many and particular” churches constitute the one Church? The solution was very catholic: et-et, both-and, with Ratzinger continuing to stress the “one” and Kasper underlining the “many”!

1. A Vatican II Ecclesiology

This book is the result of a lifetime of reflection on the Catholic Church, its sacramental reality, dogmatic apparatus, historical tradition, and present-day problems and challenges. Kasper pays tribute to his theological fathers that made a lasting impression on him: the XIX century Catholic school of Tübingen (J.S. Drey and J.A. Möhler) and J.H. Newman. The former gave him a “living” sense of the Church as the sacramental body of Christ, the latter instilled in him the sense of “development in continuity” of the Church’s tradition. According to Kasper, Vatican II is the child of the combination of both trends. Its overall significance can be summarized as “a continuity accompanied by a creative renewal” (27).

The main attempt of the book is to articulate a vision of the Catholic Church around the categories of mysterium and communio. The former underscores the sacramentality of the Church, i.e. its being a sign and instrument of communion with God and of the unity of mankind. The latter underlines its catholicity, i.e. the ability to join together both past and future, faith and reason, grace and works, Roman institutions and catholic afflatus, clergy and laity, papacy and movements, living and dead, Christ and Mary, and so on. To this thick Roman Catholic view, Protestant accounts of the church appear to be marred by “ecclesiological docetism” (158) and the difference between the two is “fundamental” (263). Whereas the Church of Jesus Christ subsists in the Roman Catholic Church in its fullness, it also exists in other Christian communities, though in defective ways. Kasper adheres to the “tiered concept” of the Church (261 and 293) whereby the Roman Catholic Church stands in the center and other churches revolve around it depending on their proximity or distance from it.

This is standard Vatican II ecclesiology. Kasper hopes that the “spirit” of the Council will continue to breathe in the Roman Catholic Church to encourage renewal within the parameters of Tradition. In spite of past real or fictional controversies, this program is very close to that of Pope Benedict XVI’s.

2. The Missing Interaction with Modern Evangelical Theology

Throughout the book Kasper interacts with Martin Luther’s writings and theology. The German reformer is read with respectful criticism. His main fault was that he broke with the institutional Church whereas other saints, though critical of, never rebelled against it and its magisterium (229). Other XVI century reformers are less present in Kasper’s horizon. This is understandable given his German provenance. Of course the Cardinal is also very well versed in ecumenical theology and makes extensive use of its history, dialogues and literature, especially those that stem from Eastern Orthodox, mainline Protestant and Anglican churches.

There is only one passing reference to the “Evangelical movements and communities” (53) which are associated with the Global South. Unfortunately, there is not a single reference to a present-day Evangelical theologian or to a significant Evangelical movement such as Lausanne. Given the fact that Kasper was the President of the Pontifical Council for Christian Unity for nearly ten years, it seems that his “professional” interaction with Evangelicals did not raise his interest towards Evangelical theology. There may be a number of reasons for that: 1. A bias concerning Evangelical theology that is not perceived as a serious discourse deserving attention; 2. An evaluation of the Evangelical movement that is not seen as having a coherent or interesting theology worth interacting with (especially its ecclesiology); 3. A lack of Evangelical self-awareness that makes it difficult for Evangelicals engaged in dialogue with Catholics to use Evangelical sources and literature as their working tools; 4. A defective penetration of Evangelical books in official Roman Catholic circles.

There may also be a combination of those. Kasper has keen insight into Catholic and non-Catholic theology, that is, assuming one supplements his treatment with evangelical Protestant thought, without which I’m unsure whether it is properly "Catholic."

Leonardo De Chirico

leonardo.dechirico@ifeditalia.org

Rome, 7^th May 2012

[1] I read the Italian edition: Chiesa cattolica. Essenza, realtà, missione (Brescia: Queriniana, 2012). References to page numbers refer to this edition.

Against the backdrop of 107 deaths per minute and 150,000 per day, we see how Jesus’ resurrection furnishes us with a living hope. In view of this gift, one possible response would be to encapsulate ourselves in the safety of our own salvation, putting human pain in our peripheral vision. But God “brought [Ezekiel] out in the Spirit of the LORD and set [him] down in the middle of the valley… and led [him] around among them… (1-2). The Lord wanted Ezekiel to take in the reality of death from the very middle of it.

Like Ezekiel, we step into the pain and death of humanity with eyes wide open, but we must not stop there. We believe that bones can live. Crazy as it sounds, indeed, “foolish,” according to Paul, it is true. The most tentative and enfeebled preacher possesses power to speak life into dead bones. Why? Because Jesus Christ swallowed up death, the Savior who shed his blood and rose victoriously from the grave. He is the true ship to which Lawrence points. The apple has already fallen, thunderously upon the earth, but the last Adam has fallen with it. Therefore, we need not cower naked in the last branches of the tree of life. We need not build little boats with oars, gathering little dishes and accoutrements fitting for a departing soul. We need not collect little cakes and wine for the dark flight to oblivion. We need not fear the flood, for the Savior has poured himself out as an atoning sacrifice. This is what we see, and, because it is so marvelous, we joyfully proclaim it to the world.

My sermon from last week at Trinity Church in South Bend, titled “How Dry Bones Live,” may be accessed by clicking on the above image or HERE.

George Müller (1805 – 1898) is well known for his marvelously consistent, trusting, and effectual prayer life, whereby he petitioned God to establish and sustain a great work with orphans. Lesser known is his wife, Mary, who was his partner in those days of fruitful outreach to desperate children. They were married in 1830, two years before moving to Bristol, where the orphanages would be founded.

In 1870, at age 73, Mary died of rheumatic fever. The funeral procession included 1,400 children from their five orphan houses on Ashley Down. Müller elected to preach the funeral sermon, which contains the following words, a testimony to the strategic, holy, and loving teamship that Christian marriage should be.¹

My precious wife died, as it were, in harness. Up to the very last she was at work for the Lord. Even when on her death-bed she gave directions for this thing and another thing to be done connected with the honour of the Lord, —caring about the sick ones outside the house, and sending refreshments; caring yet for the orphans, and giving directions concerning them. “Always abounding in the work of the Lord.” It was the very joy and delight of her heart to labour for that blessed Jesus who had bought her by His precious blood, in the full assurance of the blessed fulfillment of this word, “Forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord” . . .

During all the thirty-nine years and four months that it was the joy and privilege of my heart to be united by bonds to that loved one, for her to live was Christ. This dear sister in Christ had one single business in life, one single object in life, —to live for Christ. As soon as I was united to her by such bonds she became a true helper to me in pastoral work. She went about and worked; she laboured, and laboured abundantly, in the Church at Teignmouth of which I was the pastor. And when it pleased God, thirty-seven years and nine months since, to allow us the honour and privilege to come to Bristol, to labour in this city, she in the fullest way gave herself to work among the children of God, and in every way she could, in order to live for Christ. And when it pleased God to give afterwards, as she clearly and distinctly saw, another sphere of labour on Ashley Down, it was day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, that she laboured in one even, steady course, —for her to live was Christ. Can my heart, then, but rejoice when I think of one whose life was what it was, when there is not so much as the shadow of a question remaining as to where she is now? Oh! how can it be otherwise than that my soul should be filled with unspeakable joy and delight, thinking of that blessed one being with Jesus. For her to live was Christ, and as she put off this her tabernacle, her spirit is now in the presence of Jesus; therefore to her to die is gain. I might give many reasons why to die to her is gain. For her the weakness and weariness of the tabernacle are at an end. For nearly two years past, when she came home with me, about nine o’clock in the evening, from the Orphan Houses, I could see that she was worn— worn to the utmost. I often said, “My darling, work less; my darling, stay at home.” But I could not prevail upon her to do so. She still worked and worked. She loved to be at my side, as I loved to be at her side. But I saw that it was becoming too much for her. Now for her this weariness is past— gone for ever.

Footnotes:

¹ George Müller, A Narrative of Some of The Lord’s Dealings with George Müller, vol. 2 (Muskegon, MI: Dust & Ashes, 2003), 747-748.

What is the nature of the Church? This weekend I had the pleasure of visiting South Bend, IN, to preach at Trinity Church, which sits in the shadow of the University of Notre Dame. After delivering an evening lecture, I had the most stimulating conversation with a professor from the university on the topic of ecclesiology, particularly on the divergent ways in which evangelicals and Catholics conceive of the Church’s nature and function. In just a few short minutes, it became obvious that the models employed by our respective traditions have profound implications on the way that we approach ministry. In what follows I will survey the salient conceptions of the Church from the last millennia. Such insight provides categories for engaging conversation with Catholic thinkers on the issue and it will also help us to evaluate the values and priorities with which we approach church ministry.

Among the most helpful volumes on the topic of ecclesial models is by the late Catholic theologian, Avery Cardinal Dulles. In his book, Models of the Church (see the 2002, Expanded Edition), Dulles gives an overview of five primary models: (1) Institution, (2) Mystical Communion, (3) Sacrament, (4) Herald, and (5) Servant, showcasing strengths and weakness before concluding with a concluding assessment:

Church as Institution

The institutional view “defines the Church primarily in terms of its visible structures, especially the rights and powers of its officers” (27). It is a hierarchical form of Church government, which the Jesuit, Robert Bellarmine (1542-1621) described as a society “as visible and palpable as the community of the Roman people, or the Kingdom of France, or the Republic of Venice” (26). Thus, authority is vested in the ruling class –clerics and church officers – whose jurisdiction is patterned after the secular state. As agents of God’s sacraments, the priesthood opens and shuts the valves of divine grace. Because the institutional model maintains that its hierarchical structure belongs to the apostolic deposit passed down by Christ’s disciples, the authority of the ruling class is regarded as God-given, and should therefore be unquestionably accepted by the faithful.

The strength of the Institutional model is in its public, visible manifestation of solidarity. It presents a tangible communion of faith. Unlike the other models, all tests of membership are visible and demonstrable. The weaknesses of this model, however, are also significant. On its own, it may become “rigid, doctrinaire, and conformist; it could easily substitute the official Church for God, and this would be a form of idolatry (186). Dulles goes on to explain that this is the only model that must not be paramount. He writes, “One of the five models, I believe, cannot properly be taken as primary—and this is the institutional model. Of their very nature, I believe, institutions are subordinate to persons, structures are subordinate to life” (189).

Church as Mystical Communion

According to this perspective, the church consists of faithful men and women who are bound together by their participation in God’s Spirit through the living Christ. The nature of this unity is not institutional but pneumatological, communal, and personal. “The goal of the Church, in this second ecclesiological type, is a spiritual or supernatural one. The Church aims to lead men into communion with the divine” (50). “The Church, from this point of view, is not in the first instance an institution or a visibly organized society. Rather it is a communion of men, primarily interior but also expressed by external bonds of creed, worship, and ecclesiastical fellowship” (47-48). The bond of unity, in this sense, consists of the gifts of the Holy Spirit, though the external bonds are recognized as important in a subsidiary way.

The strength of the Church as Mystical Communion is its emphasis on the dynamic community generated by the Holy Spirit along a vertical line (relationship with God) and horizontally (relationship with brother and sisters). The potential downside of this model is the danger of it degenerating into mere Christian fellowship without objective theological content. Accordingly, Dulles writes, the communion “may exalt and divinize the Church beyond its due” (52). It may also “fail to give Christians a clear sense of their identity and mission” (52).

Church as Sacrament

This model seeks to bring the previous two (Institutional and Mystical Communion) closer together, retaining structure while also promoting dynamic spiritual life. It is predicated on the notion that the structure of human life is symbolic. “The body with all its movements and gestures becomes the expression of the human spirit. The spirit comes to be what it is in and through the body” (57). Accordingly, the Church as sacrament is a sign and transmitter of God’s grace in the world. As an embodiment of the grace that it signifies, the Church exists as the presence of God to the nations.

Another important element of this model highlights and affirms that the sacrament are communal realities and not individual transactions:

As understood in the Christian tradition, sacraments are never merely individual transactions. Nobody baptizes, absolves, or anoints himself, and it is anomalous for the Eucharist to be celebrated in solitude. Here again the order of grace corresponds to the order of nature. Man comes into the world as a member of a family, a race, a people. He comes to maturity through encounter with his fellow men. Sacraments therefore have a dialogic structure. They take place in a mutual interaction that permits the people together to achieve a spiritual breakthrough that they could not achieve in isolation. A sacrament therefore is a socially constituted or communal symbol of the presence of grace coming to fulfillment. (59)

The strength of this model is that the church truly is a sign and instrument of grace to its members and to the world, while seeking to hold in tension of the outer (organizational/institutional) and inner (mystical communion) aspects of the Church. Dulles indicates that its weakness is that it has little warrant in Scripture and in the early tradition of the Church (66) and that it “could lead to a sterile aestheticism and to an almost narcissistic self-contemplation” (186). This model has found relatively little acceptance among Protestant churches (notwithstanding the Anglo-Catholic or some High-Lutheran traditions). 

Church as Herald

If the previous model is least common among Protestants, this one is probably the most widely accepted. The herald model “differs from the preceding because it makes the ‘word’ primary and the ‘sacrament’ secondary. It sees the Church as gathered and formed by the word of God. The mission of the Church is to proclaim that which it has heard, believed, and been commissioned to proclaim” (68). “This model is kerygmatic, for it looks upon the Church as a herald – one who receives an official message with the commission to pass it on. The basic image is that of the herald of the king who comes to proclaim a royal decree in a public square” (68-69). At the center of the heralding church is the activity of calling its members to renewal and reformation.

The strength of this model is its emphasis on the message of the gospel and the pursuit of the Great Commission. It can be limited, however, in that it is often devoid of incarnational service. This truncation, in its most acute form, can appear docetic—merely ideas without tangible reality.  This is especially obvious when “it focuses too exclusively on witness to the neglect of action. It is too pessimistic or quietistic with regard to the possibilities of human effort to establish a better human society in this life, and the duty of Christians to take part in this common effort” (79).

Church as Servant

The servant model “asserts that the Church should consider itself as part of the total human family, sharing the same concerns as the rest of men” (84). Following in the footsteps of Jesus our Lord, the Suffering Servant, “[T]he Church announces the coming of the Kingdom not only in word, through preaching and proclamation, but more particularly in work, in her ministry of reconciliation, of binding up wounds, or suffering service, of healing…. And the Lord was the ‘man for others,’ so must the Church be ‘the community for others’”

In explicating the precise meaning of “Church as Servant,” Dulles notes, “The term “servant,” indeed, contains certain ambiguities. It connotes three things: work done not freely but under orders; work directed to the good of others rather than to the workers own advantage; and work that is humble and demeaning (“servile”)” (91). The weakness of the Servant model is observed in the work of its theologically liberal adherents, men such as John A. T. Robinson and Harvey Cox, for example. These proponents of so called “secular theology” have challenged us to think about the role of the church in the world, but, tragically, they have compromised the biblical deposit of faith which Christians are called to guard.

Integrating the Models

Each model offers insights and positive contributions to our understanding of the Church. When the most genuinely biblical qualities are preserved from each model and integrated together, we realize a stronger ecclesial vision. This is what Dulles sets out to do in the latter half of his book:

Each of them [the five models] in my opinion brings out certain important and necessary points. The institutional model makes it clear that the Church must be a structured community and that it must remain the kind of community Christ instituted. Such a community would have to include a pastoral office equipped with authority to preside over the worship of the community as such to prescribe the limits of tolerable dissent, and to represent the community in an official way. The community model makes it evident that the Church must be united to God by grace and that in the strength of that grace its members must be lovingly united to one another. The sacramental model brings home the idea that the Church must in its visible aspects – especially in its community prayer and worship – be a sign of the continuing vitality of the grace of Christ and of hope for the redemption that he promises. The kerygmatic model accentuates the necessity for the Church to continue to herald the gospel and to move men to put their faith in Jesus as Lord and Savior. The diaconal model points up the urgency of making the Church contribute to the transformation of the secular life of man, and of impregnating human society as a whole with the values of the Kingdom of God. (185-186)

If any model should emerge as the most comprehensive, Dulles recommends the sacramental model because of its ease in integrating all the best elements of the other four models.

For blending the values in the various models, the sacramental type of ecclesiology in my opinion has special merit. It preserves the value of the institutional elements because the official structures of the Church give it clear and visible outlines, so that it can be a vivid sign. It preserves the community value, for if the Church were not a communion of love it could not be an authentic sign of Christ. It preserves the dimension of proclamation, because only by reliance on Christ and by bearing witness to him, whether the message is welcomed or rejected, can the Church effectively point to Christ as the bearer of God’s redemptive grace. This model, finally, preserves the dimension of worldly service, because without this the Church would not be a sign of Christ the servant. (189)

What would it look like for the church to manifest the above-mentioned qualities—tangible, communal, sacramental, kerygmatic, and diaconal—keeping the message of the kingdom, embodied and proclaimed, at the leading edge? This is the shape of our calling. May God help us as we work toward realizing it.

An Octogenarian Pope

85 years is a remarkable age for the papal office. He is now the oldest pope since Leo XIII (1810-1903). He may well be the oldest “monarch” reigning on earth. In recent months, there have been rumors of his willingness to retire out of tiredness of old age. He has began using a cane for walking on his own. For the long liturgical processions, he is now using a treadmill. After his international travels, he always makes sure that time is reserved to rest and recover. Yet the pace of his daily schedule would defy the resistance of most 40-something men.

The leadership of the Roman Catholic Church always relies on the delicate balance between the personal charisma and involvement of the Pope and the institutional demands of the Vatican curia, now lead by the Secretary of State, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone. It seems that Ratzinger pays more attention to the preparation of his speeches, homilies and written works than to the daily operations of the Vatican organizational machinery. In recent months there have been various setbacks (e.g. leaks on sharp conflicts within Vatican offices and flawed financial projects) that have been partially explained by Ratzinger’s somewhat distant leadership.

A “Catholic” Pontificate

Perhaps the most interesting thing to reflect on is the trajectory of his pontificate now in its seventh year. Benedict’s reign cannot be properly assessed if it’s not viewed in continuity with his previous career.

Ratzinger has been one of the pivotal figures in the theological and ecclesiastical scene following Vatican II. He has been considered “progressive” in his youthful theological engagement for the renewal of the Church, and then “conservative” in his long-term service to his Church as Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith (1981-2005). Ratzinger is often pictured as if he were the left wing theologian who became right wing in his mature years. These labels, of course, do not account for the “catholicity” of Ratzinger’s theology, which is both traditional and aggiornata (i.e. updated). In assessing Ratzinger’s pontificate and theology as a whole, it is dangerous to contrast traditionalism and progressivism as if they were disrupting and conflicting trends within his work. There may have been different emphases and concerns between various stages of his career, but the tale of the conversion from radical theologian to the inflexible watchdog of orthodoxy is naive.

How do we account then for this change of attitudes and concerns? It depends on what kind of paradigm we use to interpret the theological flow of the RC Church. In its theological genius, present-day Roman Catholicism is “catholic” in the sense of embracing both the highest respect for the given heritage of the Church, and the strenuous attempt to find new ways of articulating it and living it out. The outcome is a dynamic synthesis which holds different elements together within the all-embracing system. Ratzinger well epitomises this kind of catholicity – strongly rooted in the tradition of the Church and yet also vigorously engaged in the challenges of the modern world.

The motto of the theological journal Communio, with which he has been associated since 1972, neatly sums up his theological vision: “a program of renewal through the return to the sources of authentic tradition”. In other words, it is not just repetition of a given heritage, but renewal through fresh re-appropriation of biblical, patristic, liturgical, and sacramental sources.

Catholicity can take many different turns. John Paul II’s catholicity was more global in extension, Thomist in theology, charismatic in character, and Marian in spirituality. Benedict XVI’s is more Western in focus, Augustinian in teaching, reserved in style, and liturgical in scope. But they both contribute to the overall catholicity of the Roman Church.

A “Western” Pontificate

The other prominent feature of this pontificate is its attention on the West. Whereas John Paul II stretched the globalization of the Roman Catholic Church, Ratzinger has been putting the West at center stage of its focus.

His on-going critical conversation with the dangers of cultural relativism and the typically Western tendency to get rid of its “roots” or “heritage” is key to understanding the entire pontificate. While it is not always clear to what extent his critique of Western culture is also a defense of the constantinian status quo, he has somewhat corrected positive, yet overtly sentimental views of the modern world which were instead present at Vatican II.

Ratzinger’s decision to create a brand new Pontifical Council dedicated to the New Evangelization is a move that has the West as its main target. What is at stake is the re-attraction of the millions of those baptized in the Church who are now wandering away from it. Although they are sacramentally part of the Church, many of them are far from it. The New Evangelization, therefore, is a means to recall them back to the fold.

John Paul II labored to stretch the borders of the Church, but Benedict XVI is working towards reinforcing its historical center. The bet on the West is Ratzinger’s bet. His pontificate will stand or fall by it.

Leonardo De Chirico

leonardo.dechirico@ifeditalia.org

Rome, 27^th April 2012

"Swimming the Tiber" is shorthand for conversion to the Catholic Church (the Tiber River runs alongside of Vatican City). Maybe you have wondered why someone would make such a move or how to intelligently discuss the issue with your friends and loved ones. These and related questions were addressed on Saturday, April 14 on the campus of Wheaton College when authors of the recent book, Journeys of Faith, delivered brief lectures on the subject and answered questions.

Download MP3 (145.5MB)

Sessions include:

1. Dr. Gregg Allison – The Roman Road, or the Road to Rome?  Why Some Protestants Drift to Catholicism.

2. Rev. Chris Castaldo - Crossing the Tiber: Why Catholics and Protestants Convert.

3. Dr. Craig Blaising – Does Accepting the Canon of Scripture Implicitly Affirm Rome’s Authority? 

4. Dr. Robert Plummer – Moderator

Gospel Renewal requires thoughtfulness. The activity of working out Christian faith with fear and trembling, is an arduous task, not least of which for the mind. Yes, we receive spiritual power from God’s throne, but the appropriation of that power involves the renewing of thought, which is no easy task. In fact, it is downright laborious.

Philosopher and educator, Mortimer Adler (1902 – 2001) wrote on everything from how to read a book to the existence of God; he sought to help people think clearly on any subject. This was partially the impetus behind his founding of organizations like the Institute for Philosophical Research, the Aspen Institute, and the Center for the Study of The Great Ideas. He was very quiet about matters of faith, but later in life he converted to Christianity and, in 1999, Roman Catholicism.

The following quotation about learning is from an essay published in the 1941 Journal of Educational Sociology. Adler saw a destructive dumbing-down trend in education and warned that there is never any learning without working.

One of the reasons why the education given by our schools is so frothy and vapid is that the American people generally—the parent even more than the teacher—wish childhood to be unspoiled by pain. Childhood must be a period of delight, of gay indulgence in impulses. It must be given every avenue for unimpeded expression, which of course is pleasant; and it must not be made to suffer the impositions of discipline or the exactions of duty, which of course are painful. Childhood must be filled with as much play and as little work as possible. What cannot be accomplished educationally through elaborate schemes devised to make learning an exciting game must, of necessity, be forgone. Heaven forbid that learning should ever take on the character of a serious occupation—just as serious as earning money, and perhaps, much more laborious and painful . . .

Not only must we honestly announce that pain and work are the irremovable and irreducible accompaniments of genuine learning, not only must we leave entertainment to the entertainers and make education a task and not a game, but we must have no fears about what is “over the public’s head.” Whoever passes by what is over his head condemns his head to its present low altitude; for nothing can elevate a mind except what is over its head; and that elevation is not accomplished by capillary attraction, but only by the hard work of climbing up ropes, with sore hands and aching muscles. The school system which caters to the median child, or worse, to the lower half of the class; the lecturer before adults—and they are legion—who talks down to his audience; the radio or television program which tries to hit the lowest common denominator of popular receptivity—all these defeat the prime purpose of education by taking people as they are and leaving them just there.¹

Footnotes:

¹ Mortimer J. Adler, “Invitation to the Pain of Learning,” in Reforming Education: The Opening of the American Mind (New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1988), 232-233, 235.