Tag: What We Believe Series

9 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 11: The Church Cosmic

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

May 18, 2022 8:08 am May 18, 2022

9 min read

1519 views

Comments Off

9 min read

At its source Trinitarian, the Church is the oneness of the Father and the Son opened up to believers in the Spirit. Beginning in the Upper Room with Jesus’s prayer…

At its source Trinitarian, the Church is the oneness of the Father and the Son opened up to believers in the Spirit. Beginning in the Upper Room with Jesus’s prayer to his Father, the Church leads us simply to follow what began there that night — what we’ve called the mission for glory.

Tracing that mystery from another perspective, it must be noted that the Church is more than what can be traced geographically, and more than what can be described interpersonally and personally. Acts of the Apostles tells the story of the Church from Jerusalem to Rome, but clearly the Church is bigger than that — immeasurably bigger.

The Church, to put it a certain way, can also be described cosmically. That is, not only is the Church spread across the globe, and not only does the Church exist as the faith and joy shared between reborn believers, but the Church mysteriously encompasses creation itself — all of it. The Church is communion in Christ, who is the creating and redeeming Word (Logos) through which “all things” came to be (Jn 1:3). Some of the Church Fathers wrote about this, St. Maximus the Confessor for one. In and through the Trinity, he said, no less than the whole universe may be “deified” (Ad Thalassium 2). That’s because Christ created the whole universe. Thus, the Church’s communion, in a sense, reflects and signals the universal redemption and reign of Christ as Lord of all. God in Christ, in whom believers are baptized, is of the same substance as the “one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all” (Eph 4:6). Thus, as Christ is the creating and redeeming Logos of all that is, so the Church is the sacrament (a sign) of that truth.

We see this in the Letter to the Ephesians. Believers are those whose hearts — curiously, the “eyes of hearts” — have been “enlightened,” because they “know what is the hope” and the “glorious inheritance” that belongs to them. That is, believers know that Christ, died and risen, sits now at God’s “right hand in the heavens, far above every principality, authority, power and dominion, and every name that is named not only in this age but also in the one to come.” They know that Christ is head of all, the “fullness” of all things (Eph 1:18-23). The word for “fullness” is pleroma, a quite charged term in early theological debates, for instance, in St. Irenaeus’s debates with various Gnostic thinkers. In one sense it means the fullness of God; in Jesus, for instance, the “fullness” of God dwells (Col 1:19). That is, Christ is fully God. Yet God is the fullness of all things. That is, God is the creator and sustainer of all that exists. Thus, Christ is the pleroma of all things, and the Church shares in Christ’s pleroma. Which is what I mean by cosmic, that the Church bears witness to the universal dominion of Jesus Christ.

This isn’t merely hyperbole. To understand the claims being made in Ephesians, it’s helpful to remember here how the ancients viewed the political and religious world. Politics in the ancient world was thought to be a sacred, semi-divine art. The emperor’s person was considered sacred and semi-divine, and so too the state. Also the natural world, again to the ancient mind, was sacred and semi-divine, controlled by supernatural powers both good and evil, and also by fate. For ancient minds, the world and the universe was terrifyingly enchanted. So, what Ephesians is saying is that believers, whose hearts have been enlightened, knowing that Jesus sits at the right hand of the Father as both Lord of the Church and Lord of the world, of even the entire created universe, know personally a power greater than all other powers and authorities and dominions either political, angelic or demonic. They know that Christ is Lord over all of it, the same Lord in whom they live by the Spirit in the communion of the Church.

And think how liberating that is, especially for marginalized or peasant believers. It means that — believing Jesus is truly Lord over all things, the same Lord in whom believers now live and he in them (Gal 2:20) — one needn’t any longer fear the frightening powers of the world, political or demonic or otherwise. Even fickle fate is humbled by the reign of the Lord Jesus Christ.

It’s easy to see here why the Christian message was so attractive to the marginalized. It’s easy to see why Christianity was considered subversive in the early centuries of the Church. If the Roman emperor is the semi-divine embodiment of the sacred power of the state, what does it mean for Christians to say, “No, actually Jesus is Lord”? You see the problem from the Roman point of view? This is why the early Church had so many martyrs. Imagine a young woman in late antiquity, for instance, coming to believe in Christ. Joining the Church, she decides to wed herself to Christ, embracing lifelong virginity. Immediately she’s done two quite dangerous things. First, she’s demoted the sacredness of the Roman state and the Roman emperor, thus becoming a political outcast. Second, by embracing a life of virginity, she’s rejected the patriarchy of Roman society, patriarchy more lethal and powerful than anything ever even thought of in Christian society. The father, the pater familias, wielded power of life and death over his children. And so, for a young woman to embrace virginity was an explicit rejection of the claims both of her father and society. This is why Christianity in these early centuries was considered by many a dangerous anti-family movement. Because, recognizing Jesus as Lord, Christians refused to recognize any other.

Christianity relativized all earthly authority and all earthly relationships — political, patriarchal, and so on — and so, it’s easy to see how this rustic Palestinian religion appealed to those oppressed in such a society. Christianity appealed first to the poor and the marginalized precisely because at the center of the Christian message is the story a powerless man who died on a cross but who also was raised above all powers, offering to any who believe in him a destiny just like his, all for “the praise of his glory” (Eph 1:11-14).

This tracks with what Jesus said during his earthly ministry about the kingdom of God. To talk about the cosmic scope of the Church is to talk about how the Church relates to the kingdom Jesus proclaimed. The kingdom, in a real sense, is “at hand” (Mk 1:15). Yet, it’s also something in the future, something we pray in the Lord’s Prayer will “come” (Mt 6:9). But the kingdom is also, in another sense, even closer — it is “among you,” Jesus said (Lk 17:21). It is fully present but also mysteriously not complete, not until it gives way to a new heaven and a new earth as John saw (Rev 21:1). “Kingdom” is another image given us to understand the communion of the Father and the Son that Jesus prayed for in John 17. It’s another way to describe the Church, although not entirely. The Church belongs to the kingdom of God; it is not itself the kingdom. The Church bears witness to it; it exists in the kingdom of God. This necessarily is a blurred mystery — the Church’s relation to the kingdom. The point is simply that the Church is no mere worldly organization. Rooted in the Trinity, the Church extends well beyond the measure of any human institution. It shares in the pleroma of Christ.

The Church belongs to a kingdom that is both visible and invisible, comprised both of people, living and dead, as well as angels. The Church belongs to the kingdom that is the “heavenly Jerusalem,” filled with “countless angels in festal gathering and the assembly of the first born” (Heb 12:22-23). In worship we acknowledge the presence of such heavenly colleagues, most notably in the Eucharistic prayers of the Church when the priest introduces the Sanctus (“Holy, Holy, Holy…”). “And so, with Angels and Archangels,” the priest says, “with Thrones and Dominions, and with all the hosts and Powers of heaven, we sing the hymn of your glory, as without end we acclaim…” (Eucharistic Preface I, Ordinary Time). When people gather for Mass, those present are not just those we see, but also angels and saints. Explicit in Scripture and in our worship is the belief in a Church both earthly and heavenly, of angels and saints co-mingled, so to speak, with us. This I’ve always considered a refreshing feature of Catholic belief. Because if the Catholic Church was only comprised of the Catholics you could see, that at times would be miserable, even unbearable. Who would ever want to join such a sometimes squalid group? But what we see of the Church isn’t all there is of the Church. It is encouraging to think that when you step into your parish church or some chapel or into any community of believers, you’re also stepping into a sacred country, the borders of which stretch beyond every visible horizon — into a cosmic Church as big as the cosmos itself.

Father Joshua J. Whitfield is pastor of St. Rita Catholic Community in Dallas and author of “The Crisis of Bad Preaching” (Ave Maria Press, $17.95) and other books. Read more from the series here.

Comments Off

8 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 20: The Church One and Visible

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

April 11, 2022 11:17 pm April 11, 2022

8 min read

1174 views

Comments Off

8 min read

Throughout its history, the Church has insisted upon its visibility. Especially in these latter centuries as the Church — visible for so many years as some strange political entity —…

Throughout its history, the Church has insisted upon its visibility.

Especially in these latter centuries as the Church — visible for so many years as some strange political entity — has changed its aspect, it has nonetheless still insisted that it is not just an immaterial, invisible society. It is, rather, quite visible. The Church is hierarchical and charismatic; it is an incarnate thing, visible and ethical, obedient to the teachings of Jesus. Echoing the Sermon on the Mount, it’s a “communion of life, charity and truth” that is “sent forth into the whole world as the light of the world and the salt of the earth” (LG 9; Mt 5:13-16). One simply can’t define the Church only in material terms or only in spiritual terms, opposing matter and spirit so absolutely. That is actually heresy.

Rather, as Lumen Gentium teaches, the Church is an “entity with visible delineation.” The risen Christ “continually sustains here on earth His holy Church,” not just as a Mystical Body, but also as a “society structured with hierarchical organs.” The “visible assembly and the spiritual community” are not to be thought of as “two realities” but as “one complex reality which coalesces from a divine and human element.” Again, the applicable analogy here is the incarnation: the idea of the divine and human present in the mysterious and visible (LG 8). Thus, the visible and material aspect of the Church cannot be completely separated from its invisible spiritual reality. That the Church is always visible simply follows from the fact of its nature as sacrament. This is basic Catholic theology, shared though also by the Orthodox and many other Christian traditions.

It’s at this point, however, we encounter some of the unique claims of Roman Catholicism. Simply put, how does this Church we’ve been describing since John 17 relate to the Roman Catholic Church? The answer is complicated. Thus, Lumen Gentium speaks here carefully: “This Church constituted and organized in the world as a society, subsists in the Catholic Church, which is governed by the successor of Peter and by the Bishops in communion with him, although many elements of sanctification and of truth are found outside of its visible structure. These elements, as gifts belonging to the Church of Christ, are forces impelling toward catholic unity” (LG 8).

Now, this is a loaded paragraph! As we’ve already seen, the Church, as sacrament, is a visible organism — hierarchic, charismatic, spiritual, material — but not entirely circumscribable. That is, the Church we’ve been describing since John 17 is not exclusively identifiable with the Roman Catholic Church. The Church is bigger, more mysterious than that. But still, in a very real sense, the Roman Catholic Church is the Church. So, how do you get your head around that?

Lumen Gentium teaches that the Church “subsists in” the Catholic Church — the Church governed by the successor of Peter. Now, this little Latin verb — subsistit — is probably the most controversial word ever to come out of Vatican II. It does indeed mark a change in how the Catholic Church describes itself in relation to other Christian bodies, but it needn’t be controversial. Before the Second Vatican Council, most Catholic theologians were content simply to say that the Church is(est) the Roman Catholic Church. However, Lumen Gentium changed that, adding actually quite helpful nuance. By saying the Church “subsists in” the Roman Catholic Church, Lumen Gentium is not saying the Roman Catholic Church is the ideal Church or the real Church in the sense that other Christian communities are unreal; rather, it’s saying that the Church described in the New Testament is always fully present in the Roman Catholic Church, that by its sacraments and apostolic and Petrine structure, the oneness Jesus prayed for in John 17 is never absent from it (Unitatis Redintegratio, 4). It’s saying that the Roman Catholic Church, ecclesiologically speaking, will always be fully and substantially the Church described in the New Testament and throughout Christian history.

But what about those churches and communities not part of the Roman Catholic Church? What about non-Roman Catholics? The Second Vatican Council teaches that the Christian Church subsists in the Roman Catholic Church, the Church in communion with Peter and his successors, the popes. And yes, it also teaches that non-Roman Catholic churches and communities are different from the Roman Catholic Church, that they “are not blessed with that unity which Jesus Christ wished to bestow on all those to whom he has given new birth into one body … that unity which the Holy Scriptures and the ancient Tradition of the Church proclaim” (Unitatis Redintegratio, 3). However, non-Roman Catholic churches and communities do indeed possess “many elements of sanctification” and also many gifts belonging to the great Church of Christ, all of which are innately “forces impelling toward catholic unity” (LG 2.8). Thus, for Baptists, Methodists, Anglicans, and so on — anyone with an inkling for truth: such truth, in whatever community it flourishes, tends toward the perfect unity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit given to the Church in Christ.

But how can we get our heads around this very bold claim? The image that helps me think about this is a simple one — a broken flower pot. If I dropped a big potted plant on the floor, breaking it into several pieces, and if I looked at you and said, “Pick up the plant” — what would you do? You’d likely pick up the root stock, the big bit. It’s unlikely you’d pick up that smaller fragment off to the side or the even smaller one farther away. When I say, “Pick up the plant,” you’re going to pick up the part you know is more fully the plant. But, of course, all the pieces belong together. All the fragments matter. That’s what Lumen Gentium means when it says the Church “subsists in” the Roman Catholic Church. The one fragment off to the side may be Baptists with their great preaching; another fragment, Anglicans with their beauty and humor; another, Methodists with their hymnody. You see what I’m saying? That’s basically the idea. All the broken pieces belong together, but the fullness of the thing is what it is — the Roman Catholic Church.

That’s the unique claim of Roman Catholicism; and undoubtedly, it’s quite a claim. Speaking personally as a convert, I had to explore and wrestle with this for quite some time. I understood that Jesus meant us to be one; and I also understood (as we’ll explore later in this series) that being one meant being one eucharistically, visible one. But does that therefore mean Roman Catholicism? I mean, I had been around Roman Catholics and was not bowled over. And so, for me, it became a historical investigation, questions regarding the claims of the papacy. Is it true, for instance, that all Christians should be in communion with Peter and his successor? I did indeed come to believe this, yes. At this point, suffice it to say that I had to come to grips with this theology, and it wasn’t easy. But in the end, my accepting it stemmed from this idea of God’s mission for glory — that the Father sent his Son and that through the Son and the Spirit, the Church was created in holy, catholic, and apostolic oneness, a divine and human communion. Now indeed, this is an outstanding claim the Roman Catholic Church makes for itself. Yet, like it or lump it, believe it or not, for twenty centuries the Church has found the guts to proclaim it in season and out. Disagree, that’s fine — it’s understandable and even respectable in some instances. But, nonetheless, the outstanding claim remains; there it is. The Church we’ve been following since John 17 “subsists in” the Roman Catholic Church. It was the blunt stubbornness of this teaching that made me wrestle with it so much. Which really is all I can say to you — wrestle with it. Because this is what we Catholics really believe.

Comments Off

5 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 19: The Catholic Church, People of God

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

April 4, 2022 7:00 am April 4, 2022

5 min read

797 views

Comments Off

5 min read

In exploring the Church — this sacrament of salvation, this communion in Christ enlivened by the Holy Spirit — many symbols and images are used as descriptors. And as a…

In exploring the Church — this sacrament of salvation, this communion in Christ enlivened by the Holy Spirit — many symbols and images are used as descriptors. And as a sacramental mystery, that only makes sense.

As Lumen Gentium put it, “the inner nature of the Church is now made known to us in different images taken either from tending sheep or cultivating the land, from building or even from family life and betrothals” (LG 6). The catechism even offers a small catalog of names and symbols traditionally applied to the Church — sheepfold, flock, cultivated field, building of God, temple, Jerusalem, mother, body of Christ — but there are, of course, even more than that (see CCC, Nos. 751-757). Describing a mystery not fully describable — like any real, organic thing — it makes sense sometimes to use poetry or metaphor to get at it. Try describing your child or your spouse or even yourself accurately and completely; you can’t do it. That’s because organic, mysterious things are like that; they demand a different mode of description. And the Church is no different.

Of course, the most famous image applied to the Church, an image strongly emphasized in the documents of Vatican II, is “people of God.” However, it’s an image of the Church as debated as it is famous. As the historian John O’Malley wrote, there is indeed a “strong horizontal line” implicit in the image; it’s an image reminding us of the fundamental equality of all baptized believers. Lay people are not subjects of the clergy; both clergy and lay people are one and equal in Christ (“What Happened at Vatican II,” 174). Yet, that doesn’t mean the Church is anything like a modern democracy with, as Karl Rahner warned, a ballot in everybody’s hand (“The Spirit in the Church,” 62). Such is where there has been much confusion about calling the Church the “people of God” — by politicizing the image. Which is not at all what the Second Vatican Council intended. Rather, in calling the Church the “people of God,” the Second Vatican Council was simply speaking biblically and theologically.

Drawing on the Church fathers, Lumen Gentium, early on, describes the Church as “a people brought into unity from the unity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” (LG 4). Immediately, we learn that we’re talking about something theological — in the deepest meaning of the term, of God — rather than a social or political construct. In the Church we are indeed made holy, but not “merely as individuals” but instead “together as one people” (LG 9). The point, counter to our many modern individualisms, is that by saying the Church is a people, we’re saying first that we’re drawn together into salvation as one — in communion. As always, remember John 17, that the disciples of Jesus are to be one; calling the Church the people of God is but another aspect of that reality. The people of God is, fundamentally, simply the ecclesia, the called body, called into being by God. It is simply the people described in the Scripture. It is the people called first in Abraham and then in the patriarchs and prophets; it is the people called by Christ, called to be holy, free in truth — the disciples, their disciples, and us.

Such is the explicitly biblical character of the people of God often lost to those who mistake the image for something political, ethnic or demographic. Cardinal Ratzinger, in his writings, repeatedly made this point: that when “understood in terms of ordinary political usage” the image “becomes a slogan, its meaning is inevitably diminished; indeed, it is trivialized” (“The Ecclesiology of the Constitution on the Church, Vatican II, ‘Lumen Gentium,’” 88; “Eucharist, Communion, Solidarity,” 74). Inevitably, such misunderstanding makes the Church vulnerable to various political whims and machinations.

Remembering the Church is the people of God does not do away with or in any way denigrate its hierarchy. It puts neither the faith nor the morals of the Church to a vote. Rather, it reminds the Church to which story it belongs—not to the story of nations or political movements or trends, but to the story of God. It reminds the Church that all believers are fully part of this story, not just clergy and the consecrated. From beginning to end, the image is biblical. It is thus identical to that other image of the Church—the Body of Christ. The people of God is that particular people whose story is told in the Bible, the people gathered by the word of God in Christ, born into Christ in baptism and nourished with his Body and Blood in the Eucharist.

Such is what we mean by calling the Church Populo Dei. It is not to be confused with politics or ideologies, not without ruining one’s understanding of the Church entirely. Rather, it’s to remind the Church of its biblical origin and its nature as sacrament, that it is Christ’s body, the gathering into one people of faith in the Spirit disparate peoples into one royal priesthood (LG 9). Not a cultural or political construct, but something more akin to a miracle, the people of God belong in essence to that mission for glory Jesus prayed for the night he was betrayed. It is, therefore, more primeval, more sacred than any politics — this Catholic Church of Jesus Christ.

Comments Off

7 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 17: The Church: In Christ, Sign and Instrument

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

March 21, 2022 3:51 pm March 21, 2022

7 min read

973 views

Comments Off

7 min read

In exploring today the Catholic Church in its essence, the teaching of the Second Vatican Council occupies a central place. What did it say about the Church? To answer this…

In exploring today the Catholic Church in its essence, the teaching of the Second Vatican Council occupies a central place. What did it say about the Church? To answer this question, we turn to the council’s longest-debated document (having undergone three major revisions over three years), but arguably also its most beautiful and rich — the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, more commonly called Lumen Gentium.

The first thing the Lumen Gentium says, quite profoundly in its opening lines, is that the “Church is in Christ like a sacrament or as a sign and instrument” (LG 1). The Church, of course, is a visible reality, made so by its hierarchy and liturgy and so on. But is that all one can say about it? Is what’s physically visible about the Church all there is? Right off the bat, the Church says, “No.” Rather, the Church is, biblically speaking, a mystery. The title of the constitution’s first chapter is called De Ecclesiae Mysterio, which is to say, as we see, that the Church is “like a sacrament or as a sign and instrument.” But what does that mean?

Without getting deep into the etymology of either the Greek word mysterion or the Latin word sacramentum, we can simply say that a sacrament is a sign that has some hidden reality about it. That is, a sacrament isn’t just a sign, but always more. For me, thinking of it this way helps: a sacrament is a sign that participates in what signifies. For example, a stop sign is just a normal sign that tells you to stop, but it doesn’t participate in some sort of metaphysical thing called stopness. Because it’s just a sign. Or, consider a picture of some sort — of the Mona Lisa or of your best friend. Such pictures are signs that remind us of people or events, but they do not metaphysically participate in the objects they represent. A sacrament, however, is different. It’s a sign that participates in what it signifies. Consider the Eucharist. The consecrated bread and wine is a sign of the body and blood of Jesus, but it’s a sign also participating in what it signifies. It is the body and blood of Jesus, we believe.

So, the Church is a sacrament; that is, it’s a sign that participates in what it signifies. But a sign of what? It’s a sign both of a “very closely knit union with God and of the unity of the whole human race,” as the opening sentences of Lumen Gentium make clear. As the Dominican theologian, Edward Schillebeckx (whose theology in the 20th century did much to broaden our understanding of the sacramental), succinctly put it, “The earthly Church is the visible realization of this saving reality in history” (Christ the Sacrament of the Encounter with God, 2.1.1). The Church is a sign of our union with the triune God in and through Christ; the Church, in a sense, images that communion. But it’s also a sign of human unity. Now, behind this claim is an awful lot of narrative and theology, the wisdom within our biblical stories of creation and redemption. But, basically, the claim is that we all share one human nature and that the Church signifies the redemption of our one shared human nature, that it’s a sign of the perfection of all human communion. The Church is simply the sign of this twofold union.

But the Church is also an instrument of this twofold union; that is, the Church not only images divine and human unity, it is also its beginning; the Church inaugurates this union, participates in its creation. Which reveals the Church’s purpose and mission: to “unfold more fully” to both the Church and the world “its own inner nature and universal mission,” which is this very twofold union of God and humanity (LG 1). The Church is the “universal sacrament of salvation,” Lumen Gentium teaches; that is, it’s the enduring and definitive sign and instrument of salvation for all time and all peoples (LG 48). No mere human institution, the Church enjoys some of the transcending characteristics of the divine. It is and always will be present and relevant; and hell will never overcome it (Mt 16:18).

This, undoubtedly, is a high claim to make for the Church — that it not only signifies but also shares in and brings about the redeeming communion of God and humanity. But the council makes it because of what we believe about the Church at its core. “Since it is in Christ,” the text says — in Christ. This, of course, is an idea fundamental to the New Testament, to Paul particularly. Believers in Christ, with faith and baptized, are en Christo or en Kyrio — that is, not only are they allied to Christ, they are grafted onto him, into his life, death and risen life. We’re speaking here at the level of being, of mystical union. Paul spoke in this manner in many places, as in Colossians where he said, “it is Christ in you” and that “Christ is your life” (Col 1:27; 3:4); and most famously to the Galatians, saying, “I have been crucified with Christ; yet I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal 2:19-20). This is how the Church can say that it’s no mere human institution or social construct, because as a communion of believers in Christ, they are truly in Christ. And so, what belongs to Christ himself belongs mystically to the Church. Again, we should recall all that time spent at the beginning, exploring John 17. Referencing Jesus’s glory, which he received from his Father and which he shared with the disciples (see Jn 17:22), is just another way to describe life in Christ. And it’s the theological reality underneath our strong claims about the Church — that it’s not just another organization but the vanguard of heaven.

Which is why, in the very next breath, Lumen Gentium locates its claim about the Church within the broader biblical story of God’s creation and redemption. The Church is part of the eternal Father’s “hidden plan” to raise his people up “to a participation of the divine life” (LG 1). Again, remember Jesus’s prayer — “I wish that where I am they also may be, that they may be with me, that they may see my glory that you gave me, because you loved me before the foundation of the world” (Jn 17:24). By rehearsing the history of God’s saving work, Lumen Gentium puts forward a very simple thesis: that the Father never left us to ourselves, but “ceaselessly offered helps to salvation” (LG 2). And, of course, it is Christ who, as “image of the invisible God, the firstborn of every creature” is the perfection of God’s saving help, given in the “fullness of time” (Col 1:15; Gal 4:4). This is what the Church is in Christ — the sign of this salvation, but more. Not just a sign, the Church is a sacrament — a mystical thing able truly to draw the faithful into the very reality it proclaims. That is, the Church not only preaches Christ, in that the Church believers also die and rise in Christ; they feed on Christ in the Church; they are saved in Christ in the Church.

Why does this matter? Because it suggests that if the Church is to be understood at all, it must be seen for what it fully is. Not just a political thing, a sociological thing, or an institutional thing, the Church is the continuation of God’s work of redemption and is mystically part of the realities it proclaims. That is, it’s a sign and instrument — a sacramental living thing bigger than all of us.

Comments Off

7 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 16: The Biggest Meeting in the World

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

March 15, 2022 8:03 am March 15, 2022

7 min read

859 views

Comments Off

7 min read

What was the scope and work of the Second Vatican Council? John W. O’Malley’s excellent book, “What Happened at Vatican II,” explains that the council “was quite possibly the biggest…

What was the scope and work of the Second Vatican Council? John W. O’Malley’s excellent book, “What Happened at Vatican II,” explains that the council “was quite possibly the biggest meeting in the history of the world” (p.18). As such, it’s helpful here to take a moment to grasp its massive size and range. Nothing like it has ever been seen in the history of Christianity.

Vatican II was opened on Oct. 11, 1962, and was concluded on Dec. 8, 1965. Held over four 10-week sessions, it was convened in successive autumns, augmented by innumerable public sessions and working sessions. Bishops and other religious leaders taking part in the council came from all over the world to deliberate and vote in formal council sessions, usually on what, earlier that spring, theologians and prelates had argued about in lectures, in working papers and behind the scenes. It was a long, complicated, at-times chaotic and dramatic process. Yves Congar, a great theological voice and influence during the council, wrote in his journal at its start that the council obviously had “no working method.” He wrote, “We are at sea.”

From one point of view, the council was the Church at its most bureaucratically banal. It was also a mix of the human and the spiritual, and Congar repeatedly talked about its mystical side. He wrote, “I see that a Council goes through phases of shadow and sunlight. I believe the Holy Spirit. He makes use of people” (My Journal of the Council, 10 November 1962; 26 November 1962).

As Congar made clear, when thinking about the Second Vatican Council, as we said before, one mustn’t see it just as some isolated moment in history but as something of the Spirit. The council was a very human and at times imperfect endeavor, but still it was an endeavor of the Church. Remembering here that the Church’s DNA contained in John 17 helps us think about Vatican II. Jesus promised his disciples — even today’s disciples — the power of glory and love. Thus, this gathering of the Church was a spiritual gathering before all else; and so, to understand it at all, one must understand it spiritually.

But what was this council specifically to be about? Through his Secretary of State, Cardinal Tardini, John XXIII sent out, believe it or not, a questionnaire. “The Venerable Pontiff wants to know the opinions or views … of their excellencies, the bishops,” Tardini wrote. Since there was no urgent crisis to address, Tardini needed their suggestions “in preparing the topics to be discussed at the council.” They were invited to respond “with complete freedom and honesty.” The door was open to talk about anything, and Rome actually got mountains of stuff back from this questionnaire — 2,598 opinions were solicited, gathering 1,998 responses. Some bishops answered with only a page, others sent back book-length tomes. Almost 3,000 invitations were sent out all over the world. Bishops, prelates and other religious leaders from 116 countries participated. Europe and the Americas counted for 70% of that participation. The Americans largely paid for it. If there was an ecumenical council called today, the demographics would obviously be quite different. German theologian Karl Rahner, an influential figure at the council, said once that at Vatican II the Church finally became a “World Church” (Karl Rahner, “I Remember,” 89). At any one time, 2,400 council fathers participated; overall, 2,860 people participated in Vatican II. By contrast, only 750 people participated in Vatican I and only anywhere from 29 to over 200 people participated in the Council of Trent. When Vatican II was in session, there may have been 5,000 to 10,000 people in Rome solely on council business. Rome during that time was a busy and bustling place. St. Peter’s Basilica was transformed into a forum that dwarfed houses of parliaments and congresses. There was even a bar in the nave behind the seats called Bar Jonah!

Three lay “auditors” spoke at the council, and although there were 15 women serving as auditors, none of them spoke. Among the theological experts present — the periti — some were among the greatest theologians of their time and of the century. One such peritus was Joseph Ratzinger, the future Pope Benedict XVI. Also, there were theologians like the aforementioned Yves Congar, though never formally a peritus, as well as Henri de Lubac and Karl Rahner. Many great theologians added their brains, hearts and words to the council by serving as careful writers of many of the council’s documents.

A global news event, 1,000 press passes were issued to the council. News from the sessions made the headlines — one thinks of Francis Murphy’s essays for the New Yorker under the nom de plume Xavier Rynne. Among the non-Catholic observers were Protestant theologians and leaders from all over the world. One of my teachers at Duke, the late Geoffrey Wainwright, a Methodist systematic theologian, was an observer. Other Protestant theologians like Albert Outler from Southern Methodist University and Oscar Cullman were also observers. And their presence was particularly important and mattered a great deal to John XXIII. One anecdote illustrates this. In typical Roman Catholic institutional fashion, at one session the Protestant observers were put in the corner behind a pillar. Why? Because they were Protestants of course. Yet, when John XXIII noticed, he stopped everything and moved all the Protestant observers to the very front, giving them the best seats in the house. When one Protestant observer later said to John XXIII, “Now I see why it can be a good thing to have a Pope!” the pope replied, “Now my Council really begins!” Again, remember he called the council on Jan. 25 at the end of the old Christian Unity Octave. He knew what he was doing!

On paper, the result of Vatican II was a lot of documents — over 3,000 pages of Latin texts. These documents were categorized into four constitutions, nine decrees, and three declarations. The constitutions were to be the most important, the decrees less so and the declarations even less. However, once published, each document took on a life of its own. Some are clearly dated — interesting, but a product of the time. Some are the most beautiful theological texts produced in the 20th century. Speaking personally, these documents helped me discover Catholicism because they described a faith and a Church that I simply thought beautiful and biblically complete. The descriptions of the Church in Lumen gentium (on the Church) and Unitatis redintegratio (on Christian unity) moved me deeply. Sacrosanctum concilium (on liturgy) articulated for me, in biblically rich clarity, just what it is we Christians do when we gather to worship God. Dei verbum (on Scripture) helped me think clearly about how tradition and the Bible relate. The last constitution, Gaudium et spes (on how the Church lives in the world) — a controversial text then and still today for some — articulates as best as it could at the time that tense, creative relationship.

These, of course, are just some of the texts of the council, and they deserve more of our attention. But, for now, remember that to understand what we believe as Catholics, to understand the Church, we must explore and understand the Second Vatican Council — the expression of Catholicism in our time.

Comments Off

9 min read

Scripture

What We Believe, Part 15: The Characteristics of Vatican II

Father Joshua J. Whitfield

March 8, 2022 8:09 am March 8, 2022

9 min read

1374 views

Comments Off

9 min read

Why did Pope St. John XXIII call the Second Vatican Council? And what was the Council about? Taking stock of the state of theology and the life of the Church…

Why did Pope St. John XXIII call the Second Vatican Council? And what was the Council about? Taking stock of the state of theology and the life of the Church in the 20th century, one could suggest several reasons. At the end of the day, though, it should be remembered and taken seriously that John XXIII claimed the Holy Spirit’s inspiration for calling the Council. It is quite reasonable to suggest — and also helpful to remember — this: that Vatican II was the work of the Spirit.

Before exploring the answer to this question any further, though, we should admit that Vatican II, even today, evokes a wide range of emotions. Some, for instance, think Vatican II the worst thing to happen to the Church. With it came innovations and departures from the ancient faith so horrific, it’s claimed, that many have broken away or fallen away from the Church because of it. However, on the other end, others think Vatican II changed all the mean and nasty things about Catholicism, freeing modern Catholics to be good secular liberals unbothered by a primitive creed. Here, people talk about things like the “spirit of Vatican II” but without being able to tell you where in the documents of Vatican II it says exactly what they’re saying, because it turns out they’ve not really read the documents.

These, obviously, are two extreme reactions to Vatican II, found more and more on the margins of Catholic experience these days, yet still very much present in the Church. The truth of the matter, though, is that to understand Vatican II, one must accept it as an ecumenical council of the Catholic Church and that the teaching of Vatican II is expressed faithfully in the Council’s documents themselves. That is, the “spirit of Vatican II” is found in the documents themselves, read and interpreted within the communion of the Church. Thus, to understand Vatican II genuinely, as well as modern Catholicism, one must become familiar with the Council’s documents — reading them well. And you don’t have to be a theologian to do that; you just have to know how to read.

But still, what was the Council about? Speaking personally, as a former Anglican, I’ve always thought it to be significant that the Council was called on Jan. 25 — the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. You see, this feast concludes the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, a week in which Christians worldwide pray for the reunification of Christian believers. It was begun as the “Christian Unity Octave” by Father Paul Wattson and the Society of the Atonement just after he and other members of the society converted to Catholicism from the Episcopal Church. This “Christian Unity Octave” by the 1920s and 1930s would be celebrated all over the Catholic world; by midcentury, Protestant bodies too would join in this endeavor of prayer. And so, that John XXIII called Vatican II at this time hints at what he hoped would be a major focus of the Council — healing the unity of Christians. Remember John 17.

But, of course, there was much more to it than that. Exploring the “why” of Vatican II, one place to begin is to read John XXIII’s opening address to the Council from October 1962. “Our duty is not only to guard this precious treasure,” he said, “but to dedicate ourselves with an earnest will and without fear to that work which our era demands of us.” His hope was that the Church would offer a fresh presentation of the Catholic faith in “perfect conformity to the authentic doctrine.” Making use of modern “methods of research” and embracing “the literary forms of modern thought,” the pope wanted the Church to speak clearly to the modern world, which he made clear necessitated a rethinking. For the “substance of the ancient doctrine of the deposit of faith is one thing, and the way in which it is presented is another.” Now what John XXIII was saying is that it’s not the Faith that’s changing, but the presentation of the Faith. He said the Church must think about the delivery of the Faith, finding ways to articulate the Faith in a reasonable, sophisticated manner that is neither fideism nor fundamentalism. John XXIII had a great deal of trust in the reasonableness of faith. The Church wasn’t meant to retreat from the world; quite the contrary. The Council’s task was to take the deposit of faith and deliver it to the world in an authentic way, without intellectual cowardice or bravado but, he said, in a “predominantly pastoral” way. That is, Vatican II wasn’t primarily about articulating theology or doctrine — as, say, in the Council of Nicaea when the fathers articulated the divinity of Christ (homoousios) — but about the pastoral articulation of the Faith.

One feature, different from other ecumenical councils, indicating this new pastoral approach is that Vatican II communicated in an entirely new idiom. It promulgated no disciplinary canons, for example, although it did inaugurate the revision of the Code of Canon Law that would come to fruition in 1983. Vatican II pronounced no anathemas as did the Council of Trent. The tone of the documents of Vatican II are completely different. They are persuasive and evocative — conversational. That is, the texts are dialogical. Gaudium et spes — the Council’s Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World — for example, reads like an invitation to the world to talk about truth, goodness and peace. It’s a profoundly hopeful and open document, not defensive or condemning.

John O’Malley’s indispensable book on the Council, “What Happened at Vatican II,” notes the common characteristics of Vatican II summed up in three concepts — aggiornamento, the development of doctrine and ressourcement. The first idea, and the one associated most readily with Vatican II is aggiornamento, which can mean “updating” or “refreshing.” It means something like what John XXIII meant when he said he wanted to “open the windows of the Church and let some fresh air in.” It’s what he talked about in his opening address — not changing the Faith at all but refreshing it, updating it.

The other characteristic of Vatican II — the development of doctrine — is an idea associated with the work of St. John Henry Newman, who is in a sense one of the intellectual fathers of Vatican II. He wasn’t present at the Council. He had been dead for 70 years by the time it began. One of the most famous modern converts to Catholicism — from the Church of England — he was a great theologian and man of letters. His book, “An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine,” which he wrote while still in the process of converting to Catholicism, made a simple but profound observation about the Christian faith. And that is — although there is the deposit of faith, revealed truth from Scripture and the Holy Spirit — the articulation of the faith develops over time. Now this idea for many was and remains controversial. Fundamentalists, of course, hate it. Many Eastern Orthodox theologians don’t much care for it either. But Newman’s point was basically this: Christian doctrine is sharpened, better articulated, and is expressed more clearly as it needs to be over time. Take, for example, the dogma of the Trinity. We believe that God is Father, Son and Holy Spirit. However, that dogma wasn’t fully articulated until 381. Why? Because, as Newman pointed out, there wasn’t any reason to articulate it fully until a fight broke out about it. The Church articulated definitively the full divinity of Christ only when Arius started causing trouble by questioning it. And after Nicaea, people were questioning the divinity of the Holy Spirit — they were called pneumatomachians, meaning “Spirit-fighters” — forcing the Church to articulate more clearly her belief in the Holy Spirit. And so, as history progresses, doctrine is better articulated. That’s what Newman meant by “development,” and it was an idea fundamental to Vatican II.

The last concept intrinsic to council, ressourcement, came about from around the turn of the 20th century, among theologians mainly in France who started doing theology in a new way. This new way — associated with Jesuits like Henri de Lubac and Gaston Fessard and Dominicans such as Marie-Dominique Chenu and Yves Congar — came to be called nouvelle théologie. But it was a way of doing theology that really wasn’t new at all; it was just different for its time. Sarah Shortall’s book, “Soldiers of God in a Secular World,” tells the story of this important theological movement. Neo-Scholasticism dominated theology in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and that was theology done propositionally, so to speak. That is, one defined terms and logically placed one’s propositions in logical order. The theologians of this nouvelle théologie, however, were committed to ressourcement, which simply means “return to the sources.” To understand the deposit of the faith and to articulate it theologically, these theologians went back to Scripture and to the early Fathers of the Church. Essentially, their method was this: If you want to know something about the Eucharist — for instance, transubstantiation — how should you study it? Well, you begin with the sources, with the Eucharist as it’s treated in Scripture. Then you explore what the early theologians believed and taught; then study the eucharistic controversies of the 10th century, and so on. By that method, exploring the sources of the Christian faith, a person can better understand what the Church means when it uses the word “transubstantiation.” And that’s better than simply taking a word and defining it in unhistorical abstraction — like “transubstantiation is X.” You see the difference? Ressourcement is a return to the sources that better helps us understand how ideas took shape within history. And it was a new way of doing theology in the first half of the 20th century, and one which shaped not just Vatican II but the whole of modern Catholicism.

Comments Off