But in that case...

On the face of it, the best defence for the Holy Father's apparent desire to admit the divorced and 'remarried' to Holy Communion, is his view that many (or even most) marriages are in fact null, as the couple do not fully understand and believe in what they are undertaking.  If that is the case, if the first marriage was never in fact a marriage, then a second union may be entered into, and there is no question of adultery and thus no breaking of Our Lord's teaching.

But let's follow that train of thought a bit further. If we allow the hypothesis (and in fact, for many reasons, I do not) that most marriages are null, due to ignorance, lack of proper intent and so forth, then we should also address the fact that most people receiving Holy Communion do so in a similar state: they are equally poorly formed, and therefore quite probably not discerning the Body of the Lord - and we know what St Paul has to say about that. Further, do we conclude that most baptisms are probably invalid too, for similar reasons? In which case, people should certainly not be presenting for Holy Communion: I don't think even Kasper is advocating Communion for the unbaptised (or at least, not yet...)

But I think the problem lies in setting the bar of understanding too high. Just as a child can understand enough worthily to receive Holy Communion, without a full sacramental theology; so a couple - any couple who are capable of such understanding - can understand what the marriage vows mean.

The Church's immemorial practice, for reasons that are clearly wise, prudent and just, has always been to assert the validity of the marriage bond, unless there is clear and substantial reason in a specific case to prove that it was not valid. If the Holy Father intends to reverse that, we really are in trouble.

Still confused

I know I'm a simple sort of chap, but I am still confused. Despite all those who say that the four cardinal's request for clarification is a tactic of dissent, and that there is nothing to be confused about, I remain puzzled.

What precisely is it that people (and here I mean those advocates of mercy who believe that the divorced and civilly 're-married' should be admitted to communion without change to their behaviour) think that Amoris Laetitia is teaching?

It seems to me that it must be one of two things. On the one hand, it might be that there should be a new process for declaring a marriage null, when there are practical reasons why the current process will not work. That seems to be implied, for example, here: 'Let us suppose she cannot, for technical reasons, obtain an annulment (these are rare cases), and the first husband has long since remarried.' (I don't want to keep picking on Austen Ivereigh, but he is the one who keeps writing about it...)

On the other hand, it might be that there are situations in which the circumstances are so difficult that the only reasonable (or merciful) thing for the Church to do is to recognise a second union as being good (or at least, not adulterous). That seems to be implied here: a woman abandoned by her abusive husband who remarries to provide for her children might be in the same legal category as the philandering playboy who ditches his wife for a younger model, but no one could claim that both are in the same moral category.  But oddly, that is the same example.

Nowhere does Ivereigh, nor anyone else I have so far read, say precisely which is intended. And that is problematic, for a number of reasons. 

The former suggestion is, I suppose, possible to consider: if a marriage really were a sham from the start, and for complex reasons, that is hard to prove via the normal process, it might be worth looking closely at the case. However, for clear and obvious reasons, the Church has always assumed in favour of the bond, with the onus of proof being on the one who claimed it never existed. So any change here would need to be very carefully thought through and clearly articulated, to avoid grave miscarriages of justice, scandal, and so on.

But an awful lot of the language of the liberal interpreters of AL (and indeed the Holy Father's own reported response to the questions from South America, and his reluctance to answer the Cardinals' dubia) all suggest that the second line of thought is the one that is to be followed: 'many such cases require an individual discernment because they cannot simply be lumped together as ‘adultery.’' What does this mean? Ivereigh makes a distinction between the legal and the moral categories of different people. What he does not address is their married status. If they are validly married, and are engaging in sexual relations with someone other than their spouse (no matter how evil, duplicitous, philandering, etc he or she may be), they are committing adultery. No amount of discernment will alter that fact.   

The Church's role, then, is certainly to extend them mercy: the mercy that consists of engaging with them in love, to lead them to the truth, resulting in the change of their behaviour to conform it to God's plan. The sacraments are there to support them in this journey of transformation: sacramental confession including a firm purpose of amendment, and holy communion as the supreme gift of grace to strengthen and nourish them.

Otherwise, the path of discernment becomes a way to help people stay locked in the grip of sin. We are not the best judges in our own case - particularly if we have been through the trauma of a relationship falling apart; and to be asked to evaluate whether God is really asking us to leave our new, comfortable, loving relationship is a tough ask...  Not least because, as has often been observed before, God gives us the grace we need when we need it - not before. So it may seem an impossible demand that we should remove ourself and our children from the protection of a new partner - and as it seems impossible, we conclude it cannot be what God really wants. But actually, if we start from the other end, knowing that it is what God wants, mysteriously, as we start to follow his will, we gain the very grace we need to make it possible.

That seems to me the real failing of all those promoting what I might call cheap - or even counterfeit - mercy: that they underestimate the transformative power of God's love and grace when people really do submit themselves to the Divine Will, rather than justify themselves in the status quo...

But as I noted earlier, nowhere do the pro-readmittance interpreters of AL make clear precisely what they think the document teaches; which of these options - or is it both?

Further, the Holy Father's refusal to answer the dubia, and the increasing amount of noise without light from the commentators, suggest that clarity is the one thing that they want to avoid. Rather let everything be done privately and discretely. After all, what business is this of mine? Or yours?

Well, as the Cardinals have made clear in their dubia, confusion about Amoris Laetitia risks leading souls into mortal error: we should all be concerned about that. Moreover, the interpretation of some of the bishops in Germany and the Americas, for example, is effectively introducing Church-sanctioned divorce, which is a grave moral evil and will have devastating consequences (as widespread divorce already does throughout western civilisation). And the whole project, as conceived by some of them, is in fact an assault on Catholic truth and Catholic unity. Of course it is our business!

Adultery is not a victimless sin...

In a lot of the discussion about admitting the soi-disant 're-married' (as opposed to people who are truly re-married, after the death of a previous spouse) to Holy Communion, one gets the impression that those keen on 'mercy' see the adultery of the new relationship as some kind of technical problem; something only those who are pedantic and legalistic would worry about.

But that is not the case. The problem the Holy Father, Kasper and the rest face is that Our Lord makes it quite clear, both in the Gospel and in the continuous teaching of the Church under the guidance of the Holy Ghost, that adultery is a serious sin; and also that serious sins have serious consequences.

That is quite apart from the culpability of the sinner; even a sin where the subjective culpability is minimal causes harm and is evil.  And adultery is by no means a victimless sin. 

The immediate victims, of course, are the spouses and also any children involved. And I do not just mean the moral danger to which the children are exposed. Academic research shows that 'exposure to step-parenting is the strongest known predictor of child abuse, and exposure to divorce has measurable detrimental effects on children's outcomes.'

But the damage is not limited to those immediately affected. We know both from theory (open systems theory) and from experience (see, for example, the very limited societal approvals given first to contraception and then abortion) that any small relaxation in the moral censure for evil actions in the realm of human sexuality inevitably leads to widespread abuse and an attitudinal shift.

So even a perceived softening of the Church's teaching against divorce will, quite inexorably, contribute further to the already catastrophic rates of divorce and separation we now witness, with all the tragic consequences, both for individuals and for civic society, which that entails.

And then, there is the further harm that is done, by making it ever harder for young people to contract valid marriages; if the last bastion of truth undermines that truth, how are they to believe what it is required that they believe?

These are precisely why the ancient maxim that hard cases make bad law is so important. Of course, there are some people who are in terribly distressing situations, possibly with little subjective fault of their own. But an attempt to be 'merciful' to them, by pretending that adultery is OK in their specific situation, is profoundly misguided - and further imperils their souls too, if they no longer feel the need to address their situation through repentance and amendment.

Finally, there cannot be an irreconcilable conflict between truth and mercy; if we seek to offer mercy at the cost of truth taught us by Christ Himself, we have abandoned both truth and mercy.

Can't teach? Won't teach!

Despite the protestations of Austen Ivereigh, we do not know what the Holy Father is teaching the Church about the admission of 're-married' divorcees to communion.

We may have a good idea what His Holiness's personal view is, and even his personal desire (though I would argue that even that is less clear than many think - intellectual clarity and consistency not being his long suit, and some of his comments indicating a more, and others a less, 'liberal' approach to these and related issues). But the thinking and even wishes of the individual who sits on the throne of Peter are not the same as the teaching of the Pope.  This was something that the Holy Father Emeritus  (whose intellectual clarity and consistency I, for one, miss sadly) always made very clear, and rightly so.

Therefore although we may have clues - strong clues, perhaps - from the Synod, from the footnotes, from a private letter... none of these amount to the exercise of the magisterium. Indeed, I would agree with the estimable Fr Hunwicke that what we are witnessing is the suspense of the magisterium.  That is, the Holy Father, in declining to answer the dubia, is choosing not to exercise his teaching office.  

Perhaps it is ill-advised to speculate as to why that might be the case. But I like to think of myself as a fool (in the Shakespearian tradition, you understand), and therefore will rush in where the angelic might, rightly, fear to tread. So for what it's worth, my guess (or is it just my hope?) is that the Holy Father has realised that he cannot teach what he would like to teach. And my fear is the corollary, that he won't teach what he could and should.

Howsoever that may be, one thing that is clear is that orthodox Catholics have a very definite duty in such difficult times: to love and pray for the Holy Father.

Ivereigh Tower

It's all a bit confusing. Amoris Laetitia seems to be somewhat ambiguous, and some of its footnotes, more so. 

Clearly, as with any papal document, one reads it in the hermeneutic of continuity: that is to say, one starts from the assumption that it builds on, and does not contradict, previous magisterial teaching, and interprets any ambiguity in line with such teaching.

And yet, it seems that in a private letter, the Holy Father has suggested that the ambiguity is meant to be interpreted in a quite different way - a way that was discussed but not ratified in the two synods that preceded its publication. And as one looks around at the bishops and indeed cardinals of the Church, we find that some are saying it should be interpreted in one way, and others in a contrary way. That is clearly confusing, to say the least.

So some cardinals who are particularly mindful of the need for clarity - and indeed for doctrinal coherence in that very hermeneutic of continuity to which I referred earlier - have submitted five dubia to the Holy Father, so that all may be quite clear precisely what is or is not being taught.

Yet, mysteriously, the Holy Father seems reluctant to clarify: the dubia remain unanswered.  

And then I saw that Austen Ivereigh, one of the founders of Catholic Voices, responded to this tweet on Twitter: Submitting dubia is a standard part of Church life. It’s not unreasonable to expect a clear answer http://buff.ly/2gb2uJj  by @SSBullivant, by saying: But in this case it’s dissent / theological protest masquerading as a dubium. The answer has been given. They just don’t like it.

I found that curious, as I could find no record of such an answer, so I tweeted @austeni So, for the slow on the uptake, like me, what are the Holy Father's answers to the dubia? In Y/N form, for the avoidance of doubt?

But answer was there none.

Of course, there is no particular reason why Austen Ivereigh should (con)descend from his tower to  answer me - although as I also mentioned on Twitter, instructing the ignorant is one of the corporal works of Mercy.

Ivereigh is the author of How to Defend the Faith without Raising Your Voice. Can we expect a second volume: How to Defend the Faith without saying anything at all?

More seriously, though, what are we to make of it when people (whether the Holy Father or the Head of Catholic Voices) refuse to clarify: when the request for clarity is seen as a hostile act, in fact?  That I find a very worrying question.

And what are we to make of it when people (such as close papal aides...) rush to lie: to say all the cardinals are united on this, and that the interpretation was the fruit of the two synods, when we know that to be untrue?  Again, I find the question, and the need to ask it, very worrying indeed.

--

Pray for our Holy Father, for all our Cardinals and Bishops, and for the whole Church: for we live in strikingly difficult times.

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, 

contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. 

Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: 

tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis, 

Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, 

qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, 

divina virtute, in infernum detrude. 

Amen.

More on Amoris Laetitia

Further to my recent post, in which I urged people to read Amoris Laetitia through Catholic eyes, there are a few more thoughts milling around in my head.

One is that, although I stand by that post, it would not be true to say that I have not been troubled by Amoris Laetitia. If I were pope...  And of course, therein lies the absurdity. I am not (Deo gratias).

Another is this. Many who are unhappy with the document are attributing ill-intent to the Holy Father. I believe that to be profoundly, spiritually, dangerous. We are commanded not to judge. In a traditional Catholic understanding, that means, specifically, not judging the state of another's soul (we are allowed to judge actions, of course: indeed it is often necessary to do so). So I worry for those who think that they can judge the Holy Father's intentions, and judge them to be malign, for that strikes me as perilously close to judging the state of his soul (indeed, some may have been foolhardy enough to pronounce on that, too!) And to proclaim such opinions in public as facts is even more problematic.

A further thought is this: even if I were to believe that the Holy Father has an agenda which is not consistent with Catholic teaching and tradition, there is still a Catholic way to read the situation, as well as the document.  I do not believe that God will abandon His Church. I also know that God respects and uses the office of sacred officials, even despite the office-holder. Consider the prophetic words of the Jewish High Priest: It is better that one man should die for the nation.  The High Priest meant one thing, perhaps; but God used him, in his official role, to proclaim a truth beyond his understanding. Perhaps I should seek to read Amoris Laetitia in that light: is God speaking through this document in a prophetic way?

There is no doubt that we live in troubling times. There is no doubt that many will use Amoris Laetitia to advance ideas and practices contrary to tradition. But my responsibility is first and foremost for my own reaction: it is for that that I will answer to God. 

Rushing to judgement is perilous indeed.

Reading Amoris Laetitia - as a Catholic

I have been reading some of the comments on Amoris Laetitia with great interest; and in particular I have been struck by the Protestant approach taken by so many commentators.

It's a bit like when my Protestant friends find a verse in the Bible that appears to contradict Catholic teaching. Look, look, they say, The Bible says 'All have sinned.' Therefore the Catholic Church can't be right about Mary being free from sin.

It's quite endearing in its naivety. And perhaps I am unkind to ask them whether it means that Christ, too, has sinned, since that is the plain meaning of the verse.

For the way in which Catholics read the Bible is different. We read it in the light of the teaching of our Holy Mother, the Church, whose book it is. Where we find an interpretation that contradicts the declared teaching of the Church, we know that that interpretation is wrong. We know that the text is inerrant, of course: also on the authority of the Church.

Turning to Amoris Laetitia, I think that many are reading it, as I said, in that Protestant spirit. Thus the delightful Sede Vacantists wrench individual verses out of context, interpret them in the most anti-Catholic way, and present them as evidence (satisfactory to them, if to nobody else) that the Holy Father is not in fact the Pope.

Likewise, certain prelates have looked to find what they want to find in the text, and used it to pursue their own pre-determined agenda.

And the same is true of those who want to demonstrate... well, whatever they want to demonstrate.

My point being that we should not approach the text seeking to demonstrate whatever we already think about the Holy Father, or the State of the Church, or anything else.  We should read it, in the first instance, to learn.

And when it comes to interpreting any ambiguities, we should interpret them in the light of the established teaching of the Church.

And should it happen that there are passages that we find impossible to reconcile with the established teaching of the Church (and I do not yet know if that is the case, as I have not yet read the whole thing, still less compared the English translation with the Latin official text), then we must conclude either that we are failing as interpreters, or that there is an error in the text. For the Church does not guarantee the inerrancy of every papal pronouncement. We know that no Pope can reverse or contradict what we have received as the Faith, but rather that his role is to preserve and transmit that sacred deposit. 

But such a conclusion should be the last thing we seek, the last that we reach, and not the first.

Giving Thanks for Luther

Contrary to some people's opinions, I do not seek to view everything our Holy Father does through a lens of suspicion, mistrust and hostility.

However, I did need to pause for a while when I heard of the plan to celebrate Martin Luther and the Reformation.

However, I am reminded of St Paul's admonition, to give thanks for everything, always. Moreover, I recall the audacious line in the Exsultet: O felix culpa quae talem et tantum meruit habere redemptorem.

And we regularly give thanks for the passion and death of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

In that context, I can give thanks for Martin Luther and the Reformation. For God will draw good out of everything; and if we can celebrate Adam's fault - evil though it was - and give thanks for the Crucifixion - evil though that was - then surely we can give thanks for the Reformation and the work of Luther.

And though much evil has flowed from them, just as it has from Adam's sin, God still manages to draw greater good from it.  And although Luther and the Reformation did not win for us so great a Redeemer, Adam's sin having already done so, they may have contributed to the Scourging, or the Crown of Thorns, for which also we give thanks.

And we have countless saints and martyrs, and great clarifications in theology from Trent onwards, as some of the fruits of the evil wrought in the sixteenth century.

Deo gratias!

Strange criticism

James Melody kindly posted a link to my post about the Mandatum to Facebook, with a complimentary comment.

A chap called Ruari McCallion, whom I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting, quoted me and added a comment, thus:

"The second is that it risks confirming a modern anthropological error: that male and female are trivial, not essential, differences. It risks appearing to bow at the altar of a modern understanding of what it means to be a woman (or a man); an understanding that sees contraception, promiscuity, and abortion as stepping stones along the road to true equality." 

You might think that's the best you've read on the subject so far; I fear I must respectfully disagree, James. Ivereigh was markedly less excitable; maybe he has a less fertile imagination?

I like to model my response to criticism on that of PG Wodehouse, about which I have blogged before.  I am glad, though slightly bemused, that Ruari found that post, and (I assume) in particular the paragraph he quoted, to be both exciting and imaginative. 

Yet I also gather (for I am a perceptive sort, under my hearty bluster) that these were the very reasons he disagreed with James' positive assessment of my comments; and that Ivereigh's dullness and lack of imagination were in fact reasons to prefer his take to mine.

All of which is very strange, when you think about it.

I may, of course, be quite wrong in my analysis in the post he is criticising; but nowhere does Ruari say where that is. I have already said what I think of Ivereigh's piece, so won't dwell on that, other than to say I think it was a more imaginative take on reality than mine.

But it does strike me as fairly typical of many such discussions that rather than dwell on the arguments, the stress is laid on the (perceived) tone.

My argument in that paragraph is straightforward, I thought. But maybe I assumed too much and should unpack it a bit.

We are confronted in our time with two very different understandings of the meaning of male and female. On the one hand the Church has always seen these are inherent in the meaning of the creation of man. The complementarity of man and woman is part of the divine plan, and their unity in the nuptial union is the means of the generation of new life, the establishment of the family, the mirror of Christ's relationship with the Church, and so on. Man and woman are equal in dignity, yet distinct in nature. This difference is one of the reasons that it is not in any way unjust that they have different roles they may legitimately fulfil: motherhood is only for women; fatherhood, and also priesthood, only for men. This is a deep and fundamental truth which we continue to understand in more depth as the Church reflects and develops her teaching (not least under the papacy of St John Paul II).

On the other hand, the contemporary progressive view is that male and female are somewhat superficial differences; some go so far as to say that they are largely social constructs. Equality must mean parity in all things and anything that may prevent women from aspiring to anything a man may do is ipso facto unjust. Thus contraception, promiscuity, and abortion come to be seen, as I remarked originally, as 'stepping stones along the road to true equality.'

I think that is fairly uncontentious, (though perhaps I am naive). Therefore I conclude that the part which Ruari finds imaginative and exciting is to say that the arbitrary change of the Church's liturgy to include women in a rite that was formerly exclusive to men 'risks appearing to bow at the altar of a modern understanding of what it means to be a woman (or a man).' Yet, again, I think that risk is real and evident. It seems to me precisely how modern liberal-minded people will interpret the Holy Father's change. 'Ah, the Church is making one more, slow, belated step to recognising what we all know: that women and men are equal in every way, and that all discrimination against women is a legacy of misguided (or worse) patriarchy.'

But because Ruari never actually addresses anything I said, it is hard to know if I am on the right track here. 

The Pope and the Washing of Feet

It will not surprise my regular readers to learn that I think the Holy Father's recent changes to the rubrics surrounding the Mandatum are unwise.

I do not buy Austen Ivereigh's line, that this is the restoration of an ancient practice. Rather, as the Decree itself says, this is an innovation. (I did, in fact, have an exchange with Ivereigh on Twitter about his claim, and he sent this link to justify it.) The fact that women, in convents, have had their feet washed outside the liturgy does not, I think, justify the claim that allowing women to have their feet washed as part of the liturgy is a restoration.

Some people (judging by some of the comments online, such as Niall Gooch's on Twitter) seem to think that the traditional discomfort with this innovation 'appears to be that since there have been bad changes in the past, ALL CHANGE IS BAD.'  I don't think that is a fair characterisation. 

For myself, I have reservations on a few grounds. 

The first is that this seems to be a part of a pattern of post-hoc legitimisation of illegal behaviour. It is not as egregious as the legitimisation of altar girls. That was done by chicanery - at least this is a more official procedure. But the pattern endures - and the message it risks sending is simple. If you disagree with the Church's law, carry on - the Church will catch up with you eventually. That is clearly both wrong and dangerous.

The second is that it risks confirming a modern anthropological error: that male and female are trivial, not essential, differences. It risks appearing to bow at the altar of a modern understanding of what it means to be a woman (or a man); an understanding that sees contraception, promiscuity, and abortion as stepping stones along the road to true equality. The Church should be correcting this view, not colluding (or even seeming to collude) with it.

A third is that it risks colluding with another (related) error: that the Church has, by and large, got it wrong in the past, and needs to catch up with modern understandings in order to correct its practice and belief. I remain unconvinced that modern western liberal democracies have anything of significance to teach the Church. I would argue, rather, that there is a lot that they could learn from the Church, if only they would not harden their hearts.

My fourth concern is that it is premised on a wrong understanding of liturgy. It seems to be using the liturgy as a means of (at worst) 'virtue signalling'; or at best as a means of 'making everyone feel included.' I suggest that both of these fall far short of liturgy's true purpose.  That is not to say that the liturgy of the Church cannot, or indeed should not, change. But, as Sacrosanctum Concilium rightly ruled, nothing should be changed unless the good of the Church certainly requires it. 

Finally, the Decree says: 'In order that the full meaning of this rite might be expressed to those who participate it seemed good to the Supreme Pontiff Pope Francis to vary the norm...'  I remain unconvinced that the Holy Father has explained the full meaning of this rite, which is rich and complex; and further unconvinced that it is better expressed by changing it from 12 men to a small group of people. The impression one gets is that the word 'seems' is carrying all the weight: Francis is not a theologian, and I think he should change the liturgy only with proper advice and theological consideration - or not at all.

And another thing

I have continued to think about the Holy Father's sermon on the Holy Family, about which I have already posted.

In particular, I have been thinking about the Immaculate Conception, and the difficulty that poses for us, inheritors of Original Sin, to read Our Lady's words accurately.

One of the effects of Original Sin is that our passions are not properly subject to our souls: that is the seat of the will and the intellect. But in Our Lady, preserved from Original Sin and its effects, that is not the case. Her passions are subordinate to her will, that is her capacity to love, and her intellect, her capacity to know.

Further, we know that any turning of the will away from the will of God is a sin: so by definition Our Lady never allowed her will to deviate from the will of God. 

Her intellect was also endowed with those preternatural gifts which the rest of us lost through Adam's sin: knowledge of God, of her relationship to Him and of Her eternal destiny.

It is in that context that we have to read Our Lady's words to her Son, both here in Luke 2, and also, for example, at the Annunciation and at the Wedding Feast in Cana.

It is of course tempting to read Our Lady's words as 'containing a certain reproach,' but is that correct, given her Immaculate status? Certainly, if a normal mother said those words, reading reproach into them would seem completely reasonable; but in this respect (freedom from Original Sin and Actual Sin) she is not a normal mother. 

All I believe we can legitimately read into them is the intellectual question they pose: "How could you (whom I know to be all-good) do this which has caused us such distress?"  - Faith seeking understanding. And it is no defect in her intelligence that means she does not understand all her Son does; it is natural for the human intellect to be unable to fathom the full mysteries of God - indeed, that is what we mean by a mystery.

So just as her words at the Annunciation (unlike the very similar ones of Zachary) do not display any failing in Faith, so her words here do not display any failing in Love; nor do her words at Cana display any failing in Hope.

Indeed, Cana is in some ways my favourite: when Protestants level the charge of Mariolatry at us, I reflect that it is a charge made in ignorance. Anyone who has turned to Our Blessed Mother for counsel or comfort knows that she always ends by telling us the same thing: 'Do whatever He tells you!' The Mother always points to the Son, and to honour her is to draw closer to Him.

As always, I issue the usual disclaimer: I am no trained theologian, and if I have got anything wrong in this post I invite correction. Indeed, as I have mentioned before, one of the delights of blogging is to provoke those wiser, better instructed, or more holy than myself to educate me.

Alma Redemptoris Mater, 

Quæ pervia cæli porta manes, 

Et stella maris, 

Succurre cadenti,

Surgere qui curat, populo: 

Tu quæ genuisti,

Natura mirante, 

Tuum sanctum Genitorem

Virgo prius ac posterius, 

Gabrielis ab ore

Sumens illud Ave, 

Peccatorum miserere.

Concerns about the Holy Father's sermon

I am by nature, upbringing and temperament quite a deferential sort of chap, and being traditionally inclined, my natural inclination is deference to those in Holy Orders of whatever degree - and proportional to the degree of orders.  Thus a priest trumps a deacon, a bishop trumps a priest and the Holy Father is (below God) the Ace of Trumps, as I think I may have mentioned before. 

However, that parenthesis (below God) is of course in brackets not because it is unimportant, but because it should go without saying.

Al of which makes it particularly painful when the reigning pontiff says something I find hard to reconcile with Catholic thinking.

I mentioned the other day (here, in fact) that I had some concerns about what the Holy Father had said in his sermon about the Holy Family. But I wanted to pause, think and pray before blogging about it. However, the passage of time has not eased my concerns: if anything, the reverse.

First, here is what he said (for the full homily, see here, for the Italian original, here):

At the end of that pilgrimage, Jesus returned to Nazareth and was obedient to his parents (cf. Lk 2:51). This image also contains a beautiful teaching about our families. A pilgrimage does not end when we arrive at our destination, but when we return home and resume our everyday lives, putting into practice the spiritual fruits of our experience. We know what Jesus did on that occasion. Instead of returning home with his family, he stayed in Jerusalem, in the Temple, causing great distress to Mary and Joseph who were unable to find him. For this little “escapade”, Jesus probably had to beg forgiveness of his parents. The Gospel doesn’t say this, but I believe that we can presume it. Mary’s question, moreover, contains a certain reproach, revealing the concern and anguish which she and Joseph felt. Returning home, Jesus surely remained close to them, as a sign of his complete affection and obedience. Moments like these become part of the pilgrimage of each family; the Lord transforms the moments into opportunities to grow, to ask for and to receive forgiveness, to show love and obedience.

What initially troubled me was the phrase 'Jesus probably had to beg forgiveness of his parents.'

On further reflection, I am also troubled by 'escapade', and also by 'the Lord transforms [moments like these] into opportunities to grow,' etc.

Clearly, the teaching the Holy Father wishes to draw from the incident is a good teaching: that families need to grow in their ability 'to ask for and to receive forgiveness, to show love and obedience.'

However, that does not justify doing such violence to Catholic teaching (or at the very least, to Catholic sensibilities.)

For the first question that arises is: why did Our Lord, God incarnate, have to ask forgiveness? It is a difficult question to answer. Clearly, he cannot have done anything wrong.  Likewise, he cannot have done anything that would accidentally have caused distress to his Mother and his foster Father: all is done in love and knowledge.

Some have hypothesised that he had to apologise out of filial obedience (cf fourth commandment), as an apology was demanded of him by his Mother or by St Joseph. But that is wrenching the text apart too much. The moment for that (if there were such a moment) was the encounter described, when Our Lady asked her question. But we get no hint of an apology here, despite her expression of her own and St Joseph's anxiety. Are we really to think that, after this conversation, these two great saints were to return later to their hurt feelings and demand an apology from their Divine Son?  I find that hard to imagine.

Moreover, even if one or other of them had demanded an apology, would Our Lord have been bound to apologise? I think not: he would have fulfilled his filial obligations, I suspect, by correcting their error. One of the character-notes of Our Lord throughout the Gospels is that He is unapologetic. Consider the conversation at Cana; that with the Syro-Phoenician woman, his comments on Herod, the incident with the money-changers, his trials by the High Priests and by Pilate...  And considering who He is, that could scarcely be otherwise (indeed, on reflection, that is one of the reasons why the 'great moral teacher, but only human' view of Our Lord is so implausible - for a mere man, He would have been insufferable!)

So why, according to the Holy Father, can we presume that Our Lord had to apologise?  I can't see it. My concern is that it lays the seeds in peoples' imagination for a less-than-Divine Christ.

That concern is what sits behind the word 'escapade.' Can we really think of any action of Our Lord's in such terms? Can we even imagine that Our Lady or St Joseph would have done so?   I find that hard to imagine, too, and for all the same reasons.

And that other phrase:  'the Lord transforms [moments like these] into opportunities to grow.' Surely that is true in our fallen families; surely it cannot apply to the Holy Family - for what is being transformed? The phrase implies something wrong, some failing, some lack of charity: can any of these apply to the Sinless Son and his relationship with the Sinless Mother?

Maybe I am missing something. The Holy Father, of course, is probably wiser and more steeped in Scripture, Tradition, and the Faith than I am. But if that is the case, I would be grateful if someone could explain to me how to read this part of this sermon in a way that does not diminish the Son, nor His Mother.


UPDATE: see also And another thing...

The Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple

The Holy Father has said that we are right to use our imaginations on the mysteries of Our Lord's life; and certainly that is consistent with the meditative traditions of the Church.

I have some concerns about the particular way in which he did that recently, on the subject of the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple, to which I may return in a later post.

But it reminded me that I have an unfinished book on the back-burner: one in which a modern teenager has a series of visions, under the tutelage of St Michael, of the joyful mysteries of the rosary. 

Here is an extract from chapter ten. To understand it, you need to realise that St Joseph is beside him, as his teacher, watching the mystery unfold, which (of course) also included St Joseph as a protagonist (in the context of the preceding chapters, that is much clearer).

The book (if I ever finish it) is intended for children approaching confirmation age: I would value any feedback.

--

And that evening St Michael did come.  He hardly said a thing, except that it was time for the final mystery, and that I needed to meet St Joseph to understand it.

“It would be wrong to say that this part of the story belongs to me,” Joseph tells me.  “But still, it is my role to tell you.  And in a way that sums up the strangeness of my life: I have a leading role in a story where I am the least important.

“You can’t imagine, and I can’t really explain, what it is to be husband to Mary and foster father to the child Jesus.  I knew that I wasn’t up to the job once I had learned the secret of her pregnancy, and it was only when the angel told me not to be afraid that I dared to marry her.  And all those years, I had to lead the family, to rule and govern and guide and teach, when my wife was so far above me in holiness, and the boy was the Son of the Lord.  Of course, I didn’t fully know what that meant...”

“And then, I lost him!  Can you imagine it?  My over-riding responsibility - and my joy - was to be trusted to look after them, and I lost him.  Come with me, and I’ll show you how it was.” 

It’s hot and it’s tiring.  We are walking away from Jerusalem in a large group.  Joseph is carrying bags both for his family and for others: he is a strong man.  Mary is listening: another young woman is pouring her heart out to her.  All around us, the crowd is constantly breaking into smaller groups and reforming.  Children are running ahead and trailing behind.  Teenagers are walking in small huddles, some earnest and some exuberant.  Overall there is a carnival atmosphere, tinged with tiredness. I long to be able to tell Mary and Joseph that Jesus isn’t with us: I can’t bear the thought of their distress when they realise.  And I know that there is nothing I can do, that it will be terrible for them, and also that it will all come right in the end.

And the Joseph beside me, as invisible as I know myself to be, understands: “Yes, you are right.  And one of the many things I learned as I looked back on this time was that one of the reasons for our losing him was that I still had lessons to learn.  You see everything he does, he does for everyone...” And he falls silent, leaving me wondering what lessons he still had to learn, but afraid to ask.  It would seem like prying into a private place.

Looking back towards Jerusalem, I can see an almost continuous stream of people leaving the city after the great feast.  A long line of pilgrims, snaking down the hill.  And suddenly it takes me back to Walsingham - I too have been a pilgrim.  I too know what it is to be part of a family so large that it is easy to lose touch with my immediate family.  The continuity of that idea of pilgrimage struck me for the first time: at Walsingham we had been doing what the Holy Family had done two thousand years before - and according to St Joseph, one of the reasons Christ had gone on that pilgrimage was specifically for me: ‘everything he does, he does for everyone...’

I am jolted from my day-dreaming by a sudden change in the tempo of the walk.  We are stopping for the night.  Everyone is moving into new clusters to settle down.  Rough circles are formed, bread and wine are produced from bags. Children are called to eat with their families. Mary is still listening to her young friend. It occurs to me how little I have ever heard her say - and how much I want to hear her talk again. Joseph finds the people whose bags he has been carrying. A lad of about twelve passes, looking for his family. Joseph greets him:

“Benjamin, I think your people are up ahead. I was speaking with your father earlier.”

“Thank you,” mumbles Benjamin and makes to move on, not sure what to say.

“Benjamin, was Jesus walking with you?  I’ve not seen him for hours.”

“No, he’s not been with us. We were surprised, but guessed he was with you. He’s probably carrying for someone further back.” And he’s off. I know exactly how he feels: I’m never comfortable talking with grown ups I don’t know too well.

Joseph glances at his wife, who looks up immediately. Her friend senses that, and pauses in her talk.

“Sorry, Ruth,” says Joseph.  “Mary, is Jesus ahead of us?”

She looks at his face with an openness of soul - that’s the only way I can describe it - that feels shocking. The mixture of tenderness and strength, of vulnerability and courage... but I would need to be an artist to convey her expression. And she shakes her head gently. I experience a huge disappointment, and it takes me a moment to realise why: I had been so hoping that she would speak.

“Then he must be further back.  I’ll go and find him.”  Mary smiles, gives the faintest of nods, and turns her attention back to Ruth.

So Joseph starts to re-trace his steps. And I follow, with another Joseph beside me (I still can’t convey quite how strange that was....)  Every now and then, Joseph stops, waits for someone to break off their conversation and give him their attention, and then asks after the boy. And every time the reply is the same: “No, he has not been walking with us.” Many of them know Joseph and Jesus, and some of these add, “And we haven’t seen him today.”

The further back he goes, the faster Joseph is walking. He is still unfailingly courteous to everyone, but his voice is getting crisper - he is speaking more quickly and with a higher pitch. Part of me wonders how high his voice will go: it started very low, the voice of a strong man, but is now more in the tenor range.

And then he pauses. And Joseph beside me says; “A tough decision - to go and fetch Mary - and worry her about the boy, when he might be with the next group - or to go on, leaving her further behind, knowing that the longer I leave it to fetch her, the less time we will have together to look.”

But the hesitation is brief. He turns around and makes his way back up the road. As he approaches, Mary lifts her face and sees that he is alone. She is on her feet almost at once, saying goodbye to Ruth. Joseph picks up their bags, and they are off again. Although this is all done very calmly and quietly, a few friends notice and realise the implications: Joseph has been asking after Jesus, and now he and Mary, without the boy, are heading back the way they have come. They call out words of encouragement: “He won’t be far...  He’s a good boy, Joseph...  He can look after himself - he’s a tough lad...”  Joseph acknowledges their kindness and concern with a nod as he passes, but neither he nor Mary pauses.

We are almost running now, and I am surprised at how quickly Mary can go, after the long day’s march. They reach the place where Joseph had turned round, and they slow down. It is starting to get dark, and a number of families are lighting fires by the roadside. These beacons tell us that we are nearly at the back of the marching line. And still nobody has seen the boy Jesus all day. By now we have passed many of his friends, the boys of a similar age, and all echo what Benjamin had said.

Now we are past the last of the travellers, and heading along the empty road back towards the town. The darkness is closing in. I realise that Mary and Joseph have not said a word to each other since realising the boy is lost.  

“No”, says Joseph beside me, “she said very little. And never a word of blame. But I could feel her distress, and it redoubled my own. But listen.”

And then I hear that Mary and Joseph were talking - or rather praying. Mary starts:  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;  even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me.”

After a pause, Joseph says: “How long, O Lord? Wilt thou forget me for ever?  How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all the day? But I have trusted in thy steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.”  At the last words, his voice almost cracks, and I see Mary reach out and touch his hand gently, but their pace never falters.

There is a house set back from the road a little way out of the city. There are lights and the sound of music and conversation. They glance at each other and then approach the door. At Joseph’s call it is opened at once.  

“Shalom - may peace be upon you!” a tall cheerful man with dark hair and a long dark beard greets them.

“And upon you and your household,” replies Joseph. “And I am sorry to trouble you at this late hour, but we are looking for a boy...”

“You have lost your son!  That is terrible,  how old is he - a little one?” He turns without waiting for an answer: “Rebecca, have you seen a boy? These people have lost their little boy. About six.” He turns back: “Am I right?” but still doesn’t wait for a reply. “He ran off with some friends on the way back from the pilgrimage - they were playing a game - he was hiding - but he hasn’t turned up!” Again he turns back to Joseph: “You must be distracted with worry - a child that young and the night already dark! But trust in the Lord, for He is truly to be trusted.” At last he pauses for breath.

“Actually, Jesus is twelve. But we are certainly worried.”

“Rebecca, he’s twelve not six.” then he drops his voice to what he imagines to be a whisper, but which is all too clear: “You see how distressed they are - they can’t even remember the boy’s age!”

Then back to Joseph and Mary: “Come in, come in.  We will certainly help.”

“Thank you, you are very kind.  But we must go back to Jerusalem to find Jesus.”

“But the gates are closed. The road is dark. You will not find him tonight. Be sure that he is safe - you have friends in Jerusalem - he will be staying with them. Perhaps when he realised he was lost he ran back to their house. That is certainly the case. And we have dinner ready - we can assuredly feed you and give you a bed.”

“And that was another difficult decision,” says the Joseph beside me. “He was right: the gates were shut, Jesus was not on the road. Mary was tired - as was I. There was nothing more we could do that night but pray - and accept the blessing of the man’s hospitality - which at least meant we would be near the gates when they opened in the morning.”

Mary and Joseph go in, and the door is closed. We do not follow. “No,” said Joseph beside me. “We passed a terrible night there. You must appreciate, this was wholly new. Never before had Jesus disappeared. We did not know what to make of it. Had he met with an accident? Had he been the victim of a crime? Or was he absent of his own will? That last was hard to contemplate: never before had he shown what seemed to be such disrespect for his mother and me. Yet how could he have had an accident or fallen victim to others if he had stayed with the pilgrimage. Someone would have noticed. I did not sleep that night.

“But I must tell you,” he adds with a chuckle, “that as we left, our bearded host called after us: “And when you find this tearaway, give him a beating. As the psalm says: ‘Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you beat him with a rod, he will not die. If you beat him with the rod you will save his life from Sheol!’

“So I replied: ‘Thank you once more, we will remember what you have said.’ 

“And you need not witness the whole of the next day, when we went from house to house of everyone we knew in Jerusalem, and everyone who any of them knew. And we went to the temple - to pray. We did not see him there. A friend let us stay that night, and before she went to the bed they had made for her to sleep, Mary said something to me, so quietly and gently that I did not really hear it. It sounded like: ‘Tomorrow, Abraham.’ And she turned over and went to sleep.

“You must not think her callous: she had suffered all day, hoping every moment to find the boy. Yet she has the strongest trust in God, and she went to sleep knowing that she had done all she could, and trusting the rest to the Lord.

“I however, could not sleep. I do not have faith like hers. And I paced the room, wondering whether she had really said ‘Tomorrow Abraham,’ and if so why. And I thought of Abraham, the father of our people, and was pleased. She still trusted me to be father. And then I thought how Abraham was asked to give up his son. And I was scared. Finally, I made the link with ‘tomorrow.’ Isaac was lost to Abraham, (that is sentenced to die) for three days. It was on the third day that the angel told Abraham not to strike him - and tomorrow would be the third day since Jesus’ disappearance. So I was comforted at last, and finally got some sleep in a chair by the window. I never asked Mary if she had really said that... by the end of the next day it didn’t seem to matter - and we had plenty more to think about.”

And suddenly it is morning. Once more we are making our way into the Temple precincts.  As we pass through the gate, Joseph starts towards the court of Women, but Mary pauses, and, ever sensitive to her, Joseph stops too. Then she turns to our right, and we go towards the arches inside the wall at the southern end of the temple. There is a rabbi standing, teaching, there are men and boys sat around, and as we approach a large, strong lad gets up and comes towards Mary. I do not realise at first - I think it is a friend. He looks far too big for twelve. But he embraces his mother, and Joseph, and I... I just turn aside; I can’t watch. Though nothing is said, my eyes are streaming with tears.

At last Mary speaks: “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously.”

Joseph beside me comments: “I should have spoken. It was my role as father in the family to ask that question - to discipline the boy. But I could not; and as I hesitated, Mary spoke,  And she was right to do so. I recognised immediately that this was something different, something between him and her particularly. And even in that moment I was delighted at her courtesy - putting me before herself (which is not done in our language) and using the title ‘father’ of me at the time I felt I least deserved it. But then Jesus...”

And then Jesus speaks, in a firm and unapologetic voice: “How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?” 

At that moment, the rabbi and several of his followers join us. Joseph and Mary greet the rabbi with respect, but his eyes are shining: “Your son!” he says. “Never before have I had such questions; never before have I heard such answers to my questions. Give thanks to the Lord for this great gift he has entrusted to you.” And as the rabbi finishes, others join in; “Are you not from Nazareth?  Who is the teacher there that has taught such wisdom to this boy? You must be very proud of him!”

Joseph beside me says: “You must not misunderstand our astonishment.” For indeed, Mary and the Joseph in front of me look amazed. “We knew his wisdom, of course. We had got used to the speed with which he learned the Law and the Prophets. But never before had he displayed it to others in that way. And we did not understand why he had done so then. But there was more. My pride in Mary’s use of the word ‘father’ was quickly put in its place. For Jesus had called the Lord his Father; something never before done. I had grown used to thinking of him as the Son of the Lord - yet still this shocked me... Suddenly it felt as though everything had changed - but then we went back to Nazareth, Jesus was once more the most loving and dutiful son. He learned my trade and was there at my deathbed...”

As the Joseph beside me talks, the rabbi and his followers go back to their makeshift school, the Holy Family turns towards the sanctuary of the temple. Jesus is in the middle, one arm around his mother, the other around Joseph, and they walk in silence together, giving thanks to the Lord.