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A SELF-CONFIDENT CHURCH
Our study of Vatican II’s Lumen Gentium Part 4 focuses today on the lost opportunities for reform leading up to and including the Protestant Reformation itself and the post-Reformation response in the Roman Catholic Councils Trent [1545-1563] and Vatican I [1869-1870]. As we have seen in previous installments of this blog stream, “reform of the Church” was hardly a bolt from the blue problem leading Luther to post his 95 Theses in 1517. At the Council of Constance [1414-1418] the Church fathers burned Jan Hus at the stake for his calls for greater voice for the laity, symbolized over history by his demand that the laity have access to the cup at communion. But before Hus there was John Wycliffe [1328-1384] from the University of Oxford who led a biblical revival of sorts—translating the Scriptures into the English of the day—and an early populist sentiment in what was still a feudal/aristocratic age in many ways. Both Wycliffe and Hus believed that their writings and actions were prophetic insights from the Holy Spirit. As the Keys to the Council [2012] authors admit [pp. 57ff], there has been a tendency on the part of the Catholic Church since early medieval times to play down the existential or “independent” power of the Holy Spirit in the Church because most troublesome reformers claimed to have been inspired by the Spirit in directing their reform movements. This is certainly true of the controversy involving “The Spiritual Franciscans,” a branch of the Order that came to believe the mainstream Franciscans were betraying St. Francis of Assisi’s [1187-1226] rule of absolute poverty, i.e., owning nothing, as they interpreted Christ’s words in the Gospel. When popes over the next century granted dispensations to the Franciscan Order as a whole, allowing them the use of money, buildings, etc., the Spirituals claimed that popes had no such rights to do this, on the grounds that Francis had ushered in a new age of the Holy Spirit. Many of the Spirituals were arrested; some burned; all disbanded. See my Amazon review of The Spiritual Franciscans [2003] by David Burr. It is an intriguing but sad story. It is not hard to understand that the medieval leadership of the Church—its popes, bishops, clerics, most academics—understood the Church to be the voice of God incarnate, and even beyond that, synonymous with the Kingdom of God itself. Consider that the consummate free spirit, Francis of Assisi himself, hastened to Rome for Pope Innocent III’s institutional sanction of his band of brothers, even after Christ himself had reportedly commanded Francis to “rebuild the Church!” The members of the Trinity, it would seem, were not exempt from the authority of the Church, one might conclude. The Church’s self-understanding was not raw hubris or narcissism, though those features raised their heads from time to time. In the Roman mentality of good order, authority—particularly divine authority—was a philosophical and psychological given. Reform critiques—however well-intentioned—upon any part of the Church system were seen as a threat to the good ordering of God’s Church in all its members. To insist, as the Spiritual Franciscans did, that a pope was powerless to reorganize the workings of a religious order was to question the voice of God expressed through his vicar, the Bishop of Rome, Successor of Peter. This is not to say that the Church of the late medieval era was delusional or naïve. The Council of Constance was certainly aware of the imperfections of the Church, and by 1418 it had removed three men sparring for the papal throne, elected and installed Pope Martin V, and left instructions for periodic [five or ten year] councils to continue the reform of the Church in such matters as Church Law, sacraments, conduct of the clergy, etc. Martin V was a competent pope, certainly an improvement over the previous fifty years. But he saw the office of the papacy in the pre-Constance mold, as the supreme expression of Christ’s power, beholden to none, not even the wishes of the Council of Constance. [In fact, the concept of a council having power over a pope, “conciliarism,” was condemned at future councils, notably Vatican I in 1870.] Before we move on, Constance functioned with the wind at its back, so to speak. In terms of its ecclesiastical self-consciousness, it was the only game in town. Muslims were external infidels to be converted or exterminated. The Eastern Orthodox Church, so it was believed, would “come home” in its suitable time. Catholic dissidents were to be disciplined. From a spiritual-psychological vantage point, the Council of Constance was the last Council to enjoy such self-confidence. LOSING ITS NERVE? The most drastic challenge to the nature and definition of the Church was the Protestant Reformation, because at its heart the very relationship of God and humanity was under question to a degree that Catholicism had never faced before. Was the Catholic Church the sole true mediator of God’s will, or did the believer receive the gift of salvation directly through the words of the Sacred Scripture, or sola scriptura [“by scripture alone.”] My sense is that Luther would not have articulated his impact in quite this way, nor did he ever advocate for the demolition of the Church. In many ways it is fair to say that Luther did not so much start a church as awaken personal freedom of faith. His definition of reform was the removal from institutional church-hood laws and practices lacking, in his view, clear biblical basis. The sale of indulgences had been the last straw for the monk. Salvation could not be earned by good works or purchased with money. Salvation was belief in God’s Word mediated through the Sacred Scriptures. Consequently, Catholic councils after 1517 would have to question their souls, their identities, the very order of the spiritual universe. New councils would be required to define, defend, and evangelize their position in the plan of God’s salvation, a challenging theological venture for a church not accustomed to doing this. The Council of Trent was first on the psychiatrist’s couch, so to speak. [See my review of Trent: What Happened at the Council (2013) by John O’Malley]. Trent, while jarred by the happenings of the past thirty years, had not totally lost its inner bearings. There was hope in the planning days of Trent that Catholics and Protestants might debate concerns of reformers, but by the time Trent was summoned in 1545 the Protestant reform was already broken into multiple directions too numerous for Catholic bishops to address. Consequently, Trent was faced with a new truth—an admission that it could not fix the Body of Christ, at least not in its own time. To its credit, this Council turned its energies to what it could manage, internal reform of the Catholic Church to win back the loyalties of other Christian communities, such as by insisting that bishops live in their assigned dioceses and that seminaries be established for better educated priests. The Council assumed the traditional hierarchy of authority, that the Catholic Church spoke exclusively for the will of God and recognized ultimate papal authority. The Council did satisfactory work in advising Pope Pius V on matters of Catholic reform; the Tridentine Missal for Mass was promulgated by Pius V in 1570 and remained in use till the mid-1960’s. But the Church would now have to live with the stigma of being a broken family. FULL BLOWN PANIC DISORDER Trent, at least, could console itself with the thought that its issues were religious. The next council, Vatican I in 1869, was faced with a more frightening prospect, the insignificance of alienation from the world at large. The centuries after Trent were times of momentous change in every aspect of human life across the planet—from science to learning to politics to philosophy. The philosopher Rene Descartes [1596-1650] turned human understanding upside down with his famous maxim, Cogito, ergo sum. [“I think, therefore I am.”] In a lengthy biography in the Encyclopedia Britanica Descartes is described as the father of modern philosophy in the sense that he prioritized human experience over medieval objective reality, including religious dogma. In this sense he is more influential than Luther, given that even today we live and act by our own interpretation of the world around us, more often than not. After Descartes much of the Western World rebooted to engage subjective human experience as a primary philosophical source, no longer religion, as the measure of lived reality. In Europe, for example, the principle cuius regio, regius religio became an accepted maxim: the king’s religion was the realm’s religion. The American colonies took Descartes even further, forming a government based upon democratic principles, free elections, and personal religious choice of conscience as opposed to the idea of an established religion. [American practice of freedom of conscience influenced much later Vatican II discussion.] Politically, after the French Revolution [1789] strong independent nations formed throughout Europe. The nationalist surge even reached Italy in the 1800’s, a movement known as the Risorgimento, which reached to the walls of Vatican City itself. Pope Pius IX [r. 1846-1878] perceived the changing world as a threat to the Church and its teaching authority, indeed its very place in the world. To strengthen a besieged Church against the modern world, he convoked Vatican I [1869-1870]. The first and primary work of this Council was the proclamation of the doctrine of papal infallibility, the ultimate expression of ecclesiastical authority. Consider that since the Council of Trent the modern era had truly begun: Galileo, van Leeuwenhoek [microscope], Voltaire, Locke, Marx, Darwin, Napoleon, to name just a few of the new influences of the era. Self-determination—by benign rule or democracy—shaped much of the civilized world. History and archaeology of no denominational stance addressed the composition and meaning of the Bible. Psychologically speaking, everything about Vatican I bore a sense of desperation and worry. Prior to Vatican I, in 1864 Pius IX issued The Syllabus of Errors, which included many condemnations that today seem both unreasonable and extraordinarily impossible to enforce. Essentially, Pius condemned modernity. Point eighty, for example, condemns this proposition: “The Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, reconcile himself, and come to terms with progress, liberalism, and modern civilization.” Pius, in condemning this proposition, is embracing the dream that history can be stopped in its tracks. In his defense, Pius IX could from his chambers hear firing of real canons, not just philosophical ones. Vatican I would take place in the teeth of the Franco-Prussian War which had spilled into Italy, already in turmoil with the Risorgimento. What is a psychiatrist to do with a patient who denies the inevitable? A mild reaction is withdrawal: stay indoors, close the shutters. Not for nothing did Pius IX coin the phrase “Prisoner of the Vatican” to describe the new position of the pope as he perceived it. However, not every Catholic feared modernity and a sizable number embraced it. St. John Newman converted to Catholicism precisely by the new study of ancient historical writings. As a rule of thumb, the attitude of the Church toward Pius IX’s Vatican I was mixed; the closer one resided to Italy or identified with the pope’s assessment of the times, the more likely one was to support the declaration of infallibility or full papal authority. The further from Rome, the passion was less. In fact, one might say that many in the Church assumed the pope already enjoyed the general principles of infallibility. i.e., the authority from God to speak with doctrinal force on matters of faith and morals. In fact, Pius had already acted infallibly in 1854 when he declared the Immaculate Conception a doctrine of the Church. [The only other exercise of infallibility occurred in 1950, when Pope Pius XII declared the Assumption of the Virgin Mary a doctrine of the Church.] No one at Vatican I took issue with honoring the Virgin Mary as Pius IX had done fifteen years earlier, but a fair number wondered if the declaration of infallibility itself might not be prudent, at least at this time. There were reservations among Catholic bishops and thinkers who wrote and expressed theological concerns about the proposal, including Lord Acton of England, who famously wrote, “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Historically, Lord Acton’s caution about power was not idle speculation. Twentieth-century Catholic theologians cautioned against “creeping infallibility,” that everything a pope said was ipso facto binding. [Consider Pope Francis’ recent statement on blessing same sex couples and the kerfuffle it has set off.] There was sympathy, too, for the position that a solemn declaration of infallibility would cement the longstanding misunderstanding over the sources of Revelation; Catholicism on the one hand with its dual Scripture-Tradition belief on the one hand, and the classical Protestant “Scripture alone” position on the other. Catholics who strongly supported infallibility were called “ultramontanists, i.e., “on the other side of the mountains, the Alps, Rome.” You still see the term used today, in a broad sense. Vatican I began in September 1869 and was the first Council ever held at the basilica of St. Peter, as the church was not completed during the Council of Trent. Previous Councils, when held in Rome, took place at St. John on the Lateran Hill. Various sources indicate that opponents of infallibility had their say, but numerically their numbers were a minority, and some left the Council before a final vote was held on the infallibility question. As it turned out, only two bishops voted against the proposal, one of them being the bishop of Little Rock, Arkansas, who returned home to serve his diocese until 1907. Because of warfare in the city of Rome, the bishops returned home, but the Council was never reconvened, and it was not formally closed until Pope John XXIII declared it closed a century later, on the eve of Vatican II. See my review of What Happened at Vatican One here. Vatican II would be the third post-Reformation Council, and we will look closely at its document on the Church, Lumen Gentium, to compare the self-understanding of the 1962 Church vis-à-vis the generations that met in 1545 and 1869. In many ways, Vatican II inherited “the best and the worst of times.” What medicines would it prescribe?
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The Council Lateran IV [1215] was conducted under the energetic Pope Innocent III. A complex man, Innocent saw himself as the ultimate authority over Church and state alike. He attempted to renew the Medieval Church by the enforcement of order and law, and his IV Lateran Council was not a “listening session.” Like a powerful general he issued his orders, and his ecclesiastical subjects swore to carry them out—to eliminate abuses and intensify the spiritual life of the Church. He put a stop to the foundation of new religious orders—though he famously granted an exception to Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone when the latter and his dozen poorly clad brethren came to Rome to seek permission to live a penitential life in common with the Gospel itself as their rule. Today Franciscans remain grateful for Innocent’s approval. One wonders what Innocent might have achieved had he not died at a young fifty-two.
It would be two hundred years before the next Council, and not even a man of Innocent’s acumen could have foreseen the events that lie ahead after his death, some of which he himself inaugurated. By the 1200’s and 1300’s nations were taking shape, nations with kings and princes who were not to be trifled with. This was certainly the case with France, which was beginning to find papal taxation, levies for crusades, and other Roman interventions vexing, to say the least. England was another such region; in fact, the Hundred Years War between France and England was in full tilt by the mid-1300’s. Of this war Wikipedia writes: “The Hundred Years' War was a series of armed conflicts fought between the kingdoms of England and France during the Late Middle Ages. It originated from English claims to the French throne. The war grew into a broader power struggle involving factions from across Western Europe, fueled by emerging nationalism on both sides. The periodization of the war takes place over 116 years, wherein the war was interrupted by several years of truces.” One such “truce” was more fatal than any battle: the Black Death, which arrived in the West in 1347. Curiously, I discovered that I had reviewed John Kelly’s The Great Mortality in 2005 in which I described the plague in considerable detail. I had not read the review in nearly twenty years, and reading it today, after several years of Covid, made me reexamine the Plague in a new light. Scientists and historians tend to agree that the mean death toll across Europe [1347-1352] was 50%. American military planners still use the Black Plague as a measuring stick for atomic damage in the twenty-first century. It is hard to imagine the impact of the plague on the Church. I recall my sixth-grade teacher explaining that the “good priests” stayed in the cities and ministered to the dying, while the bad priests fled to the mountains and partied. Kelly’s book affirms this to a point; he notes that the population took either a despondent approach to the disease or a “bacchanalian one.” In any case, the disruption to European Church life caused by the plague is scarcely imaginable. The severity of this plague –after all, there were others throughout history—was exacerbated by several decades of poor weather and a limited food supply, which touched off unrest among feudal peasants and created a flight to the cities, which became hotbeds of unhealthy living and social unrest. There was a surge of populism that included segments of the Church. Two of the most famous reformers were John Wycliffe, [1328-1384] who among other things translated the Gospels into the vernacular or local tongue of his native England; and the Czech Jan Hus [1370-1415]. Hus was a social and religious warrior for the rights of the Church laity; he is famous for his advocacy of the laity receiving communion from the chalice. Innocent III had been a respected if not necessarily beloved pope, but the quality of the men who followed him declined over the next century. There is a dynamic at work here: as secular rulers became stronger and habitually ignored the popes, Innocent’s successors felt compelled to claim with greater volume and energy their rights as supreme rulers over “altar and crown alike.” This crescendo came to a stunning halt during and immediately following the papacy of Boniface VIII [r. 1294-1303], who in 1302 issued the encyclical Unam Sanctam. Wikipedia cites the noted historian Brian Tierney’s assessment that this encyclical was "probably the most famous" document on church and state in medieval Europe. In truth, the document was a death knell for absolute papal expansion into civil affairs. Unam Sanctam laid down dogmatic propositions on the unity of the Catholic Church, the necessity of belonging to it for eternal salvation, the position of the Pope as supreme head of the Church and the duty thence arising of submission to the Pope in order to belong to the Church and thus achieve salvation. The Pope further emphasized the higher position of the spiritual in comparison with the secular order. Boniface was, in effect, claiming the same power as Jesus himself: Consider the post-Resurrection encounter of Jesus with his disciples [Matthew 28: 18-20]: Then Jesus approached and said to them, “All power in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.” This was the straw that broke a lot of backs. One of those backs was King Philip IV of France. Tired of French wealth taxed for Roman coffers, Philip sent an army to Rome which physically assaulted the pope, leading to his death in 1303. [Interestingly, Dante, in his Inferno, puts Boniface in the eighth circle of hell.] The next pope, Clement V, found the atmosphere of Rome too contentious, and accepted the French invitation to move the papacy to France, thus beginning the “Avignon Papacy,” 1309-1377. Over the years of teaching, I discovered that most Catholics have no idea that the popes lived outside of Rome for nearly a century and find the fact quite surprising. It was Pope Gregory XI who reestablished the papal capital in Rome in 1377, but this move did not stop the Avignon court of cardinals to elect a second pope. Soon a council In Pisa put forth a third pope. Thus began the papal Western Schism [1378-1417]. For forty years Europe was divided in its loyalties. The Western Roman Church faced a test of its own internal powers to correct itself and obey the call of Jesus to be at one, “just as the Father and I are one.” The intelligentsia of the Church—the men and women of letters, university faculties, many bishops, cardinals, and even state sovereigns—were deeply alarmed by this seeming disintegration of the papacy. Those with the slightest grasp of history were aware that the Church was broken by Islamic conversions and the major split between Eastern and Western Christianity in 1054. Now the once solidified Western Roman Church was fragmenting, too. After a generation of multiple popes, these leaders of church and state came—with considerable reservation—to the consensus that a power greater than the pope had to reform the Church. No king could do this. The reform would need to be led and sustained by churchmen. Among them was the remarkable Jean Gerson, [1363-1429], Chancellor of the University of Paris, then one of the intellectual centers of the Church. Gerson articulated what many had been thinking: that in an emergency such as this, the supreme authority of the Church reverted to an ecumenical council which could override papal authority and correct the papal line of succession. [See my review of Jean Gerson and the Last Medieval Reformation (2005) by Brian Patrick McGuire here.] A council in Pisa in 1409 had attempted to solve the papacy issue but fell short for too many reasons to cite here. However, a larger and much more effective Council began a four-year congress in 1414, known today as the Council of Constance, it is considered one of the twenty-one legitimate Councils of the Church—remarkable in that the Church later rejected its working principles. The Council of Constance did not get off to an exemplary start. Deeply worried about radical ideas proliferating in the absence of a strong papacy, the Council issued a flag of safe conduct to Jan Hus [cited above] to discuss his theological concerns. When Hus arrived, his pledge of protection was lifted, he was tried as a heretic, and burned at the stake during the Council. Turning to its major concern, the Council of Constance passed three reforms for future stability of the Western Church. First, it established that a universal council was the highest authority in the Catholic Church, a principle which came to be called conciliarism. Second, it legislated regular Church reform councils at five-year intervals. This was a remarkable product: no longer would Councils be called just in cases of emergencies. Rather, the leadership of the Church would take a universal pulse on a regular basis and address the strengths and weaknesses of the Church before there were wholesale divisions and misunderstandings. The third reform was the ouster of all three papal contestants and the Council’s election of Pope Martin V in 1417, with the stipulation that he call another council in 1423. Martin proved to be an industrious pontiff who oversaw a restoration of the old beauty of Rome. He was credited with a “Roman Renaissance,” and he founded the University of Louvain in modern Belgium. He called for a crusade to Africa to deal with the slave trade, and another to address the Hussite risings after the burning of Jan Hus at the Council in 1415. A third crusade was dispatched in 1420 against the Ottoman Empire but it was unsuccessful; Constantinople was defeated by the Turks in 1453 and its name changed to Istanbul. Martin dutifully called for an Ecumenical Council in 1423, but it was poorly attended and never called to order. Seven years later, as Martin lay dying, the Council of Basel-Florence was convoked [1431-1449] to address a wide range of topics which netted only modest results. The next Council, Lateran V, [1512-1517] was convoked by Pope Julius II “to restore peace between Catholic rulers and to assert the authority of the pope.” If the saying “timing is everything” has any truth to it, consider that this Council concluded on March 16, 1517. On October 31, 1517, Martin Luther posted his theses on Church errors to the door of All Saints Church in Wittenberg. WHAT CAN WE SAY ABOUT THE COUNCIL OF CONSTANCE? One of the most curious facts about this Council is that it saved Western Christianity from shattering into chaos, and yet later the ways and means of its accomplishments were modified and/or condemned by later generations of the Church. This Council dared to state for the record that grave defects in the office holder of the Chair of Peter could be overridden by the actions of a universal council. History supports the claim that the Council of Constance had no other option. For all of that, the Church later fell into a retrospective post-traumatic shock to what it had done in Constance and immediately disengaged from such drastic action in the future. Conciliarism as a principle was condemned at future councils, most recently Vatican I [1869-1870] which, incidentally, was the same council to define papal infallibility. Constance established another principle which was not acted upon, this time with dire consequences. The story of Jan Hus and the subsequent revolution of his followers was a powerful lesson in how society was changing in the early Renaissance era and required the Church to pay much more attention to its pastoral woes. Constance’s call for future councils at regular intervals [five years or ten years] was brilliant, particularly when one considers that Luther and Calvin were less than a century away. The 5–10-year plan was never followed through, because future popes feared the echoes of conciliarism. It was not until Vatican II [1962-1965] that the power structure and working relationship between the pope and bishops was openly discussed in, among other places, Lumen Gentium. In paragraphs 18-29 the term “episcopal collegiality” broaches the idea of collective authoritative consultation. Vatican II reemphasized the identity of the pope as a bishop in union with his fellow bishops, who were true and distinct successors of the apostles. Wikipedia describes the process: “the pope as a member and the head of the college of bishops forms with it at all times an organic unity, especially when the council is gathered in a general council.” Vatican II never recommended the diminishing of the position of the pope as the Vicar of Christ. Rather, it envisioned a church where the pope would join with his brother bishops in discerning the will of the Holy Spirit for the Church. It is worth noting, though, that Popes John XXIII and Paul VI did not allow discussion of certain topics at Vatican II, notably the possibility of marriage for priests of the Latin Rite, and the prohibition of artificial birth control. Pope Francis [r. 2013-] has attempted to add another dimension to church life and governance: attention to the consciences and experience of the laity through his planned “Synod on Synodality” in 2024. The lukewarm response of many in Church authority in the United States and elsewhere to the listening process is a dysfunction that calls for the attention of those ordained to the apostolic ministry. NEXT: The Council that came too late: Trent [1545-1563] THE SLOW AND STRESSFUL “DARK AGE” By the year 600 AD, the Eastern Roman Empire had arrived at its full glory as the center of culture and civilization. The Roman Emperors resided in Constantinople [modern day Istanbul, Turkey], and one of them, Justinian [r. 527-565 A.D.] is responsible for creating a code or template of civil law that endures to this day. The Christian religious leader of the Eastern Empire was the Patriarch or Archbishop of Constantinople, appointed by the Roman Emperor, as were the other metropolitan bishops in the East. Constantinople housed the most famous Chistian Church in the world, the Hagia Sophia [“holy wisdom” or “divine wisdom.”] The Western Christian Church, centered in Rome, was laboring through a period of spiritual and physical poverty. Looking at Christianity in 600 A.D., the Eastern half was in its full midlife maturity, while the West—the Italian peninsula and lands west and northwest—was in adolescent mode in every sense of the word. It is worth noting, though, that adolescence has an energy that shapes its future. By 600 A.D. the Irish monks had created the rite of personal and repeatable Penance that we use today as well as composing moral manuals, known as “Irish Penitentiaries.” Pope Gregory the Great [r. 590-604] sent missionaries to convert the many regions still unvisited by the Church. There is a famous story of Pope Gregory walking by a slave market and noticing a young man in chains. “Where are you from?” The young man replied “Anglelond.” [home of the Angle people, i.e., England] To which Gregory replied: “You may be an Angle, but I will make you an angel.” We have this story from a doctor of the Church, St. Bede the Venerable, writing several centuries later. Whether or not it is true, Pope Gregory dispatched the future saint Augustine of Canterbury and forty monks to England, the first visits of the Catholic Church to that land. As I noted in the first blog entry on Vatican II, there were twenty-one Councils in the history of the Church. The first four [Nicaea, 1 Constantinople, Ephesus, and Chalcedon] were the keystones of the Creed we profess at Mass on Sundays, “the oath of our belief.” If you look at this list of all the Councils, you may notice that Councils five through eight are metaphysical and conducted in the East. They reflect the tenor of Eastern Christianity, which was [and is] more mystical and devotional, particularly in the celebration of sacraments, as opposed to the active religious psychology of the Latin West. Eventually, the East and the West split, into the Roman Catholic Church and the Orthodox Church, in a dramatic excommunication in 1054 where the Roman envoy Cardinal Humbert excommunicated the Patriarch Michael Cerularius at the high altar of Hagia Sophia. Pope Paul VI lifted the excommunication of Cerularius in 1965 as a gesture of good will to the Orthodox, but I think reunion is still many centuries away. ISLAM AND THE CRUSADES Count this as one of those historical altering events that few could have envisioned in 600 A.D. Demographers today tell us that at the present worldwide rates of births and conversions, Islam will surpass Christianity as the largest religion on the planet by the end of this century. Given these demographics and the fact that Catholicism’s first encounter with Islam was a war that lasted almost 900 years—the Moors were finally driven out of Spain as Columbus set sail to the New World in 1492—there will need to be much more thought and energy on the part of our Church on how we will live in peace with what will soon be our larger neighbor. Vatican II addressed Islam in several documents, including Lumen Gentium, para. 16: “But the plan of salvation also includes those who acknowledge the Creator, in the first place among whom are the Muslims: these profess to hold the faith of Abraham, and together with us they adore the one, merciful God, mankind’s judge on the last day.” This statement is an enormous step forward from 1870, the Church world of Vatican I, where the fences between families of faith were built high. Much more attention was paid to Vatican II’s Nostra Aetate [1965] regarding Catholic relations with the Jewish Faith. Introduction to the story of Mohammed and Islamic faith are taught—or should be taught—in standard Catholic religious education programs. When I first heard an explanation of Islam in my Catholic elementary school in the 1950’s, it went something like this: “Allah is God, and Mohammed is his prophet.” And I thought to my young self, “Now that’s pretty simple.” It took me a lot of years to wonder if the attraction to Islam might in fact be its simplicity itself. Look again at the topics of the later Eastern Christian Councils [five through eight], which are admittedly heavy and give evidence of a variety of commentaries on the first four Councils which form our Creed. It is also true that Islam developed in an Arabic culture, not Greek, as were the early Christian Councils. Islamic expansion began in the seventh century, and within a century its armies had circled westward across North Africa—a strongly Christian region at the time, the home of St. Augustine—continuing across Gibraltar and through Spain and well into modern day France, then a divided region of warring princes. Our Catholic history books hailed the defeat of the Islamic force at Tours in 732 by Charles Martel and the beginning of the gradual expulsion of Islamic forces from western Europe. However, it was Charlemagne and Pope Leo III who did as much as anyone to stabilize [relatively speaking] the state of affairs, both politically and religiously in Europe. The two men restored the old concept of “the Holy Roman Empire” when Leo crowned Charlemagne on Christmas Day, 800 A.D. The dozens upon dozens of small ethnic entities which made up Europe in 800 A.D. would haltingly begin to form “nations” we would recognize today, and the idea of “Holy Roman Empire” strengthened the unity of the western Church under the restored respect for the bishop of Rome. The post Charlemagne era saw a powerful new academic interest in things Roman—law, order, the classical writings, etc., as well as the emergence of Catholic intellectual life in the western or Roman style. Ancient Rome’s gift of law and order also brought to the fore the major stumbling block of “crown and altar” arrangements—did the Holy Roman Emperor receive his authority from the pope, or the pope from the emperor? THE REVIVAL OF WESTERN COUNCILS Councils 9 through 12 marked a major switch from their predecessors. They were known as the “Lateran Councils” because they were conducted at the mother church of the West, St. John Lateran, in Rome. [St. Peter’s was not built; the popes’ church was dedicated to the Apostle John and located on the Lateran Hill. Hence the name “John Lateran.” Contrast these names with Vatican I and Vatican II.] The Lateran Councils were not held in the East because western Catholicism and eastern Catholicism had split in 1054, the East half becoming the “Orthodox” Church which does not recognize the authority of the bishop of Rome. Consequently, all future Councils are events of the Roman Catholic Church, dealing with issues of Western Christianity, and they reflect the Roman heritage of good order, law, and logical thinking—though some councils were more successful than others at fidelity to these principles. The Council Lateran I [1123] addressed, interestingly, the “crown and altar” problem: “Confirmed the Concordat of Worms (1122), in which the Pope and Emperor sought to end the dispute over investiture (the attempt by the secular powers to assume authority in appointing bishops; this was a main source of Church/state friction during the Middle Ages).” Curiously, one glaring issue not treated in I Lateran was the Crusades, which had begun in 1095. [Much could be said here about the Crusades. I hope that in your lifetime you do take the time to read one or more volumes to understand the rationale, spirituality, strategy, code of conduct, atrocities, and outcomes of each of the five major Crusades. One of the most intriguing and troubling volumes in my library is The Fourth Crusade and the Sack of Constantinople [2005] by Jonathan Phillips. My review on Amazon is here. The mother of the Lateran Councils was undoubtedly Lateran IV, convoked by among the most powerful popes of all time, Innocent III [r. 1198-1215]. Again, the topics, achievements, and crushed hopes of this Council are far too numerous to explore here, but several points relative to Vatican II are noteworthy. Lateran IV lasted less than a year, in part because Innocent spent a long time listing the items he wanted passed, and then passed them out to the bishops for their approval. Vatican II was prepared in this fashion by the Curia, which planned for a six-week Council to tighten the screws. At Vatican II, however, Pope John XXIII was more sympathetic to his bishops and had the agenda rewritten, including Lumen Gentium. Lateran IV covered a wide range of topics—from Crusades to monastic life to “the Easter Duty” to receive communion during that holy season. He defined the word transubstantiation as the official term to describe the change in the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ at Mass. Wikipedia covers the 70-some canons or rulings and gives a flavor of the wide scope of its work. [The product of Vatican II is sixteen chapters, each with a number of commentaries in paragraph form.] It was a “disciplinary” council in that the final canons on each subject were clearly defined and obedience was expected. In Vatican II John XXIII decided against Innocent’s model. He allowed his bishops—after considerable advice against doing so by his Curia—to reset the agenda and to discuss, openly and honestly the strengths and weaknesses of Catholicism in 1962 and to lay out paths for the future, based on the Church’s history and the perspective of the participants. It is worth noting that Pope Francis’s “Synod on Synodality” copies this model to a degree to engage all the faithful in the re-evangelization of the Church. There were serious mistakes made at Lateran IV. Pope Innocent ordered Jews and Arabs to wear distinctive identifiable clothing—and he did not rescind orders by the City of Venice, for example—that forced all Jews to be cordoned off into parts of a city, ghettoes. And, after the dismal results of the Fourth Crusade, he demanded the Church undertake a fifth—one that changed little and cost countless lives. Vatican II, learning the lessons of history, was able to avoid egregious errors. Problems have arisen with the implementation of Vatican II, particularly in bringing its teachings to the faithful in the spirit with which they were written. NEXT: PART 3--COUNCILS IN THE NEW WORLD—Constance [1414-1418]; Trent [1545-1563]; Vatican I [1869-1870]; and Vatican II [1962-1965] There have been several Church Councils devoted to the very identity of the Church, though such councils did not become necessary until someone or some movement or some crisis came along to challenge its identity or authority. The first such challenge led to the Ecumenical [worldwide] Council of Nicaea [modern Iznik, Turkey] in 325 A.D. and the Ecumenical Council of Constantinople [modern Istanbul, Turkey] in 381 A.D. The challenge came from “Arianism,” the theory that while Jesus was unique, he was not “of one substance” or ‘consubstantial” with the Father as we say every Sunday. St. Jerome, the first translator of the full Bible into Latin, wrote in 357 A.D. that “The whole world groaned, and was astonished to find itself Arian.” The fourth century was a determining moment of Church self-understanding as it was called upon to state for the record its basic belief in the Trinity.
The Nicaea-Constantinople [or “Nicene”] Creed professes every Sunday the phrase “one, holy, catholic, apostolic.” The next time you attend Mass, notice that the word “catholic” in the Creed is not capitalized. Evolving from a Greek work, the original meaning of “catholic” was worldwide, broad, multi-faceted, or universal. Even in modern English, the word is sometimes used in literature without Christian overtones, such as “he is a reader with catholic taste,” meaning he reads deeply from many diverse sources. Under the guidance of the Spirit, the fourth century Council fathers at Nicaea/Constantinople identified its full understanding of the reality of the Christian Church in their day. In John’s Gospel we have the clearest statement in the New Testament [John 17: 21-23] of the unity or oneness of the Church with God. At the Last Supper Jesus states, “I pray that they will all be one, just as you and I are one—as you are in me, Father, and I am in you. And may they be in us so that the world will believe you sent me.” A united church, then, is God’s outreach to the world until the end of time as well as its greatest witness to the world. The fathers go on to call the church “holy.” Today this attribute or “mark of the Church” is understood in several ways. Wikipedia puts it this way: “The word holy in this sense means set apart for a special purpose by and for God. The Church is holy because it has been set apart to do God's work, and because God is present in it. Christians understand the holiness of the Church to derive from Christ's holiness.” Paragraphs 824 and 825 of the Catechism attribute the holiness of the Church to God’s plan and presence within it, but it adds, quoting from Vatican II’s Lumen Gentium, that it is premature to say that the Church on earth—in its members—has reached perfection just yet. "The Church on earth is endowed already with a sanctity that is real though imperfect." In her members perfect holiness is something yet to be acquired: "Strengthened by so many and such great means of salvation, all the faithful, whatever their condition or state - though each in his [sic] own way - are called by the Lord to that perfection of sanctity by which the Father himself is perfect." Consider Jesus’ words: “Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect.” As we have seen, the term “catholic” in the Nicene Creed is a geographic adjective and thus not capitalized. God’s plan for the Church was not parochial. St. Matthew’s Gospel records Jesus’ last words to his disciples: “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.” The term apostolic in the Creed defines the patrimony of Jesus if you will. We are dependent upon the eyewitness and preaching of those closest to the historical Jesus of Nazareth, and through the Pentecost events [there are several in the Gospels]. The wonder of the Incarnation is God’s passage from pure spirit to material reality: substances, time, space, and human interaction. The apostles witnessed this in their unique place in history, and by the Spirit were empowered to pass down this body of religious experiences through their consecrated successors, bishops. Interestingly, during Vatican II [1962-1965] the world’s bishops forcefully confronted the Roman Curia on this very issue of apostolic succession. The bishops argued that they were treated as little more than field reps for the pope and the Roman Curia or centralized Vatican administration. They fought for their rightful authority to lead their dioceses based upon the witness of the New Testament. Or, put another way, their authority is not reduced to carrying out papal housecleaning mandates, but rested on the authority of the apostles, whose successors they were. This keynote address of the bishops received a ten-minute standing ovation on the floor of the Council. The head of the Curia, Cardinal Ottaviani, was insulted and absented himself for two weeks. When one includes the Council of Ephesus [modern Selçuk, Turkey] in 432 A.D. which declared Mary the Mother of God, and the Council of Chalcedon [modern Kadiköy, Turkey] which defined that Jesus is fully God and fully man with one operational personality, the primary credal self-identity of the Church was established. However, it has probably crossed your mind that the first major doctrinal councils were held in the Eastern portion of the Roman Empire, in the Turkey/Greece region. Not only that, but all these councils were also convoked by Roman emperors, most notably the Council of Nicaea where the bishop of Rome did not attend. St. Leo, the bishop of Rome during the Council of Chalcedon, participated by mail. [The office of pope had not evolved to its full stature in these early times.] And, after the Council of Nicaea, the capital of the Roman Empire was moved to Byzantium [modern Istanbul] and renamed “Constantinople” [by whom, do you think?] Where I am headed here is the irony that in the years when the Church was unifying its doctrines into creed, there were obvious signs of division on the horizon; in fact, they were already in play. The fourth century saw a blossoming of the eastern Roman Empire and the shift of the Roman Army away from the Italian peninsula toward Constantinople and the East. Today’s historians no longer use the term “Dark Ages,” [a victim of “wokeness,” some say] but when the term was in play, it referred to the abandonment and decay of just Western Europe, not the entire civilized world. Attila the Hun’s famous attack on Rome in 451 never took place because, due to famine, there was nothing in Rome to steal. In 476 A.D. a “barbarian” became “emperor” of the Italian peninsula. Old Rome was licking its wounds and transitioning. Although there was no formal division, the thriving Eastern Church was the center of Christendom for a time in terms of intellectual and cultural life. The British historian R.W. Southern, in writing about Rome in the Dark Ages, observed that visitors might pay their respects to the bishop but then proceed to venerate the bones of St. Peter. Outbursts of faith and works in the West were sporadic but powerful in their own ways. The Italian peninsula’s St. Benedict [480-547], the founder of the Benedictines and western monasticism for men and women, was such an exalted figure in those troubled times that during Vatican II Pope Paul VI declared him the patron of Europe. The most noteworthy bishop of Rome in the “Dark Ages” was easily St. Gregory the Great [r. 590-604] who instilled a measure of civil order and even theological writing into the bleak Christianity of the West. If you reflect upon the outstanding growth of monastic life in Ireland beginning around 400, what begins to emerge is a picture of Western European Christianity that is less mystical than in the East, but considerably more muscular. Good thing, too, because the seventh century saw the march of Islam. Next: as the Dark Ages receded, Church councils returned to the West and the Western Roman Church identified itself as protector of the Faith on the battlefields and in its Medieval Councils, the latter shaping much of the Church we know today. I spent this past weekend involved in two things: watching the U.S. Open Golf Tournament which was on TV here on the East Coast from suppertime till midnight for four straight nights, and during the afternoons reading my second killer history book this month, Catholicism: A Global History from the French Revolution to Pope Francis [2022] by John T. McGreevy. The golf tournament was exhilarating—an upset winner by one stroke—but the book is more discomfiting because [a] it is thinning my herd of sacred cows, and [b] the last third of the book covers my lifetime, a very troubling thing when you still feel young enough to be making history.
McGreevey’s book deserves a lot of attention and discussion. I review books for Amazon, which you may see posted from time to time, but I have a 1,000-word limit on those submissions. [My last review was my 190th with Amazon, dating to 2000.] But in many cases a book deserves a multi-faceted discussion, necessitating a brief Amazon summary for its book site and a longer treatment on the Café blogsite, which has no word limit beyond human compassion and exhaustion. Catholicism deserves a lot of thought and soul searching. I suppose the first question would be the relationship of the French Revolution and the Age of Napoleon to the era of Vatican II? McGreevy is not the first historian to begin a modern church narrative with Napoleon. In his What Happened at Vatican II Father William O’Malley begins with a lengthy overview called “The Long Nineteenth Century” in which he essentially dates the moving forces for Vatican I and Vatican II from the era of the French Revolution, which is dated from 1789. The French Revolution—caused in part by French government bankruptcy incurred, ironically, assisting the American Revolution—created a chain of events in Western Europe that ended what is often called “the marriage of throne and altar,” or the interlocking of church and state. After the Napoleonic Wars there was a shift across Western Europe from the older absolute monarchy model toward representational or democratic government with an emphasis upon independence from churches, particularly Roman Catholicism. Coupled with this was the emergence of strong grassroots nationalism and newfound belief in the freedom and conscience of man independent of religious discipline, rooted in the modern philosophies from Descartes to John Locke. In shorthand, the modern secular era had arrived for good. No two nations went through these processes precisely the same way, and McGreevy’s book discusses variants of the process, but across the board the changing face of the West in the nineteenth century created a major challenge to the power, influence, and authority of the Catholic Church. Recall that at the time of the French Revolution Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were Catholic monarchs surrounded by Catholic aristocrats. The immortal phrase “let them eat cake” came from a Catholic queen to an angry and hungry populace. When the French Revolution took its violent turn, the properties and riches of the Church were seized, and the new transitional government would eventually persecute and execute clergy and religious. Ever since the Roman Emperor Constantine in the fourth century, the Church had laid claim to secular as well as religious authority—consider, for example, that when Spain and Portugal began exploration and settlement of the Western Hemisphere after Columbus, Pope Alexander VI [conveniently, for Spain, a Spaniard] drew the famous “Line of Demarcation” to divide the claims of the two nations in the New World in 1493. [His line, incidentally, ultimately created Brazil as a Portuguese-speaking nation.] What became very clear in the nineteenth century after the French Revolution was the decreasing influence of the papacy in the course of world events. While Napoleon was finally planted in permanent exile on St. Helena, the future of Europe was debated at the Congress of Vienna [1814-1815], which redrew the map of the old Holy Roman Empire through the workings of Metternich and Talleyrand, to cite two famous international diplomats of the day. Although represented in Vienna, the pope was not invited to draw maps as he had three centuries earlier, and few European leaders were disposed to ask him. The post-French Revolution era was marked by the birth of a liberalism characterized by national identity and pride, greater democratic process, emphasis upon the rights of man, economic free enterprise, and freedom of governments from interference from organized religions, primarily the Roman Catholic Church. McGreevy provides examples of Western liberalization and distrust of a monarchical Catholic Church in such diverse nations as the United States, England, and Italy. By the terms of the founding documents written by the thirteen original colonies, the United States should have been a safe haven for Catholicism, and in many locales the practice of Catholicism was tolerated to a degree. However, periodic flareups of anti-Catholicism were widespread and deadly. In her 1997 The Artificial River: The Erie Canal and the Paradox of Progress, 1817-1862, Carol Sheriff describes the animosity between residents of New York State and the Catholic Irish immigrants, hard fighting and hard drinking Irish Catholics who had come to America to dig the canal from Albany to Buffalo. It is no accident that the “Know Nothing Party,” a powerful third-party xenophobic force in American presidential politics, had deep roots in Western New York. The Wikipedia entry on the Know-Nothings has interesting overtones of recent American electoral politics: Fearful that Catholics were flooding the polls with non-citizens, local activists threatened to stop them. On August 6, 1855, rioting broke out in Louisville, Kentucky, during a hotly contested race for the office of governor. Twenty-two were killed and many injured. This "Bloody Monday" riot was not the only violent riot between Know Nothings and Catholics in 1855. In Baltimore, the mayoral elections of 1856, 1857, and 1858 were all marred by violence and well-founded accusations of ballot-rigging. In the coastal town of Ellsworth, Maine, in 1854, Know Nothings were associated with the tarring and feathering of a Catholic priest, Jesuit Johannes Bapst. They also burned down a Catholic church in Bath, Maine. As more Irish, German, and Italian Catholics poured into America throughout the nineteenth century, white Protestant Americans feared that these immigrants were, at heart, loyal to a foreign power, i.e., the pope in Rome, and if the opportunity arose, would take over the United States as a fiefdom of the Papal States. Catholic politicians in the U.S. were accused of representing the party of “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion,” a charge that rumbled through American politics well into the twentieth century. And, if you listen close enough to monied American interests even today, you hear strains that Pope Francis is a socialist who wants to take our hard-earned money and redistribute it south of the equator. The more things change… In England, the historical memory of Queens Elizabeth and “Bloody Mary” was enough to inflame similar violence against Roman Catholics throughout the post-Napoleonic nineteenth century. Fears—rational or not—of Roman Catholic takeover of the established Church of England were exacerbated by that nation’s own mistreatment of Ireland, highlighted by the Potato Famine, and resulting in protests and immigration. But by far the most tempestuous impact of the post-Napoleonic era may have been the upheavals in Italy itself, the cradle of the Church. If you are a little rusty on your Italian history, the Wikipedia entry entitled “The Unification of Italy,” often referred to as the Risorgimento, chronicles the civil upheavals of the peninsula in the nineteenth century. Italy had not been a unified nation since the fall of the Western Roman Empire in 475 A.D. The papacy—with its hold on “the papal states”—lived in constant conflict with outside intruders dating back to the Goths in the 400’s to the newly minted nation states after the French Revolution. [The Church Council Vatican I was disbanded prematurely in 1870 amidst the canon fire of the Franco-Prussian War on the doorsteps of Rome.] The Risorgimento called for a unified Italy with a measure of self-determination, a direct challenge and threat to papal civil authority and land holdings. Recall that the status of the papal states and some reassure of Church independence in the new, unified Italy was not legally defined until the Church’s Concordat with Mussolini in 1929, an arrangement that deteriorated soon thereafter. The French Revolution and its aftermath had two opposite effects upon the Church itself. On the one hand, a sizeable segment of Catholic intellectuals in the Western World began to assess a new understanding of Church life in the “modern era.” The nineteenth century may have been a period of international unrest and searches for new national identities, but it was also a time of intellectual and economic explosion. Consider that the century after the French Revolution would see the advent of modern industrialization, scientific expansion, historical and archaeological advances, democratic governments, medicine and psychology, and even the theories of air travel and nuclear power. Coupled with this were new philosophies and methods of understanding the world, from Hegel to Darwin to Marx. Religions, including Catholicism, could not isolate themselves from the rapid developments of the times. The nineteenth century saw an explosion in religious scholarship in both Protestant and Catholic circles, and it was impossible for Catholic thinkers and leaders to ignore what was happening around them. Possibly no one better embodies the religious complexities of the time or thought more creatively about them than England’s John Henry Newman, the Anglican priest-scholar who converted to Catholicism in 1845. Newman’s journey to Roman Catholicism was long and complicated. As an idealistic youth his evangelical faith caused him to regard the Catholic pope as the antichrist. In his college years he matured into the mainstream of Anglican faith and scholarship. But convinced that the Church of England stood in need of reform, he joined with other Oxford scholars in a spirited study of the early Church Fathers, which they published as papers or “tracts” that came to be known as the Tractarian Movement or the Oxford Movement. In his studies Newman and many of his confreres came to be believe that the Roman Catholic Church had best embodied the traditions of the Christian roots of the Fathers. He converted to Catholicism and would eventually become a Cardinal of the Church. Newman would become one of the greatest minds of modern Catholicism, and his thought forms the basis of many of Vatican II insights, including his writing on the development of doctrine. He was, in fact, canonized on October 13, 2019, by Pope Francis. Newman appreciated better than most that Catholicism would need to make considerable accommodations to the scholarship and the spirit of the best of contemporary thought and practice to remain intellectually honest, but he appreciated—far ahead of his time—the challenges we face today as Catholics. In a famous essay on the nature of a university, Newman described the dilemma of the Catholic in the new world at hand: [From Wikipedia]: Newman believed in a middle way between free thinking and moral authority—one that would respect the rights of knowledge as well as the rights of revelation. His purpose was to build a Catholic university, in a world where the major Catholic universities on the European continent had recently been secularized, and most universities in the English-speaking world were Protestant. For a university to claim legitimacy in the larger world, it would have to support research and publication free from church censorship; however, for a university to be a safe place for the education of Catholic youth, it would have to be a place in which the teachings of the Catholic church were respected and promoted. Finding the balance of “being in the world but not of it” was one of the significant challenges of Vatican II, but that was still long in the future. For despite the insights of Newman and others, much of nineteenth century Catholicism was governed by two Popes, Pius IX, and Pius X, who saw the Church as the last bastion of a sacred history that must be preserved at all costs, the driving force of the Council Vatican I [1869-1870]. Theirs was the predominant reaction of Catholics to the post-Napoleonic upheavals, the “Ultramontantist Era” [from “the other side of the Alps mountains,” a reference to Rome and the papal states.] In our next discussion of McGreevy’s book, we will immerse ourselves in the Ultramontanist revival, which many of us may recognize as the pre-Vatican II world we grew up with. Back in the 1960’s and 1970’s those of us studying Church History depended upon the splendid Penguin History of the Church series for an orientation to the almost two-millennia sweep of Christianity. Now, a half-century later, it is intriguing to look at the story with the advantage of five decades of fresh research. Justo L Gonzalez’s The Story of Christianity: The Early Church to the Dawn of the Reformation [2010] is both a refresher for us Penguin champions now in our senior years as well as an excellent introduction to Christianity’s story for those whose religious education never progressed past sixth-grade Confirmation and the sixth commandment.
If you are conditioned to “hate history,” [perhaps from education’s tendency to “teach for the test”] then Gonzalez’s style and content might change your mind. than the captivating story of who we are and how we came to be. “The Story of Christianity” is the presentation of history best enjoyed on a quiet evening in a generous leather seat with a brandy or cigar at hand. History finely written is a pleasure to embrace, even when its narratives take us to unthinkable tragedies and outrages. Even details and numbers capture us: did the Black Plague really kill 1 of every 3 Europeans? How do you feed 120,000 Crusaders without starting a second war? This volume [as well as its companion, from the Reformation in 1517 forward] is the story of the Christian experience from the ground up, in a narrative that is informative and rarely overwhelming. We discover, for example, that with a few notable exceptions such as St. Paul, the first centuries’ proliferation of Christianity depended less upon charismatic missionaries as true anonymous word of mouth believers, particularly in the lower echelons of Roman society. [“Nameless merchants and slaves” who transversed the empire, as the author puts it.] Christian fraternity and solidarity—particularly the custom of the agape or love meal—were the characteristics that won new admirers and perplexed many Romans, who tended to view Christians as “low life.” Except for the Emperor Diocletian’s broad persecution in the late third century, Roman harassment of Christians was sporadic, regionalized, and at times eccentric. Gonzalez presents the development of Christian theology and creed in a manageable narrative as the Church defended itself from a variety of external and internal assaults upon its sacred treasury of belief, most notably the humanity and divinity of Jesus defined by the first Church council, Nicaea, in 325 A.D. The most enduring doctrinal crisis of the first millennium was “Arianism,” which, briefly put, denied that Jesus is “of the same substance” as the Father, i.e., that he is God. Arian thinking did not deny the unique mission of Jesus on earth, which is why this errant trend had a long shelf life, including among many of the “barbarian” settlers in the Western Roman Empire who were converted by Arian missionaries. It is clear from this text, and other contemporary works, that historians have been very busy over the half century since I went to school. Gonzalez highlights the discoveries of the “desert mothers” who prayed, worked, and wrote as contemporaries of the “desert fathers,”—those who sought to escape the mediocrity and madness of the later Roman Empire from the fourth century. He continues to highlight the richness of later feminine monastic life parallel to the male orders, and on down to the grassroots independent mystical communities of the late medieval era that marked the democratization of religious experience and exasperated and threatened a male church governance fragmented and running on fumes by the 1300’s. It was this explosion of lay spirituality, known as the Via Moderna, which produced the classic text The Imitation of Christ. Gonzalez provides a steady narrative of the major events of the Christian era, through the fall of the Western Roman Empire and the corresponding emergence of the East, the rise of Islam and the crusading response, the Eastern break from Roman hegemony, the development of the Holy Roman Empire with Charlemagne, the Hundred Years War, the Black Plague, the Avignon Papacy, and the Western Schism of three popes, to cite several. Each subject, of course, remains the object of ongoing study, and this volume will hopefully inspire newcomers to Church history to break off into specific readings on such compelling episodes as the Fourth Crusade or the rise of Ferdinand and Isabella. The author, who has a three-volume history of Christian thought among his completed works, provides insightful descriptions of the medieval thinkers and the universities they raised. Anselm, Abelard [with Heloise, of course], Albert and Thomas Aquinas all get their due, though it is mildly amusing to see William of Ockham, of “Ockham’s Razor fame,” bringing up the medieval decline portion of the narrative. Overall, Gonzalez captures the early Renaissance shift in philosophy and anthropology from a systematic and other-worldly exercise to a subjective celebration of human experience and destiny. The bridge from Ockham to the modern era’s Descartes becomes intelligible. Gonzalez concludes this volume with a lengthy narrative on the Spanish and Portuguese ventures to the East. Although commercial motivations were the initial driving force, the success of both nations in the Western Hemisphere and the Orient raised major ecclesiastical questions. Columbus, for example, originally wondered if he had stumbled into a primordial Eden when he landed in Hispaniola. Just as the Reformation in Europe was taking shape, the Church wrestled with the religious nature of indigenous peoples [did they have souls?], missionary outreach, national jurisdictions in the New World, and moral questions involving slavery and the destruction of existing cultures. It goes without saying that the subject matter of this historical survey is organically connected to Christian/Catholic life today, in part because we are still looking for solutions to yesterday’s questions. But for a Christian, this work is a family history: we carry the religious genetic codes of this narrative in our individual and communal being. In studying Church history, we discover ourselves. During the just completed Memorial Day Weekend there were ceremonies across the country honoring Americans who had died in the service of our country. By coincidence I was reading Justo Gonzalez’s The Story of Christianity Volume One [2010] over the holiday and came across his treatment of St. Augustine’s “just war theory,” which has been the backbone of Catholic moral teaching on warfare for nearly fifteen hundred years.
Augustine [354-430 A.D.] was Bishop of Hippo, a major North African diocese until it was overrun by the Vandals shortly after his death, and by the Moslems two centuries later. [And yes, our English word “vandal” is a derivative of this invader’s behavior in Rome around 450 A.D.] By 700 A.D. all traces of Christianity in North Africa had disappeared. However, it was not the encroaching Vandal threat that prompted Augustine’s treatise on war, but rather, a violent incursion between two populations of Christians along the North African Coast—the Christian Community faithful to the teachings of the Council of Nicaea and the Nicene Creed, on the one hand, and a violent dissenting group known as Donatists on the other. Donatists held that sacraments conferred by clergy who had avoided martyrdom during the Roman persecutions were invalid. In practice, this meant that every sitting Orthodox bishop in North Africa, including Augustine himself, was not, in fact, a legitimate bishop, according to Donatist thinking, as they had been ordained by cowardly bishops who had lost their right of jurisdiction. To correct this error, Augustine established the sacramental principle of ex opere operato, i.e., “by the work of the work.” Put simply, a sacrament—including holy orders—is always valid so long as the correct formula is used, the rite approved by the Church. The sacraments are always valid no matter how unworthy the deacon, priest, or bishop. This doctrine was later challenged in the 1500’s by Protestant reformers, who held the principle of ex operate operantis, i.e., “by the work of the one doing the work.” Luther and others held that the priest’s holiness determined the validity of the sacraments. This was an understandable sentiment in Luther’s day when corruption of the papacy was rampant, but Augustine’s position is the teaching still held today in Catholic tradition. This dispute lingered for over a century, as the Donatists became more radical and apocalyptic. Its extreme adherents physically engaged in bloody combat with mainstream Christians. Augustine understood the need for military defense, but for most of its history Christianity had been a pacifist community. Thus, there was a need to circumscribe the rationale and rules of combat for Christian conflict, and Augustine formulated the backbone of “just war.” As subsequent religious and secular histories have shown, these rules could be stretched like taffy, but they have survived, nonetheless. Augustine’s first principle was that a war must be just, and never to satisfy territorial ambition or as an exercise of power. Second, war must be waged by properly instituted authority. Third, and most importantly to Augustine, amid violence the motive of love must be central. [Gonzalez, p. 248] In the Donatist struggle, Augustine could argue that these dissidents did not represent authorized Church authority. It was also true that Augustine hoped to win them back to the fold by a loving yet forceful counter-intervention, though it was hardly his first choice. In the Medieval Era St. Thomas Aquinas elaborated the rules of war around Augustine’s principles. In his Summa Theologica Aquinas also argues for three requirements. Firstly, the war must be waged upon the command of a rightful sovereign—a king or a churchman. Secondly, the war needs to be waged for just cause, on account of some wrong the attacked have committed. Thirdly, warriors must have the right intent, namely, to promote good and to avoid evil. These three rules are virtually synonymous with Augustine’s. But Aquinas goes on to say that a just war could be offensive, and that injustice should not be tolerated to avoid war; in other words, it would be immoral not to engage in war if an evil was of a significant magnitude. Nevertheless, he argued that violence must only be used as a last resort. On the battlefield, violence was only justified to the extent it was necessary. Soldiers needed to avoid cruelty and a just war was limited by the conduct of just combatants. Aquinas argued that it was only in the pursuit of justice that the good intention of a moral act could justify negative consequences, including the killing of the innocent during a war. A thorough history of the Church through the ages indicates that these principles were not bulwarks against violence, and that in many instances churchmen themselves construed the Augustinian-Thomistic principles into their own advantages. Popes of the medieval era understood “the good of the Church” and the intention of love as inherent to the sovereignty of the papal office, i.e., an extension of power. Pope Innocent III [r. 1198-1216] intervened politically and militarily in the affairs of at least a dozen nascent civil states as far away as Bulgaria to centralize all European power—civil and religious—into the office of the successor of St. Peter. His future successor Boniface VIII issued history’s most famous or infamous—but certainly the most audacious—position paper of all time, Unam Sanctam [‘one, holy”] as the ultimate claim of universal papal power. Wikipedia describes it thus: Unam Sanctam is a papal bull that was issued by Pope Boniface VIII on 18 November 1302. It laid down dogmatic propositions on the unity of the Catholic Church, the necessity of belonging to it for eternal salvation, the position of the Pope as supreme head of the Church and the duty thence arising of submission to the Pope to belong to the Church and thus to attain salvation. The Pope further emphasized the higher position of the spiritual in comparison with the secular order. The historian Brian Tierney calls it "probably the most famous" document on church and state in medieval Europe…The bull was the definitive statement of the late medieval theory of hierocracy, which argued for the temporal as well as spiritual supremacy of the pope. It was the greatest claim of universal papal power ever made, before or since, at least on Vatican letterhead stationery. Innocent III might have written such a claim with teeth a century before. But Boniface himself was seized and maltreated by Philip IV of France just before his death, Philip undaunted by the claims of Unam Sanctam. However, the attitude of ultimate authority held by Boniface’s successors in terms of both religious and secular orders endured as late as 1870. The claim to such expanse of power would inevitably conflict with the Augustinian-Aquinas rules of combat at several points. In the first instance, the Church was claiming to be the ultimate legitimate authority in matters of both altar and crown, virtually justifying any exercise of power and authority to utilize its considerable forces and resources. Second, as the sole organism of salvation, the Church could claim to be acting in love in the exercise of making converts or bringing wayward souls back into the fold. Judge and jury, so to speak. As painful as it is to admit, Church conduct through the centuries has not contributed to the development of a theology of peace. Rather than repeat the details of the moral failures of the Crusades, the Inquisitions, and the forced conversions and submissions of indigenous peoples in the Americas and elsewhere, it may be more useful to look at possible causes for these moral lapses and how the Church can recover its credibility in teaching and preaching on peace. There can be little argument that the Church lost something of its identity in the fourth century when circumstances changed its identity from communities of the poor who gathered to recollect the teachings of Jesus and break bread, to the monarchical church of the Roman Empire. The early Church, as noted, was pacifist because its eucharists were strongly centered around the memory of Jesus, whose Resurrection blessing had been “My peace I give to you, my peace I leave with you.” The early Christians were reminded over and over of Jesus’ response to Peter when the latter drew his sword and cut off the servant’s ear at Jesus’ arrest. “Put thy sword back in into its scabbard.” As Christianity took on more of the trappings of a world empire, its focus turned from its charismatic roots to a large body invested in law and order—whether that be the order of high liturgy in the elegant temples of Rome, the development of an infallible creed and code of law, a structure of governance, or a basis for legitimacy. Among those things that declined through the first millennium and well into the second was the memory of the actual Jesus of Nazareth and the full content of the Gospel narratives. In fact, by the time of Francis of Assisi [1181-1226 A.D.] there was something of an ecclesiastical distrust of the “stand alone Bible” and Francis’s biography may explain at least part of it. He was no subversive—he loved the Church—but he instinctively recognized the gulf between Scripture and Church life of his day. [The Council of IV Lateran, in 1215, is remembered for, among other things, mandating that all Catholics must receive communion once a year, hardly a high bar in communion with the personal Jesus.] Francis’s desire was to live the poverty and meekness of Christ word for word from the Gospel, an idea that originally stunned Innocent III as impossible—or deeply embarrassing, or both. Innocent did ultimately approve of this Franciscan Gospel lifestyle. As more laity followed Francis in what would eventually be called “the third order” [St. Clare’s cloistered women’s order of Franciscan ideals being the “second order”], the Franciscan movement embraced pacifism because this was how Jesus himself had lived. In fact, civil authorities bemoaned the absence of soldiers to fight the city-state wars, so deeply had Franciscan pacifism penetrated European Church life after Francis. The Inquisition did not trouble Francis, given his close association with popes and the deep love of the populace for Franciscan ideals. After his death, the radical element of the Order, the Spiritual Franciscans, came under scrutiny for denying papal authority over interpretation of the Franciscan Rule. In the late 1200’s St. Bonaventure gradually eased the Franciscan life into more conventual clerical norms. The Spiritual Franciscans were ostracized and the frequent targets of Inquisitorial prosecution until the group virtually vanished in the 1300’s. However, from Francis until the Reformation three centuries later, there arose other religious movements in Europe which turned from the highly structured and academic life of the mainstream Church to a simpler, more devout, and Christo-centric religious experience. Collectively referred to as the Devotio Moderna or the Via Moderna, it produced a pious return to the person of Jesus and his lifestyle. One of its most famous literary products is The Imitation of Christ, written around 1425 by Thomas a Kempis. [See Wikipedia’s excellent description of the work.] The Imitation is considered the greatest spiritual work after the Bible: it was a critical text in the lives of St. Ignatius Loyola, St. Theresa of the Little Flower, Pope John XXIII, and Thomas Merton, to cite several---and my only true inspiration during my early years in the seminary, I might add. Adherents to the Devotio Moderna were always under the scrutiny of the Inquisition, given that a collective cultivation of personal religious experience of Jesus could be taken as a kind of democratization of the Gospels—access to the Word without the intervention of Church supervision. The idea of “personal spirituality” without structural link to an official Church organ was novel and suspect—particularly as its adherents usually embraced in some shape or form virtues of simplicity, humility, poverty, and peacefulness, qualities often lacking in medieval Catholicism. Even today, the Catholic who embraces a pacifist ethic based upon the life of Jesus in the Scripture is regarded as something of a “subversive,” particularly in an American culture of power; American exceptionalism can bear a striking resemblance to Boniface VIII’s claim of universal sovereignty, while running many of the same risks. By the time of the discovery of the Americas and the rise of nationalism in Europe and elsewhere, the Church enjoyed less control over the conduct of nations and the ethics of war. The twentieth century—with the horrors of two world wars, the Holocaust, and the first use of the atomic bomb—exponentially increased the urgency of the Church’s ministry for peace, and it was this catastrophic half-century that motivated in large part the calling of Vatican II. We began this reflection with Augustine’s efforts to concoct a concrete ethic of just war. It is worth noting here that Augustine also provided the Church with the theological language of original sin and its damage to the human spirit that we still employ today. One can guess that Augustine’s writings on just war were penned with the knowledge that humanity’s fallen state makes the idea of a violence-free world an impossibility before the Second Coming. Augustine’s own baptism, by the future saint, Ambrose of Milan, took place with imperial soldiers surrounding the structure, threatening an invasion. But Augustine also wrote that history is not static, but rather, that it moves inexorably to its final climax of Christ’s Second Coming. In fact, the term “Middle Ages” was first coined to describe where in time the Christian lives, between the first and second comings of the Christ. Gonzalez notes in his history of Christianity that most converts to baptism in the early centuries came to the faith not by extraordinary missionary efforts but by the sincere and determined example of the baptized in their midst’s. When the faith is lived lively and well at the grass roots, the seeds of Christ’s peace are sown. We live as peacemakers that, when the Lord comes again, he may find us faithfully sowing the seeds of his peace. I came across a true “period piece” in an online bookstore, “Catholic Bishops: A Memoir” [1984] by Father John Tracy Ellis. This brief but captivating narrative of the American “episcopal giants” of the twentieth century reminds us that the office of bishop in the United States has evolved significantly throughout the history of this country. A U.S. Catholic bishop in the 1920’s exercised his power in different ways than his frontier predecessor of the 1820’s or than the pastoral coordinator of the 2020’s. Many of the bishops Ellis describes in this memoir are the big city bishops of the coasts and the Midwest, where immigration had fed city church rolls and made the urban bishop both a spiritual father and a metropolitan player, so to speak, in public affairs in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Chicago, Baltimore, and St. Louis.
Ellis [1905-1992] knew many of America’s bishops from his years of teaching history at the Catholic University of America in Washington. In his time the bishops, as chancellors of the nation’s only pontifical university, made frequent visits to the campus as its custodians, as well as conducting their annual meetings on the campus. The author found himself in close proximity to many and developed longstanding friendships with not a few. Many bishops would have been familiar with Ellis’s epic history of James Gibbons [1834-1921], the U.S.’s second cardinal, though some bishops complained that Ellis was less deferential and more candid in his treatment of this eminent churchman than they would have liked. Ellis is not without his agenda in this work, and it should come as no surprise to those who recall that in 1955 this priest-historian excoriated the American Catholic Church for the poor academic quality of its colleges and seminaries in his essay “American Catholics and the Intellectual Life,” published in the journal Thought, a piece that desperately needs redistribution in seminaries and, yes, parishes today. He held a special respect for the rare bishop who was himself well educated or who supported quality education, but his regard for episcopal acumen was generally pessimistic. At a Catholic University banquet to welcome a foreign church dignitary, the school’s bishop-chancellor introduced Ellis to his guest: “He writes books.” Ellis frequented chanceries around the country to seek permission and access to the papers of deceased bishops, perhaps another reason for his modest expectations. Ellis begins his walk down memory lane with Chicago’s George W. Mundelein [r. 1915-1939], a surprise candidate from Brooklyn known for “thinking big,” including an ambitious plan to merge his archdiocesan seminary with Loyola and De Paul Universities, a menage trois never consummated beyond a chaste kiss. His installation is remembered for, among other things, the poisoning of the soup at his evening banquet by an anarchist which sickened several hundred people. Michael Curley [r. St. Augustine, Florida 1914–1921; Archdiocese of Baltimore, Maryland 1921–1939; first archbishop of the Archdiocese of Washington 1939–1947] was respected by the author for his tolerance of scholars and teachers with whom he disagreed. Curley, who opened the Baltimore-Washington archives to the author, made it clear he did not appreciate Ellis’s biographical treatment of Cardinal Gibbons. Yet the two men grew closer as Curley’s health deteriorated, and the last formal act of the archbishop on the last night of his life was signing Ellis’s incardination papers to join the Archdiocese of Washington. A towering figure—in multiple senses—was William Cardinal O’Connell [r. Portland, Maine 1901-1906; Archdiocese of Boston 1906-1944], known in Massachusetts as “Number One” for his ecclesiastical and political clout in the Commonwealth. O’Connell is believed to be the inspiration for the character of the Cardinal opponent of Mayor Frank Skeffington in Edwin O’Connor’s novel “The Last Hurrah.” In Ellis’s assessment there is no telling how far O’Connell’s career might have progressed had it not been for the demotion of his Roman patron, the Vatican Secretary of State Cardinal Merry del Val, and a more personal setback at home. O’Connell’s nephew, James, Chancellor of the archdiocese, “left the priesthood, married, and took a substantial sum of archdiocesan funds at his departure.” O’Connell made the mistake of denying these events in a face-to-face meeting with Pope Benedict XV, who immediately pulled out a copy of the civil marriage license from his desk. [p. 73] Coincidence or not, O’Connell was assigned the one auxiliary bishop he did not want, Francis Spellman. Of “Spelly,” O’Connell was supposed to have said, “Francis epitomizes what happens to a bookkeeper when you teach him how to read.” Ellis writes of Spellman [r. Archbishop of New York 1939-1967] that at his death in 1967, two years after Vatican II, the end of the era of the episcopal giants was at hand, given the Council’s emphasis upon the collegiality of bishops and broader structures of participatory leadership. The author had multiple dealings with Spellman, who was pressing for a biography of New York’s Bishop “Dagger John” Hughes of the Civil War era. To treat of Spellman, of course, meant treating of Fulton Sheen, with whom Ellis had a long professional and personal relationship. The author, in his student days, had served as Sheen’s secretary, and later lived with him in Washington for a time. Ellis provides fascinating information, such as the bishop’s acquired wealth from television and other ventures. The famous feud between Spellman and Sheen, which led to the latter’s exile to Rochester, N.Y., in 1966 is noted but not elongated. Ellis, a Catholic University graduate and professor, devotes a chapter to the bishop-rectors of the school. He notes that “the university was made to suffer from the interference and bungling of churchmen who were ill equipped to foster true university education. [p. 32] He provides insights into the lives of auxiliary bishops, of which the U.S. was awash, mostly men who had resigned themselves to careers on the “Confirmation circuit.” Many auxiliaries proved to be excellent sources for this intriguing introductory glance into the twentieth century American hierarchy by a true working historian. Dagger John: Archbishop John Hughes and the Making of Irish America by John Loughery [2018]11/10/2022 I am a firm believer that one of the best ways to study history is through biographies, and in the case of “Dagger John” [2018] we get a graduate course on American church and state through the story of Archbishop John Hughes of New York. A proud, smart, pugnacious, energetic, and critical man, Hughes did not need resort to the blade to make his points—even if the cross next to his signature bore a striking similarity to, well, a dagger. Hughes’ weapons were his personality, his pen, his policies, and his politics. As a young Irish immigrant, his eventual understanding of American social and political life is a marvel to behold, to the point that several American presidents would seek his religious/political council. [He was also probably the first, and certainly not the last, American bishop to wear a hairpiece.]
Born in 1797 in Annaloghan, in Ulster Province in Northern Ireland, John Hughes entered the world in a period of high stress in the saga of Irish-British relations complicated in no small part by the French Revolution. His family was devoutly Roman Catholic at a time when observance of the faith was hidden out of necessity. His father, a man of modest means but considerable wisdom, navigated a cautious existence in Ulster where Catholics were a distinct minority, such that young John was able to get some schooling and develop a passion for books and reading. The Hughes family emigrated piecemeal to the United States in 1816, and in doing so avoided the horrors of the potato famine a generation later. They settled along the Pennsylvania-Maryland border north of Baltimore and close to St. Mary’s, the oldest seminary in the United States and still in operation today. Young John Hughes was not a mystic, nor would he ever become one. His religious experience throughout his life seemed to center on a strong confidence in the truth of the Catholic tradition and a healthy pride in disseminating the faith as it had been preserved and protected by his Irish forebears. Coupled with this was a thirst for justice and an innate sensitivity to the sufferings of the poor, particularly his fellow Irish. It is unclear when the future bishop surmised he had a vocation to the priesthood, but having made this decision, he set his cap for a most improbable goal—admission to St. Mary’s, then a boarding school for teenaged boys and a major seminary. His biographer John Loughery describes the odds: “A man who was too old and too poor to attend the school as a student was going to show up and ask to be admitted as a seminarian-tutor when he had only a few years’ attendance at an Irish grammar school to recommend him.” [p. 35] He suffered several rejections before he was hired by the seminary as a groundskeeper, allowed to sleep in a dilapidated cabin. Loughery explains that in 1820 there was little glamor in becoming a priest in the United States; anti-Catholicism was quite strong in his day, and even in some respects well into the twentieth century [to the election of President John Kennedy in 1960, one might argue.] The appeal of the priesthood to a candidate in Hughes’ time was, in the author’s words, “being called, and it was a certain kind of empowerment…a sense that one was giving oneself to a formidable cause, both temporal and eternal, potentially living a life beyond what others lived….” [p. 36] I might add here that if we look down the road at the future bishop’s social concern we see his social sympathy—later in life he labored mightily to save young boys and girls in New York from what we call today “sexual trafficking”—and his belief that the priesthood was the best vehicle for him to address these concerns. Hughes labored on the grounds while hectoring the seminary’s rector, Father John Dubois, for admission. Several local priests took an interest in Hughes but doubted his fitness for the seminary until Elizabeth Seton, whose new community of sisters was also based in Emmitsburg, MD, put in a good word. Dubois finally accepted him on a work-tuition basis; Hughes continued to work on the grounds elbow to elbow with the seminary’s slaves, and he became the butt of jokes from seminarians who, in many cases, were younger than himself. Dubois—a refugee from the French Revolution--eventually came around to respect Hughes’ character and dedication to studies. It is a testimony to the small number of priests in nineteenth century America that a goodly number of the friends made by Hughes in his seminary days would become bishops and administrators throughout the country into the mid-nineteenth century. It is also true that a growing number of St. Mary’s finest students were of Irish descent, a point of some concern among the seminary’s benefactors who were not prepared for an influx of Irishmen in American churches. Loughery notes that in 1820 there was no standard seminary curriculum; the local bishop determined coursework. Hughes was fortunate to develop a close relationship with the seminary’s one true scholar, Simon Brute, who introduced him to many treasures of Church writing as well as ancient and contemporary general writing. Hughes later demonstrated familiarity with Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson, and other Enlightenment authors. Hughes was slow to master public speaking, but once overcoming his hesitancy, he was eager to enter the pulpit. Ordained a deacon, he was assigned to a Philadelphia parish where his preaching caught the attention of the bishop. Ordained a priest for the Philadelphia diocese on October 25, 1826, his first brief assignment in a “ramshackle chapel” was quickly followed by a transfer to a more upscale Philly parish. The Philadelphia diocese included all of Pennsylvania and Delaware, as well as western New Jersey, in 1826. This broad expanse was populated by 100,000 Catholics in twenty-two parishes served by, give or take, forty priests. The rugged demands of pastoring broke many priests, and replacements from Europe, mostly, were hard to come by. Some years ago, I read a biography of St. John Neumann, Bishop of Philadelphia [r. 1852-1860], the first male canonized saint in the United States and a later colleague of Hughes. Neumann, during his priestly and episcopal duties, employed a horse-drawn buckboard to visit his churches in Scranton and Harrisburg, no easy task. Physical stamina was a necessary charism for pastoral duties. Hughes, who favored the new rail system as well as transatlantic passenger ships down the road, was well served by his arduous youthful physical labors and was a dynamo of energy until Bright’s Disease [kidneys] and rheumatism crippled him to his death in 1864. Much of his Irish energy was employed in the service of “apologetics,” or spirited defense of the doctrines and beliefs of the Catholic Church. Early in his priesthood, while boarding at a rural inn, he was accosted by three “anti-papists.” A dagger might have brought matters to an unruly end, at least for the three antipapists, but Hughes discovered that “the word is indeed mightier than the blade.” Moreover, the verbal confrontation was exhilarating. On that night at the inn, he powerfully resisted the slurs against the Church in a way that subdued his attackers without a blow being struck. To the future good of the Church, Hughes discovered he enjoyed the repartee with the Church’s enemies, and his written and published wars with other religious antagonists, politicians, and even Catholic critics became the stuff of legend, published prominently in Catholic and secular publications. Later, as bishop, he was overwhelmed with invitations to speaking engagements. Self-assertion would never be found wanting in Hughes’ ministry. It did not hurt Hughes’ career advancement that his Philadelphia bishop, Henry Conwell was in decline. The Vatican was displeased that Conwell had failed to win over the Catholics at the cathedral, failed to bring order to the diocese, and was too soft with lay trustees who sought to run the local diocese. [See “Trusteeism,” eventually condemned by Rome.] Hughes watched the Vatican-Conwell conflict closely as an important lesson for his own future. Another future giant of the American Church eventually replaced Conwell, Francis Patrick Kenrick, who quashed the Trustee revolt and called for the establishment of a Catholic school system. Kenrick appointed Hughes his vicar general, though he had reservations that his vicar was “so busy, so restless, so political, so opinionated.” [p. 67] But Kenrick realized that Hughes had an unusual knack of getting things done, and in 1830-Philadelphia there was a lot to do. The vicar was charged with the planning and construction of a new cathedral, to be owned exclusively by the diocese, without trustee involvement. His first two hires—of the architect and the financier—were brilliant, though his extravagant vision of the new cathedral was estimated to cost $60,000. But a greater challenge diverted his pastoral attention—the growing anti-Catholic sentiment in the U.S. sparked by the new wave of Irish immigrants arriving in ever larger numbers, and the tenuous Catholicism of the immigrants themselves. For much of his clerical life, Hughes was immersed in the trifold ministries of protecting his people from violence and prejudice, proselytizing them to regular practice of the faith, and providing for their education and assimilation into American society. I will assume that most of you, from your study of American history, are familiar with our nation’s persistent pestilence of xenophobia, which from time to time rises to dangerous and violent episodes. The “Know Nothings” of the 1850’s would be a problem for Hughes down the road, but in the 1830’s an influx of Irish and German immigrants stirred violence in many cities including Boston, where a convent was burned to the ground. This decade was the age of the lurid novels which portrayed Catholic life and institutions as depraved, devious, and anti-Christian. Hughes engaged in a lengthy war of letters with the anti-Catholic John Breckinridge, a Presbyterian minister who later ran for president of the United States in 1860. But Hughes came to realize that at some level he would need to enter the national political conversation. This was delicate work: the fear of most Protestants was precisely that the tentacles of Rome would reach across the Atlantic and eradicate democracy in favor of the old “throne and altar” arrangement of European monarchies. In the presidential election of 1832 Hughes broke his own rule that priests should not vote; he cast a ballot for Henry Clay and told his congregation what he had done. [Andrew Jackson defeated Clay.] It is not hard to imagine why Hughes would take a liking to Clay—the latter was a master of compromise, an advocate of public works, and a gentleman with whom one could do business. Hughes was not an intuitive compromiser, but Clay’s success convinced him that he needed to keep this arrow in his quiver. In November 1837, at the age of forty, John Hughes was appointed coadjutor bishop of New York [i.e., auxiliary with right of succession]. His bishop was none other than John Dubois, his nemesis from seminary days. Dubois was sick and demoralized by his responsibilities, leaving Hughes considerable latitude to steer his own direction in a city of 300,000, of whom about 20% were at least nominally Catholic. Of the seven churches in New York City, five were on the verge of bankruptcy, and the collective indebtedness of the diocese was $300,000. Priests rented rooms as most parishes did not have rectories. New York’s financial situation was obviously untenable, but in the face of it we see something of Hughes’ strength of vision: he was equally concerned that less than half of the Catholic children in New York were attending school at all, either public schools or the few Catholic elementary schools conducting classes in church basements. He realized that without education these children would be condemned to a life of poverty—and in many cases, prisoners of the sex industry. The coadjutor took a full year to visit his diocese, which reached from New Jersey to Buffalo, and he realized that a certain ruthlessness would be necessary to put the diocese on a healthier trajectory. When trustees threatened to interfere at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, he threatened to close the church. He dismissed disobedient or scandalous priests, despite the small size of his presbyterate, and determined that his diocese needed its own college/seminary, in what was then Westchester County, NY, a bold project for the time. The campaign for funds for the seminary project was a disappointment, however, and Hughes learned that he would need to develop a network of new major donors, and thus began his periodic ventures to Europe to solicit support for the success of the American mission, which in fact was the official designation given to our country by the Vatican at this time. Hughes made the first of several ventures to Europe in October 1839. Future trips kept him away from New York as long as nine months at a time. As a coadjutor bishop, he was granted access to bishops in the dioceses he visited. In Rome, Pope Gregory XVI invited Hughes to assist his Christmas Day Mass. Just before the coadjutor’s arrival in Rome, Gregory issued In supremo apostolatus, condemning the international slave trade. Even today, there is some question about how far the pope’s decree extended. Hughes was painfully aware that outside of the Northeast, Catholic priests and institutions in the United States owned slaves. In fact, before Hughes returned to the States, Martin Van Buren was already crying foul that Catholics were seeking to undermine the American economy by prohibiting slave labor. [p. 114] Hughes himself would be morally and politically ambivalent about slavery till the end of his life. Unfortunately, he left no record of whether he and Pope Gregory discussed the American situation regarding slavery. His Irish roots and his knowledge of European history certainly made him conscious of the dangers of anarchy, which he believed would result in the United States if the slaves were released quickly, and against the will of half the states of the union. In this respect he was akin to Henry Clay, and he believed the division of the Union, as would occur in 1860, was too high a price to pay for emancipation. However, his biographer Loughery describes a crisis of conscience endured later in life by then Archbishop Hughes during the Civil War. Hughes had hoped that his close friend William Seward would be the Republican nominee for president in 1860, believing that Seward would affect a diplomatic peace between the North and the South. He suspected—correctly, as it turned out—that Lincoln would go to war to preserve the Union. Called upon to bless regiments of Union soldiers from New York, particularly Irishmen, he was drawn more deeply into the staggering loss of life from among his flock, leading him to examine the question of violence perpetrated for a higher good. Among other things, he began to rethink his attitude toward Fenian radicalism, i.e., militant Irish resistance to British oppression. In his earlier years as a priest and bishop, Hughes believed that Fenian activism was more harmful than good, a position that most of Ireland’s bishops held throughout his lifetime. He could not square this caution, however, against the violence he was blessing in the United States on behalf of national union and emancipation. He died with this conundrum unsolved. Returning to the states after a so-so fundraising campaign and recruiting drive for priests and religious, Hughes threw himself into the improvement of his diocese, specifically the question of schools. He was joined in this effort by the Governor of New York, the aforementioned William Seward, who agreed in principle with Hughes that Catholic schools should be supported financially by the state. “Knowledge taught by a sect is better than ignorance,” Seward proclaimed. [p. 124] However, the idea ran afoul of continuing class hatred and ethnic bigotry. His efforts to open a Catholic college in New York got off to a very rocky start, though today it survives as Fordham University. Hughes called a synod of the diocese in 1842. Loughery explains the reason: “There was an air of disorder about everything connected to the Church, a lack of clarity and consistency that did not inspire respect. Hughes felt the need to reverse that course.” [p.144] During this synod Hughes addressed a wide range of issues ranging from pastoral laxity to failure to adhere to Church law and liturgical procedure to prohibiting Irish parishioners from joining “secret societies” based upon tribal allegiances from home. The picture of parochial life that emerges from this synod and other disciplinary interventions underscores the enormous challenges facing American bishops of this era. Possibly the most peculiar episode of his administrative life occurred in 1846. In Baltimore for a meeting of the American bishops, Hughes received a summons to see James Buchanan, Secretary of State, in Washington. The Mexican War had begun, and President James K. Polk harbored worries about the fallout of the Protestant United States invading Catholic Mexico. Polk was not worried about Protestant American sentiment. He was concerned that the Mexican populace might believe—wrongly, according to Polk—that American intentions included the destruction of Catholicism, and cause Mexico to fight more intensely to save its religion under the rallying cries of its priests. Polk met with Hughes personally in the White House [no notes were kept] to ask if several Catholic priests might accompany Zachary Taylor’s invasion force, “to assuage Mexican fears about American intentions.” [p. 180] Hughes replied that he had spoken to priests at Georgetown College about serving as chaplains. In the end, two Jesuits from Georgetown—neither of whom spoke Spanish—joined the force, much to the satisfaction of Catholics in Taylor’s force who complained that they were forced to attend Protestant services. One of the priests, Father McElroy, returned to become one of the founders of Boston College. Back home, Bishop Dubois died eight months after an angry anti-Catholic mob threatened to storm his residence and kill him. Riots of this sort—often sparked by opposition to public funding of Catholic schools—rocked large city Catholic institutions through the 1840’s, including a particularly vicious episode in Philadelphia. [Perhaps the unfortunate incidents of anti-Catholic rioting in Philadelphia and New York had made their way into Mexican papers.] In 1850 Hughes was consecrated archbishop of New York. He was under consideration for a red hat [i.e., naming of a cardinal] but, as far as historians can tell, other American bishops counseled the pope against it because, it would seem in the final analysis, they were not all fond of him. Now in his 50’s, the burdens of his office and the onset of disease began to take its toll. A particular burden, and one that profoundly troubled him, was the Irish Potato Famine and the influx of thousands of Irish refugees in various stages of post-traumatic stress. It is not hard to imagine the utter chaos of providing social services in New York City, already stretched to breaking with previous Irish, German, and other immigrants. Hughes was particularly alarmed about the orphaned youngsters who far outnumbered the few orphanage beds available; he recruited religious communities and sought property to house these unprotected minors, who often made their way through prostitution. The archbishop also established the first Catholic hospital in New York, St. Vincent’s, in 1849. Soon another project captured his waning energies, the construction of a new, awe-inspiring St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Ground was broken with much fanfare, but a financial depression in the late 1850’s, and then the Civil War, halted construction with about twenty feet of wall completed, leading many to refer to the unfinished structure as “the box” and “Hughes’ Folly.” The church as we know it was completed in 1879, fifteen years after the death of the archbishop. As the Archbishop was slowly dying in 1864, his last battle was not with anti-Catholics but, strangely, with the IRS. With the costs of the Civil War spiraling in its fourth year, Lincoln imposed an income tax. When the New York collectors inquired how much Hughes received in gifts and stipends, he refused to report on the grounds of separation of church and state. The fact that the bishop who fought relentlessly for the state to pay for Catholic schools would trot out this excuse for an IRS agent is not without its humor, and it underscores the truth that Hughes could be a contradictory man, much like most of us. It is some consolation that God has promised to reward us more for feeding the hungry than charming society, a truth that bodes well for the eternal destiny of Dagger John. An expository summary of the theological and pastoral texts of the Council Vatican II is a more complicated venture in the 2000’s than it might have been in, say, 1970. In this century, an author may lay out the Council’s key thrusts by drawing heavily upon the texts themselves and the primary intents of the bishops as they voted in assembly. This is the approach of “Keys to the Council” [2012] and the authors have put forward the Council’s highlights in a reasonably attainable fashion for study and discussion.
However, the further one gets from the close of the Council in 1965, nearly sixty years ago, an author is faced with an added challenge: the Council documents have taken on a life of their own, or more specifically, a few have bloomed, others wilted, and yet others still live in that place once consigned to unbaptized babies. In this age it is impossible to write about the decrees of the Council in their infancy without a word about how they advanced or decayed into middle age, and how their parents either overindulged them or neglected them altogether. In short, can one disclose the documents without a commentary on their reception? I believe that a working answer is yes, given that the state of adult education is such in the United States that very few adults can even recognize the documents by name [e.g., Lumen Gentium, Sacrosanctum Concilium] let alone identify the Council’s concerns regarding the Eucharistic celebration, the nature of the Church, or divine Revelation. If one is starting from ground zero—as a student or a teacher—it is best to start with a crisp and pristine summary as the one offered here. “Keys to the Council” is divided into about twenty brief chapters, each headed by a selection from a major Conciliar text. The authors’ selection is eclectic in that it leans toward matters of ecclesiology or the nature of the Church. There are six chapters on Lumen Gentium, three on Gaudium et Spes, and one on Christus Dominus [the role of bishops], totaling a significant collective commentary on the Church. Sacrosanctum Concilium [on the liturgy] has two entries, Dei Verbum [on Divine Revelation] has two, and Nostra Aetate [on non-Christian religions] has one. Richard R. Gaillardetz, one of the two contributing editors, has devoted much of his career writing on the nature of the Church, which may explain his emphasis upon the identity and structure of the Church here. The expositions are generally lucid and comprehensive, providing, when possible, some historical feel for the “pre” and “post” Vatican II understandings of the issues at hand. For example, discussion of the nature of Christ’s presence in the Church in this work evolves from the pre-Conciliar emphasis upon the legal definition of Church structure and the Sacrament of Orders to the post-Conciliar pneumatic or Spirit-filled understanding of Christ’s presence in the Church and world today. The authors explain the use of the “Ressourcement” method by theologians, the attempt to recover the original thinking and practice of the ancient Church fathers and communities. The idea of recovering the ancient origins of faith and practice was a prime interest of the Council. There are throughout the book very useful inclusions of definitions of terms which may be unfamiliar to the novice adult student of theology—such as neo-Scholasticism, magisterium, dogma, infallibility, etc. Speaking from my anecdotal experience, I see present-day interest in this work coming from those who are engaging in their Synodal processes and the reform program of Pope Francis. The recently completed first phase of the synodal consultation has interested some grassroots among Catholics to delve more deeply into the life of the Church. Granted, less than half of one percent of U.S. Catholics actively engaged in the synod discussions, but many of those who did get involved are motivated to pursue discussion and, more importantly, the principles behind Francis’s reform of the Church. They will be looking for texts and their parochial mentors will be seeking out resources. In this context, “Keys to the Council” is a useful work. It does not overwhelm the reader/student with the immense content of the Council—close to one thousand pages of material—but provides a focus on the texts of the Council’s vision of the life of the Church, which is probably the best place to begin for a baptized Catholic on the road to an adult understanding of the Catholic life. I would say, though, that this text needs to be taught as well as read, meaning that there is plenty of conciliar material here which needs the academic/professional counsel of background and, as I noted above, something of an informed “state-of-the-union” on why the Council has not produced all the fruits of its promise. I should note here that Gaillardetz authored another Vatican II study, “An Unfinished Council” [2015] a few years after our text under review. To cite one reviewer of the 2015 work, Gaillardetz “has given us a compelling account of the work that still needs to be done.” While it may be tempting to jump ahead to such speculation, it would seem wise to begin at the source with an analysis of what the Council actually taught—and where its original implementation succeeded and failed. Consequently, I would recommend reading these books in the order they were written—and better still, in a guided reading/study format. |
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February 2024
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