Young Adult Catholics

Dried-out evergreens abandoned by the curb. Bright red boxes of Valentine’s Day candy in the windows of drugstores. Parking meters unwrapped, twinkling lights gone dark, and the airwaves saturated with Top 40 hits in place of carols. The first week of January is here.

I love wintertime, I love watching snow fall, and I love sitting indoors snug and warm on a chilly day, so I don’t mean for these images to convey despair or despondence at the end of the Christmas season and the arrival of winter proper. I only wish to point out the startling speed at which the transition is accomplished. Everyone seems to forget that Christmas has twelve days. Radio stations that have been playing Christmas music since before Thanksgiving revert to their ordinary repertoire at 8 PM on the day itself. And Valentine’s candy? I still haven’t put the batteries in my Hess truck.

Just as the frenetic pivot from Santas to Cupids is a perennial feature of the coming of the New Year, so too is widespread condemnation of the crass commercialism of the holiday. The absurdity is not revealed in full until the sudden appearance of heart-shaped boxes right after Christmas, but we are warned throughout all of Advent to ward it off, and to remember the real “reason for the season.” Linus Van Pelt laments the fact that Christmas is “too commercialized” (and also “too dangerous,” though for reasons peculiar to his relationship with his sister and her fist). His iconic speech to Charlie Brown on what Christmas is all about stands as a shining counterexample to the claim of many Christians that the media are out to hide the original meaning of the holiday.

In his sermon at this year’s Midnight Mass at St. Peter’s, Pope Benedict exhorted the world’s Catholics to look beyond the “superficial glitter” of the season and to “discover behind it the child in the stable of Bethlehem, so as to find true joy and true light.” And it’s not as if the message falls on deaf ears. Given the pervasive hardship wrought by the Lesser Depression, it seems that there is a great appetite among Catholics (and all of our other Christmas-celebrating friends) for ways of experiencing the joy of the holiday without the attendant budgetary strain. This message of resisting commercialism is so timeless and so deeply internalized by so many people – even if not practiced by the same – that it just feels intuitively right to a great many of us that any and all efforts to pare back holiday spending are morally laudable. Nevertheless, it seems to me that there is a contradiction inherent in this thinking.

On the one hand, it is in the best interest of a given individual or family to find ways to do more with less at Christmastime, and to resist the temptation to buy a lot of expensive gifts. As a nation though, we rely on consumer spending to drive economic growth. Economists finally seem to be saying that our bleak employment situation is starting to improve in earnest, and that holiday sales this year were probably robust enough to protect us against the threat of another downward spiral. The fact of the matter is that the more that shoppers buy, the more new employees that businesses will hire – and the more families that will breath a sigh of relief upon finally having a regular paycheck once again.

The eminent British economist John Maynard Keynes dubbed this dilemma the “paradox of thrift.” He observed that while any one person may make himself better off by saving for a rainy day rather than spending, a whole economy will be made worse off if all of its participants opt to save more. Less spending means fewer jobs, smaller incomes, and more unemployment, thereby negating any positive effect of the increased “thrift.”

Pope Benedict is certainly right to encourage us to engage in some introspection when it comes to our attitudes toward Christmas. This is not to say, however, that all ways of resisting commercialism are created equal. If we simply forego the gifts and leave our money in the bank, we are certainly doing a good thing. But what of the broader impact? We may not think of buying toys or socks for our friends as a form of charity, but doing what little we can to make sure that a store clerk has money to put food on the table is indeed a more noble act than many of us realize.

We certainly should not buy frivolous things that we don’t need and won’t use, but we should be conscious of the fact that our choices have ramifications beyond the ones that we see right in front of us. Taking what we would have spent on shiny electronics and putting it into savings is one way to show our anti-materialism, but using that money to purchase canned food for a local food bank may do more tangible good.

Commercialism can easily get out of hand, but there’s nothing innately wrong with commerce. By all means, stuff the stockings and trim the tree when next Christmas rolls around, knowing that someone may be able to keep their job because of it. But at least keep that tree decorated until Three Kings’, and hold off on the chocolate hearts until February. They only dry out anyway.

“By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” -Luke 1:78-79

The most wonderful time of the year is upon us. As the universal Church ponders the mystery of the Incarnation it is highly appropriate to reflect about what this central focal point of our faith really means. During the past year, my own theological views have undergone considerable revision. Thanks to the writings of Bishop John Shelby Spong, Marcus Borg, John Dominic Crossan, and the renowned Fr. Hans Küng I have been exposed to a new understanding of God and a radically new approach to the Christian life.

The richest kernel of wisdom that has been received from these theologians is being able to understand that not all accounts in the Bible can be taken as being historically or scientifically infallible - even those that have been perceived as being foundational to Christianity. To the early Church, the birth of Jesus of Nazareth ushered in a new and definitive beginning for the human race – as God was communicated in a unique way, for all, in the person of Christ. Conveying this sentiment was accomplished, as most religions of the time did, through mythical tales that employed certain symbols to establish and underline the truth that was being emphasized.

For most Christians, to consider the accounts contained in the Gospels that detail the birth of Jesus as fictional is indeed a revolutionary concept. In the opinions of many it is tantamount to heresy. However, as Scripture is analyzed, it is plain to see that the fantastic birth narratives chronicled in Matthew and Luke’s Gospels never formed the core of the Christian tradition. The first reference to the birth of Christ in the New Testament comes from one of the apostle Paul’s epistles, written around the middle of the first century C.E. In the Letter to the Galatians, Paul details of how, “When the fullness of time had come, God sent His Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.” (Galatians 4:4-5).

Writing at a time before any of the canonical Gospels had been composed, one of the greatest pillars of the early Church appears to be ignorant of any knowledge of angelic throngs, wise men from the East, mobile stars, or miraculous conceptions that accompanied the birth of Jesus. Paul describes it matter-of-factly, simply stating that He was “born of a woman.” No supernatural phenomena characterized the event. If they had, wouldn’t they have proven worthy of mention?

The oldest of the four Gospels (that of Mark – written twenty years after Paul’s epistles) never mentions the birth of Jesus but begins immediately with Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist. Matthew and Luke’s Gospels (which were largely based on the material found in Mark) were written at least five to fifteen years after the composition of Mark. The annunciation and birth narratives of Jesus that Christians have become so accustomed to are unique to these two Gospels. Even John’s Gospel, which highlights and emphasizes the divinity of Christ more than any other, fails to mention any incident of a miraculous birth – only stating, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…And the Word became flesh and lived among us” -John 1:1,14

If the birth narratives of Matthew and Luke can be considered an independent development within the early Christian tradition, and not a foundational one, how did they come about and what do they mean for the life of the Church today?

First, it must be understood that the concept of a virgin birth need not be as fundamental as it has been for the past two millenia of Christian history. The origins of this belief are usually based on a passage from the Old Testament book of Isaiah, where God promises that “a virgin will conceive and bear a son, and shall call him Immanuel.” (Isaiah 7:14). For centuries, this verse was seen as substantiating the idea that the exact manner and circumstances of the coming of the Messiah had been foretold long ago in Sacred Scripture. However, when the question of translation is examined another picture is painted. The version of Isaiah that the author of Matthew’s Gospel used was a Greek rendering of the original Hebrew text. In Greek, the word “parthenos” does indeed describe a virgin in the sexual sense. But in Hebrew, the word used concerning the woman is ”almah” which does not mean a virgin, but rather a “young woman”, married or unmarried. Thus, the assertion that the virgin birth of Jesus was foreshadowed in the Old Testament is completely unfounded.

This tradition probably arose to emphasize God as being the source of the unique and irrevocable call that impelled all that Jesus of Nazareth said and did throughout His life. Portraying Jesus as not being born as the result of human conception placed His very existence not within the fallible limits of frail human beings, but rather among the infinite possibilities of the Divine. As the Gospel of Luke phrased it, a new “Dawn from on high” had broken upon the horizon of human history, that would leave it forever and irreparably changed.

As the early Christian community reflected on this mystery, more and more attention would come to be focused on the biological state of Mary’s virginity rather than what that virginity ultimately represented theologically. Analogies were constructed between the Old and New Testaments that compared Eve’s role in humanity’s fall from grace with Mary’s chosen status as the spotless vessel to bear the One to redeem mankind. From that point on, Mary, the mother of Jesus would ever be attached to the word Virgin. This quality, more than any other, would be what distinguished Mary in Christian theology. Not her courage or the maternal dedication of her faith, but the fact alone that she never took part in sexual intercourse with a man. Seeing sexual expression as a necessary evil that was inaugurated after the dreaded Fall in the Garden of Eden , early Christian theologians frowned upon viewing anything positive about the topic. The virginity of Mary was the perfect way to depict the unrealistic ideal towards which all faithful Christians should aspire – celibacy. Such actions would continue to erect a tradition of theologically denigrating human sexuality. Even worse, such a trend would deny women any positive role models to emulate, aside from those who had chosen the path of clerically endorsed celibacy. If Mary was never a virgin, how enriching or useful is such a doctrine for the women of the twenty-first century?

Another staple of the traditional Christmas story is that, spurred on by a census issued by Caesar Augustus, the pregnant Mary and her husband Joseph travelled over one-hundred miles from Nazareth to Joseph’s ancestral town of Bethlehem. The little town of Bethlehem is the subject of countless sentimental carols, but has anyone ever given any thought to whether it was actually the real birthplace of Jesus?

In terms of historical accuracy, there are no records of any such census being taken in Judea by the Roman Empire that would have forced families to travel back to the towns of their ancestors in order to be accounted for. The Romans kept meticulous records of such undertakings, and an event as unique as this would surely have been found in the annals of some chronological ledger that kept track of the activities of the Empire in its various provinces. Josephus, nor any other contemporary historian ever makes mention of the account. Logistically speaking, such a census would be a civic nightmare! Why order the population of a given region to scatter to numerous different sites to be counted when they all could gather at one central location?

Bethlehem was the legendary King David’s hometown. Making a connection between such a renowned figure in Israel’s history would remove beyond all doubt the legitimacy of Jesus as the Messiah that had been promised generations ago. And what would conveniently place the Holy Family within the City of David? A census. Thus, it must be admitted that the arduous journey of Mary and Joseph, that has characterized part of the charm and timeless appeal of the Christmas story to countless generations of Christians, is most likely not history, but rather, poetic license taken to substantiate the early Christian community’s view that Jesus of Nazareth was indeed the Messiah. This promised Anointed One had to possess some connection to the legacy of Israel’s most illustrious hero, therefore the fictional census of Luke’s Gospel serves to establish this bond.

If one wishes to consult the guidance of history, it is safe to say that Nazareth was probably the birthplace of Jesus.

In the same way, there can be no historical reference found that documents the slaughter of the innocents under the order of King Herod that is found in the Gospel of Matthew. Just as the author of Luke’s Gospel had a subliminal method behind the creation of his narrative of the birth of Jesus so did the composer of Matthew’s Gospel. The author of Matthew was writing to a largely Jewish audience, so it was imperative to enumerate connections between Old Testament themes and the life of Jesus in his Gospel. Throughout Matthew, Jesus is portrayed as the new and definitive fulfillment of Moses – one of the Torah’s most prominent figures. So think, where else in Scripture does a tyrannical king order the slaughter of a small cluster of innocent children? In the beginning of the book of Exodus, the story is told of how the Pharaoh of Egypt orders the annihilation of all male Hebrew children under the age of two for fear of an uprising that would topple his reign. The mother of Moses places him in a basket and sets him afloat upon the Nile River. The boy finds his way to the palace of the Pharaoh where he is taken and raised by the king’s daughter. When one puts the two stories side by side, it is obvious that they are almost identical in scope – particularly considering how Jesus avoids detection by the forces of Herod.

If none of these accounts can be taken as factually accurate what does this say about the Christmas story we have all learned as children?

The real question to consider is: what do the traditional Christmas accounts we have all been taught tell us about God?

Christianity has always held that God descended the heights of heaven, and took on flesh, to save mankind from its sinfulness. God was an external being that was completely Other, reigning from another far-off realm of consciousness, Who needed to be placated by humanity’s compliance and subservience.

But what if God is not a being, but rather a Reality, a Force, a Presence that is at the heart of all that pervades the earth and the universe?

If so, then God never had to come down from heaven. The reality of God was never detached from this plane of existence. Realizing this precious truth, we can see what the birth of Jesus really signals – hope is never far away because God can be discovered in the deepest expression of our own humanity. During Midnight Mass, when we kneel to honor the consummation of the Incarnation during the recitation of the Creed, we should do so not in austere humility – taken aghast at the prospect of God deeming humans worthy of enjoying His presence – but rather in sheer joy, adoration, and gratitude at the thought that God can be discovered so intimately within each one of us, and through our actions. This is what the Incarnation is fundamentally about: that the very essence and nature of the Divine was communicated to the world in the life of a human person, Jesus of Nazareth. This same Reality, can be discovered within every human person, and in all living things, if we only become aware and appreciative of the grace of the presence of God.

Even if the Christmas stories that mythologically tried to convey this sentiment are not factually true, this does not deprive them of their meaning. Through these intricate and stimulating parables we see that the reality of God is not only destined for the learned or the opulent, but can be cherished and found among the most meager of circumstances – in the company of shepherds or the stark simplicity of a manger. Even if Mary was not a virgin, how much more profound an insight would it be that the Divine can be communicated in all of life’s endeavors, especially during sexual intercourse between two people who are genuinely in love.

All of these points are what the authors of Matthew and Luke’s Gospels tried to emphasize, that the Divine can be located within the human sphere of reference, and that Hope is discovered not outside, but within the recesses of our humanity. This new beginning for the world that was offered in the person of Jesus of Nazareth is sorely needed amidst the challanges, sadness, and uncertanties of today’s world. Whether it be the bleak state of the globe’s economic affairs, war and violence that continue to plague numerous lands, or poverty and injustice that are made manifest even in our own nation, the planet Earth is much in need of a cosmic reboot to revitalize its fortunes. Yet, for anyone who has committed themselves to the cause of Christ, it is possible to bring such hope alive for countless souls. Doing so means not by assenting to doctrinal or dogmatic rubrics, but rather by living out and making evident the message of the One who Christians acclaim as the “Light of the World.”

I extend wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all who happen upon this posting! As food for reflection, it seemed appropriate to leave the words of Bishop John Shelby Spong, whose writings have been dominantly instrumental in reshaping my views of Scripture and its meaning for our lives:

“God is not a heavenly judge. God is a life force expanding inside humanity until that humanity becomes barrier-free. This was the God revealed in the fullness of Jesus’ humanity. It was a new God definition that shifted our old view of an external force into something found at the center of life. The being of this God calls us to be; the life of this God calls us to live; the love of this God calls us to love. Jesus lived the life of God. That is why we proclaim that in His life the Source of life was seen. In His love the Source of love was seen. In His courage, which enabled Him to be fully human, the Ground of All Being was seen. That is the experience that the word ‘Incarnation’ was created to communicate. It is not a doctrine to be believed so much as it is a presence to be experienced.” 

My mother gave the book Catholicism: A Journey to the Heart of the Faith by Robert Barron as a Christmas gift this year, for both my wife and myself. Though I’m not quite finished with it, the following passage really stood out for me:

Aristotle said that the best activities are the most useless. This is because such things are not simply means to a further end, but are done entirely for their own sake. Thus watching a baseball game is more important than getting a haircut, and cultivating a friendship is more valuable than making money The game and the friendship are goods that are excellent in themselves, while getting a haircut and making money are in service of something beyond themselves. This is also why the most important parts of the newspaper are the sports section and the comics, and not, as we would customarily think, the business and political reports. In this sense, the most useless activity of all is the celebration of the Liturgy, which is another way of saying that it is the most important thing we could possibly do.

My own total lack of interest in sports notwithstanding, this passage does a good job, I think, of capturing the heart of why I remain a devoted Catholic. Father Barron does a very good job throughout of showing the myriad ways in which our society’s values are not God’s values — that in many ways our world is upside-down and backwards; a mirror-image of what it should be.

And he does so not through the typical Conservative “Culture Wars” rhetoric, but through true Gospel values. He writes of Christ calling us to oppose “… the realm of hatred, racism, sexism, violence, oppression, imperialism, what Augustine termed the libido dominandi (the lust to dominate).” The church, he points out, is not meant merely to withstand these forces, standing hard and fast against the Worldly onslaught until such time as Jesus returns to rescue us. Rather, our calling is to actively oppose injustice.

Father Barron speaks of our mission to “invade the world” (a more timely phrase might be, “occupy the world”) with God’s transformative love. But Love doesn’t mount a frontal assault — the ethic of “turn the other cheek” is more about (to appropriate another timely phrase) “winning over the hearts and minds” of those we should see not as the enemy, but as fellow-victims of an oppressive power-structure.

On December 22, Pope Benedict and the leaders of the Curia (Vatican administration) exchanged official Christmas greetings. His first Christmas as pope, Benedict added a new custom to this ceremony, a kind of “Year in Review” speech. Rocco Palmo reproduces this year’s official English text at Whispers in the Loggia.

Benedict talked about, well, a lot. He offered observations on his travels, including extended observations on World Youth Day. He alluded briefly to the meeting of world religious leaders at Assisi. He reflected on an “ethical crisis” behind the struggling European economy. He talked about church reform:

…what is reform of the Church? How does it take place? What are its paths and its goals? Not only faithful believers but also outside observers are noticing with concern that regular churchgoers are growing older all the time and that their number is constantly diminishing; that recruitment of priests is stagnating; that scepticism and unbelief are growing. What, then, are we to do? There are endless debates over what must be done in order to reverse the trend. There is no doubt that a variety of things need to be done. But action alone fails to resolve the matter. The essence of the crisis of the Church in Europe is the crisis of faith. If we find no answer to this, if faith does not take on new life, deep conviction and real strength from the encounter with Jesus Christ, then all other reforms will remain ineffective.

This is all very true. Ecclesiastical dysfunctions do not descend from a cloud or rise up from a cave. People create them. To create something better, people have to be better. People must cultivate better inner resources, which they draw from God. Benedict’s characteristic emphasis on personal conversion has always been, to a certain point, legitimate.

But I sense a message behind the pope’s message. I sense the faith of which he speaks is to some extent prepackaged. It looks a certain way. It always loops back to certain givens, like assenting to the full slate of official teachings, that prove and grade our faith. It is a closed universe.

The problem with faith in God is that it has to be, in the final sense, just that: faith in God. It cannot be faith in anything else, whether church or bible, tradition or magisterium. We must beware of imputing quasi-divine attributes to lesser entities, investing in oracles rather than the original source.

Oracles make tempting idols, since they are always in some sense controllable and understandable. God, by contrast, is always in some sense wild. God is never obligated to do things in any approved fashion, and always free to reveal more today than we knew yesterday. God is always roaming the frontiers of whatever expectations we have and whatever reassuring routines we follow.

We celebrate this now, during the Christmas octave. The God of Israel had accrued certain expectations. “Who is like to you among the gods, O LORD?” asks Exodus 15:11. “Who is like to you, magnificent in holiness?” A magnificent God was not supposed to pop out of an unmarried peasant teenager’s uterus in a manure-lined stable. Nor was such a God supposed to get crucified thirty-three years later, or pour out the Spirit on the Gentiles.

Christmas is about God’s right to overturn everything, to do new things when at last the time has come. If the time came once, it will surely come again. It will surely come again in the Catholic Church.

And I daresay that time will manifest—is already manifesting—in ways Pope Benedict does not expect and prefers not to allow. He, and all of us, will need to have faith.

In his collection of essays, Grace Notes, Brian Doyle writes about telling a story about his friend who was killed in the September 11 attacks, noting his “theory that every story I tell about Tommy is a prayer for his brilliant soul.” He writes essays about how nuns are the ones who have held the Church together, which will resonate with anyone who has ever loved or been moved by a Sister. He quotes Thomas Merton on silence as the voice of God, and he quotes a woman he met on a public bus who firmly asserts that, “God is not a suggesting box” as a way to explain why not all requests of the Almighty are granted. And he is a writer after every progressive Catholic’s heart when he asserts that, “We would have a far healthier church if we were far more honest about love in all its wild and confusing forms — all of which are, in the end, God, yes?”

In the midst of his provocative reflections on Catholicism and life, he also holds tight to the same Catholic rituals that many of us hold dear, offering a new insight about their necessity in an ever-more-digital world: “As the century gets ever more electronic and virtual and remote, we will ever-more turn to the tactile, the actual, to wood and wool, stone and bone, cloth and paper. To stories we can touch. We yearn and thirst for what is real, what was born in the ancient earth.”

Brian Doyle does not shy away from what is real, as his essays cover everything from the craziness of marriage to the sadness (according to him) of pornography. But what surprised me most about this book were not the essays tying all forms of love to God, or outlining the theology of a childless woman on a bus. What surprised me most were how many of the essays made no overt reference to Catholicism or even to God. Wait a minute, I thought when I encountered these essays; aren’t these all supposed to be about Catholicism?

And yet, the absence of such blatant references in a book like this only inspires one to look even deeper, to realize that for Brian, and for many of us, our every experience of life, our every experience of the Holy, is infused with our latent Catholicism whether we acknowledge it or not. And if each story we tell is a prayer, then this book is a beautiful collection of prayers about nuns, mothers, wives, children, and strangers — many of whom any reader will recognize.

Reflecting upon Jesus’ promise that he has gone ahead to “prepare a place for you,” Doyle adds, “But we are already in the doorway of that house, don’t you think?”

This is a book about day-to-day living, and all the beautiful, sad, and holy things that happen within that doorway.

While attending the Nov. 4-6 Call To Action conference in Milwaukee, I had dinner with a few other 20/30s. One was a chaplain whose department actually sent her. She couldn’t believe they did it. And she knew outsiders must never find out.

Two and a half weeks later, I read an NCR blog post from veteran journalist and CTA member Robert McClory, entitled “The high cost of lost integrity”. McClory begins:

In commenting on my article concerning the nonreception of church teaching (“When is dissent not just dissent?” Nov. 17), Jim McCrea made some valid points well worth considering: “How many of us know priests and lay people, active in parishes and dioceses, who compromise their core beliefs so as to carry on the good work they are doing within church structures? Whether the issue is Eucharistic inclusivity, option for the poor, a thinking laity, married clergy, women’s ordination, homosexuality, contraception, our Church fosters a culture of keeping quiet so as to keep going…”

And McClory concludes:

I may be wrong but I submit a direct link exists between…survey findings showing the withdrawal of trust people place in church leadership and the inability of church leaders to be open, candid and transparent about their convictions. You may include here a great number of priests, religion teachers, laity working in Catholic hospitals, universities and other institutions, pastors, chancery officials and those bishops who understand what’s going on [bold text mine]. They remain outwardly discrete and noncommittal lest honest candor cost them their jobs. And everyone sees through this thin disguise. The result is often not sympathy for their plight but sad disillusionment among many Catholics and angry cynicism among others.

To be fair, Church structures do have a few slots for mavericks. As a semi-Chicagoan, I think first of Father Michael Pfleger, a social justice priest known nationally for his in-your-face activism and Masses featuring lots of praise-and-worship music, lots of liturgical dancing, and lots of Pentecostal-style preaching. He has usually, though not always, served with a free hand.

However, Pfleger does not survive by charisma alone. He is pastor of St. Sabina’s, a vibrant mega-parish with huge neighborhood clout on the South Side. Without that clout, progressive ministry easily turns into high-stakes poker.

I was on the inside of lay ministry as an amateur. I know first-hand that the ranks are heavily composed of colorful closet radicals, compassionate people insatiably attracted by the hope of a world made new. And they are always meticulously checking themselves, constantly alert, like the deer in my backyard listening for coyotes.

Over time, as I tuned in to the myriad backroom machinations of our polarized Church, I realized all this was prudent. But the undercurrent of evasion increasingly put me off. And I’ve stopped considering professional ministry in part because, as my blog presumably makes clear, I can’t shut up.

But for those whose discernment leaves you no escape, where are you to turn? Job loss is the least of your problems. Ministry possesses you. The call to be a Christ-light for others will burn you if you reject it. It is who you are. And there are so few places in our society, let alone careers, where you are allowed to even approximate who you are.

Some would say: “just go find another church.” But again: you’re either a Catholic in your gut or you’re not. And if you are, you’re incurable–a gift and a curse.

Mike Royko, in his 1971 book Boss: Richard J. Daley of Chicago, quotes the legendary mayor’s customary rant against neighborhood groups he considered pushy:

I want you to tell me what to do. You come up with the answers. You come up with the program. Are we perfect? Are you perfect? We all make mistakes. We all have faults. It’s easy to criticize. It’s easy to find fault. But you tell me what to do. This problem is all over the city. We didn’t create these problems. We don’t want them. But we are doing what we can. You tell me how to solve them. You give me a program.

It is easy for us to criticize church employees. It is easy to find fault. They didn’t create these problems. They do what they can. And I do not know how to solve it. I do not have a program.

But I know that once you truly understand your participation in a fearful, conformist environment, you have to examine your complicity. I know that complicity creates cynicism that cripples the Church. I know complicity must somehow stop. I know it must somehow stop down here on the bottom, with the lowly priests, the campus chaplains, the social services, the sisters, the brothers, and the laity.

Because, above all, I know this: the revolution will have no cardinals.

This week, the Catholic Church in the United States has undergone the biggest liturgical transition since the initial reforms of the Second Vatican Council. Despite the fact that the current translations have been in use for half a century, at the behest of the Vatican, all translations of liturgical texts from now on must match their official Latin rubrics as closely as possible (Liturgiam authenticam). A committee of theologians and scholars representing all of the English-speaking episcopal conferences of the Catholic world (The International Commission on English in the Liturgy or “ICEL“) labored for nearly a decade to compose new translations of the Mass that meet the Vatican’s new norms for all liturgical documents. On a nationwide basis, the various bishops conferences tweaked and honed these translations to what they saw as best suiting the needs of the faithful in their own jurisdictions. The American bishops have been completing this process for the past several years and have now reached its conclusion. On the First Sunday of Advent a completely revised translation of the Mass was introduced in America, following suit with other English-speaking countries that have already implemented the new texts earlier this year. This news has never been without controversy, considering that the new Latin-friendly texts may not be as compatible to English-speaking ears.

As so many Catholics have been left to ponder the ramifications of these mandatory changes, it seems appropriate to ask: why are the revisions being forced upon Catholics in the first place, what message is being conveyed by their imposition, and in the long run – how will they ultimately affect the church in the English-speaking world?

History shows us that Jesus of Nazareth never delivered his famous Sermon on the Mount in Latin, but rather in Aramaic – the language spoken by the Jews who lived in first century Palestine. In the decades and centuries following Jesus’ death and Resurrection, the Eucharist was celebrated in Hebrew and later in Greek. Contrary to popular belief, Latin was not always the dominant language used throughout the Roman empire.  Greek (in a particular dialect known as “Koine”) was spoken throughout the Roman world as the common denominator that united all social classes. It was in this collective tongue that the liturgy of the Eucharist was to develop. Even today, parts of the Mass such as the Kyrie and the very word, “Eucharist”, (which means “thanksgiving”) have been preserved from the ancient Greek compositions that formed the liturgies of the early Church.

Only in the early fourth century was Latin imposed upon the Western church as the universal language to be employed in the liturgy. Even when this occurred a lengthy transitional period was necessary for all of the faithful to grasp such a drastic linguistic switch. Eventually, as the centuries drew on, the laity would no longer understand Latin, but it would remain the official language of the Mass celebrated by the clergy. It was only during the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council in the 1960′s that this barrier of comprehension would be eradicated from the liturgy, finally allowing all Catholics to actively participate after having been passive observers for nearly a millenia.

When confronting the situation that is before us today it must be stated simply that the primary motivations behind these efforts are not, at their heart, spiritual, but rather ideological/political.

During the Second Vatican Council, a renewed emphasis was placed on identifying the Church not just as an organism composed of the pope, bishops, and other members of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, but instead as the People of God. Casting aside a pyramidal, strictly hierarchical definition of the Body of Christ, the Church was now understood as a community of faith. The black and white distinctions between clergy and laity were understood anew, now seeing all individuals who had been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ as sharing in His prophetic, royal, and priestly mission of salvation to the world. The priesthood of all the baptized did not eliminate the unique role of those who had been called to give ultimate service to God through the ordained priesthood, but rather levelled the spiritual playing field so that all Christians – whether clerical or lay – could support each other equally as members of the universal Church.

As individual bishops conferences around the world were gradually given the permission to translate the order of the Mass into their own respective languages, so the English-speaking bishops of the world decided to incorporate this renewed communal understanding of the Church into their respective liturgical translations. From the incomprehensible language of Latin, English-speaking Catholics the globe over would now be made familiar with the Eucharistic Prayer in their own tongue, “Father, all-powerful and ever-living God, we do well always and everywhere to give You thanks. In You we live and move and have our being; Each day You show us a Father’s love; Your Holy Spirit, dwelling within us, gives us on earth the hope of unending joy. Your gift of the Spirit, Who raised Jesus from the dead, is the foretaste and promise of the paschal feast of heaven…”

The newly revised texts that have been introduced may adhere more closely to the original Latin that remains the official language of the church. When it comes to the most frequent exchange that occurs during the Eucharistic liturgy there is indeed an obvious mistranslation. As the priest addresses the congregation with the words, “The Lord be with you,” the congregation has voiced in response for the past thirty years, “and also with you.” In Latin, the original response is “et cum spiritu tuo” (and with your spirit). This refers to the unique “spirit” of ordination that has been conferred upon the presiding priest in the sacrament of Holy Orders. In most languages this meaning has been preserved. In French the response is “et avec votre esprit”, in German “Und mit deinem Geiste”, in Spanish “Y con tu espíritu” and so on. This is a legitimate concern that deserved mention.

Yet, more is at work than merely an honest attempt to render linguistics concisely.

The new texts are certainly more lofty and formal than the clear, simple, and straightforward prayers introduced after the Second Vatican Council. As a former Episcopalian, I’m accustomed to and can somewhat appreciate rather old, classical English phrases decorating the liturgy. However, for many Catholics, who have used the previous texts for the past thirty years, such a patrician flavor employed during weekly worship gatherings will definitely be an acquired taste.

But it is not even the loftiness of the language that leaves such a bad taste in people’s mouths concerning this translation. In a more profound sense, a drastically different theological picture is painted in the words of these texts compared with those that were introduced following Vatican II.

In the Penitential Rite, where the faithful acknowledge their misdeeds and the ways in which they have failed to imitate the love of God and ask God for forgiveness a startling contrast is made clear. In the texts that many have known for so long the congregation prays, “I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words in what I have done and what I have failed to do…” The revised text has been modified to say, “I have greatly sinned, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…” The tone of all the prayers has transitioned from one of an intimate, loving relationship to one of uncertainty, supplication, and vertical distance. Take for instance the prayer over the gifts for the Second Sunday of Advent. The version of the old missal reads, “Lord, we are nothing without You. As You sustain us with Your mercy, receive our prayers and offerings. We ask this through Christ our Lord.” The revised text implores, “Be pleased, O Lord, with our humble prayers and offerings, and since we have no merits to plead our cause, come, we pray, to our rescue with the protection of your mercy. Through Christ our Lord.”

Just over a month ago, the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace released a report entitled “Reforming the International Financial and Monetary Systems in the Context of Global Authority.” It’s a fascinating read, though arguably not as fascinating as some of the startling reactions it has elicited from American Catholics.

The report is a refreshing and honest take on our current economic woes and an insightful look at how we can both address our short-term problems and build effective institutions of global governance to safeguard our well-being in the long run. I call it “refreshing” because of the careful way in which it diagnoses the ideological and moral threats to the global economy without resorting to simplistic attacks on the straw men of secularism and religious diversity. Instead, the Council frames the problem in more widely resonant terms, and lays the blame at the feet of “neoliberalism,” “utilitarianism,” and other “-isms” that have been destructive of our attempts to build decent societies and that have “minimized the value of the choices made by the concrete human individual.”

The most controversial assertion of the report, at least from the point of view of those free-market apologists who fear that the Holy See may be lending undue moral weight to the case against laissez-faire, is that the governments of the world ought to work toward strengthening organizations like the United Nations and the International Monetary Fund, endowing them with more authority to coordinate global action on a scale sufficient to grapple with problems like environmental degradation, food scarcity, and human trafficking. Such a project would ideally culminate in the creation of a “central world bank” that could better stabilize the world’s monetary and financial systems, and prevent a repeat of the carnage we’ve seen in the past few years. Couple this with a modest proposal for a tax on financial transactions of dubious social value, and you’ve apparently got a recipe for radicalism.

In an editorial in the Wall Street Journal, Fr. Robert Sirico writes that there is “no question” this document will be used to “stir up political mischief… [and] to convince the Catholic faithful that big government solutions are morally justified.” That a Catholic priest writing in one of the nation’s preeminent newspapers would accuse the Vatican of attempting to incite “political mischief” should seem unthinkable in a church where ideological conformity is becoming ever more highly valued. Aware of this fact, those Catholics who wish to resist the call for more global cooperation have had to find excuses for why this advice ought to be disregarded.

George Weigel of the National Review insists that “the document’s specific recommendations do not necessarily reflect the settled views of the senior authorities of the Holy See… The document doesn’t speak for the Pope, it doesn’t speak for ‘the Vatican,’ and it doesn’t speak for the Catholic Church.” Tito Edwards of the National Catholic Register quotes Bishop Mario Toso, a member of the Council, as saying that the “note” merely “suggests possible paths to follow”, and then condescendingly admonishes us to “notice the word ‘suggest’; the Church always proposes, not ever imposes.” One wonders which Church he’s referring to.

Why should Catholics even want to resist this call? Why the quibbling about the authority of the Council issuing the report? I, for one, would love to see more open debate and collegiality within the Church, and so I don’t dismiss critics like Fr. Sirico for worrying out loud about the real-life consequences of trying to turn a utopian vision of world government into a reality. There could be real costs to asking nations to cede sovereignty to a centralized global bureaucracy, and I don’t mean to ignore or diminish them. But the forcefulness with which some have reacted to the release of this report is indicative of a deeper problem: the dearth of American Catholics advocating for economic justice in the name of Catholicism. Sadly, it seems that many Catholics have been persuaded by the conservative movement that unfettered markets are what their faith demands after all.

This problem reaches deep into the hierarchy. Instead of using its public platform to emphasize the ways in which both political parties fall short of the dictates of Catholic teachings (for better or for worse), the institutional Church in the United States has become nearly synonymous with American-style conservatism, despite the fact that the two are qualitatively distinct. We often hear the bishops criticize liberal Catholic politicians for their public positions on abortion and euthanasia, but we never hear of Republicans being denied communion for supporting the death penalty, or for opposing nuclear nonproliferation, or for routinely insisting that war is a higher budgetary priority than healthcare for the poor.

To a traditionalist, any mention of the primacy of conscience is taken as a euphemism for an attempt to normalize sin and discredit Catholic doctrine, and merely pointing out that there exist teachings that are noninfallible is seen to be a wholesale rejection of the Church’s authority. And yet when an arm of the Roman Curia “suggests” that it might be worthwhile to encourage more multilateral cooperation in the name of promoting economic justice, we are met with the truly remarkable spectacle of American Catholics insisting that the people doing the suggesting really have no power whatsoever, or aren’t the Pope, or don’t know what they’re talking about, or are actually just trying to “stir up political mischief.”

I respect the right of my fellow Catholics to listen to their consciences and do what they believe is right. But when someone asks us to “[abandon] all forms of petty selfishness… [embrace] the logic of the global common good.. [and share] the common dignity of all human beings,” I’d say we should listen. Even if it’s only a suggestion.

This piece is cross-posted from Theology Salon, a new Internet space for theology in response to Occupy Wall Street. 

On Monday [October 24], the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace published a “Note on the reform of the international financial and monetary systems in the context of global public authority” (official version only in Italian so far; I am referencing the unofficial English translation at Radio Vaticana). Although the Note was almost certainly not in response to Occupy Wall Street, it reflects many of the same concerns and even suggests some of the same solutions as the global protest movement. As theologians and supporters of Occupy Wall Street, how can we engage this document in our theological work and in support of the movement?

Context

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