Who needs Scripture?

I wrote this piece for another publication a little over a year ago. Since I’ve been struggling for some time now with carving out time to read the Bible regularly, I read it as an exercise in de-planking my own eye. Anything you all have to offer is, as always, much welcome.

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[Jesus] said to him, “What is written in the law? How do you read?” (Luke 10.26)

Read assiduously and learn as much as you can. Let sleep find you holding your Bible, and when your head nods let it be resting on the sacred page. (St Jerome, Letter to Eustochius)

While working on a writing project yesterday I came across this text in Ezekiel:

Yet you say, “Why should not the son suffer for the iniquity of the father?”  When the son has done what is lawful and right, and has been careful to observe all my statutes, he shall surely live.  The soul that sins shall die.  The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, not the father suffer for the iniquity of the son; the righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.  (Ezekiel 18.19-21)

The word of the Lord given through the prophet appears to be addressing what we might call a theological opinion that had arisen among the exiles in Babylon, namely, that God punishes sons for the sins of their fathers.

I won’t go into further details about the meaning of this text because I’m not concerned here with an exegetical reflection of it.  What struck me, and what I want to write about, was that I’d never seen this text brought up in Orthodox-Catholic conversations about original sin and inherited guilt.  Having hung around some ecumenical circles in the blogosphere for a while, I’ve witnessed many a discussion (often polemical) about Orthodox and Catholic anthropologies, but strangely, I don’t remember one in which this passage was carted out and batted around. Instead, the conversations were often saturated with quotations both long and short from the Fathers and modern theologians, and centered on the implication or acquittal of St. Augustine.

I think this points to problem that is neither uniquely Catholic nor Orthodox, but rather common to those of us who are students (or self-proclaimed experts) of the Patristic tradition.  We often go on and on about how the Fathers did not possess as “systematic theology” as we now understand it, and that their endeavor of theologia stood solidly on the grounds of prayer, asceticism and the assiduous reading of God’s Word rather than on philosophical systems or—*gasp*—the scholastic method.  But for all this, are we not merely honoring them with our lips while keeping our heart far away from them?

I’ve always been taught to see the Patristic tradition as a commentary on Scripture, full of diverse voices and theological subtleties, conditioned by the historical particularities of the life of the Church—liturgy, heresy, cultural questions and so forth.  To use the terminology of Cardinal Ratzinger, the Patristic tradition is the primitive and archetypal response of the Church to the Word of God—a response which is not just one among many, but rather one to which we must ascribe authority for its unparalleled and definitive influence on the shape of our faith.  This is true not only of the content of their theology, but also of their method (if I may make a distinction between the two)—namely, the rigorous searching and exposition of the Scriptures within the lived experience of the Church.  But in all this there is still a primacy that belongs to Scripture, for the Fathers saw themselves as servants, not masters, of that revelation.

To come back, then, to my gripe: if the Patristic tradition is like a finger which pointing to the moon, have we, their disciples, often focused exclusively on the finger and forgotten about the moon?

There is among students in many Biblical Studies departments today the vice of drowning oneself in the ocean of linguistic, historical and cultural studies—the so-called “historical-critical” methods, if you will—which leads to an actual neglect of the primary text of the Bible itself.  Even as an amateur student, my experience is that many of the alleged exegetical dead-knots can be untied or at least loosened by a closer and wider reading of the text (which, I should also say, the Fathers had often already done several centuries ago).

Have we, the disciples of the Fathers, fallen into a similar vice by focusing on the commentary of the Patristic tradition to the neglect of a direct encounter with God’s Word? For all our talk, have we turned their love for the Scriptures into something to be discussed and admired from afar, rather an example to be imitated?  I can almost hear St. Ephrem say to me, “Busted!”

I’m reminded, though, of the practice of our Jewish brothers and sisters, who until today show great devotion to both Scripture and tradition in their practice Torah study.  The practice instituted by the Talmud is to read the appointed Torah portion twice, and after that to read the interpretive translation (one could say “commentary”) from Targum Onkelos once.  By doing this, the student is directly engaging the biblical text while simultaneously entering into a conversation with the ancestors of faith who’ve gone before him.

Isn’t there a way Christians can practice something similar? Must we be necessarily torn between Scripture and the Fathers?  I’d like to think not.

“The love which frees men from their loneliness”: Some thoughts

In his autobiography, Milestones: Memoirs 1927-1977, then-Cardinal Ratzinger identified Henri de Lubac’s Catholicism (the original French title of which is Catholicisme: les aspects sociaux du dogme) as one of books that has influenced him the most. In Principles of Catholic Theology, he sums up de Lubac’s thesis in Catholicism like this:

The concept of a Christianity concerned only with my soul, in which I seek only my justification before God, my saving grace, my entrance into heaven, is for de Lubac that caricature of Christianity that, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, made possible the rise of atheism. The concept of sacraments as the means of a grace that I receive like a supernatural medicine in order, as it were, to ensure only my own private eternal health is the supreme misunderstanding of what a sacrament truly is. De Lubac, for his part, is convinced that Christianity is, by its very nature, a mystery of union. The essence of original sin is the split into individuality, which knows only itself. The essence of redemption is the mending of the shattered image of God, the union of the human race through and in the One who stands for all and in whom, as Paul says (Gal 3:28), all are one: Jesus Christ. One this premise, the word Catholic became for de Lubac the main theme of all his theological speculation: to be a Christian means to be Catholic, means to be on one’s way to an all-embracing unity. Union is redemption, for it is the realization of our likeness to God, the Three-in-One. But union with him is, accordingly, inseparable from and a consequence of our own unity. (pp. 49-50; italics in original)

If Ratzinger is here reading de Lubac (with whom he no doubt agrees) correctly, then the privatization of the sacraments must be one of the most diabolical afflictions on church life because it spiritualizes and sanctions the very “split into individuality” which is a curse of original sin.

As I thought about these words I was reminded of an incident that made a deep impression on me several years ago, when I was serving as a Catholic campus missionary at the University of Illinois. In one of our team meetings, my colleague Mary Claire asked me in a gentle but direct tone: “Why do you and the other people here sit by yourselves when you go to a weekday Mass?” It had never occurred to me to be critical of my own preference to sit alone during the liturgy and I didn’t have an answer for Mary Claire that day (and brushed her question aside without much consideration) but the frank answer to the question would’ve been something like this: “Because for me, the Eucharist is where I, as an individual believer, encounter and receive Jesus Christ in the privacy of my own heart.”

At that point, the Eucharist held little communal significance in my mind, the “community” nonsense having become one of the signatures by which “the libs” were identified, along with their tell-tale omission of the definite article whenever they spoke of “Eucharist” (as in, “He gave me Eucharist”) and “Church” (as in, “We are Church”). Holy Communion was little more than the vehicle of grace by which I attained to my own sanctification and only indirectly allowed me to “bring Christ to others” by its fruits in my life. The liturgy was no “sacrament of the assembly” (again, that would’ve been classic “lib-talk” if you asked me then), and my own devotional practices made that clear. I went to Mass as an individual, received Communion as an individual, made my own thanksgiving prayer as an individual, and walked out of church as an individual. (I also recited the breviary as an individual, though it was good every and then to have company.)

This, it seems to me, is precisely “a Christianity concerned only with my soul, in which I seek only my justification before God, my saving grace, my entrance into heaven”. I might not have contributed to the rise of atheism but I was sure as heck propping it up.

The inherently communal—let’s say “ecclesial”—nature of the Eucharist is something I still struggle to appreciate and practice. Really, it was only when I started worshipping with the folks at Ss. Cyril and Methodius in Denver that I began to see that the Eucharist has something to do with “making” the Church.

What I think allowed that to happen was, first of all, the size of the congregation itself—basically made up of 25 people and often a few visitors. There was precious little anonymity or hiddenness at Ss. Cyril and Methodius (since one couldn’t really get away with sitting in the backmost pew without being publicly “invited” by Fr. Chrysostom to stand in front of the iconostasis). Everyone knew everyone.

Then there were the potluck lunches after each Sunday liturgy which, in many ways, was the highlight of my dining experience week after week. Not only was the food terrific—and it was pretty good even during the various fasts—, but the fellowship that took place during these meals was something that I’d never consistently experienced before in a parish context. (Going out to dinner with whoever of my friends happened to stick around after church on Sunday evenings paled in comparison.) The fellowship, like the meal, was an intentional commitment. We shared not only the food (which took some families all Sunday morning to make) but ideas, worries, funny stories and other “mundane” events from our week—you know, the stuff that “ordinary workaday life” is made of. Even more, we shared life during the week with phone calls, e-mails, and even a face-to-face meal or two sometimes. There were the bi-weekly lunches with Joel during which we talked about Chinese chess and Cyrillic Christology. One day, Fr. Chrysostom came by with some soy protein supplement because he thought I was unhealthily underweight.  One of my favorite memories of summers in Denver is going to Vespers with the Ruckhauses followed by a cold beer (or two) on their front porch before dinner.

These were the small things that instilled in me, little by little, an understanding of the sacramental life as a life of reconciliation and communion for the divided children of Adam. I didn’t learn that from reading de Lubac or Ratzinger or The Didache but by experience—by being welcomed into a real, living, breathing community of real, living, breathing people. Only then did it seem strange—even repulsive—to me that I had so often practiced the “commune and scatter” approach to the Eucharist.

I wondered this morning if I would’ve ever understood what Ratzinger meant by these words had I never met the people at Ss. Cyril and Methodius.

…[T]he Church is is not merely an external society of believers; by her nature, she is a liturgical community; she is most truly Church when she celebrates the Eucharist and makes present the redemptive love of Jesus Christ, which, as love, frees men from their loneliness and leads them to one another by leading them to God. (Principles of Catholic Theology, p. 50)

I don’t see how I could have.

Ratzinger on truth and martyrdom

It will always be hard for man to speak the truth and to abide by the truth. That is why he takes refuge in the lie that will make life easier for him. Truth and witness, witness and martyrdom, are very closely associated in this world. Truth, if it is consistently maintained, is always perilous. But only in the measure in which man risks the passion of truth does he become a man. And in the measure in which he holds fast to himself, in which he withdraws into the safety of a lie, he loses himself. “Anyone who finds his life will lose it, anyone who loses his life…will find it” (Mt 10:39). Only the grain of wheat that dies will bear fruit.

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology, p.33

“Joy is a sign of grace”

Where joylessness reigns, where humor dies, the Spirit of Jesus Christ is assuredly absent. But the reverse is also true: joy is a sign of grace.  One who is cheerful from the bottom of his heart, one who has suffered but not lost joy, cannot be far from the God of the evangelium, whose first word on the threshold of the New Testament is “Rejoice!”

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology: Building Stones for a Fundamental Theology (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1987), 84.

An Indian Orthodox perspective on the General Synod of Catholic Bishops

I know this is a bit stale since the General Synod of Catholic Bishops on the Bible in the life of the Church took place over a month ago, but I only serendipitously unearthed this today.

Fr. K. M. George is principal of the Orthodox Theological Seminary in Kottayam, India. He attended the Synod as a fraternal delegate of the World Council of Churches (WCC) and offered some thoughts in an interview with a fellow Indian Orthodox priest who is currently studying in Rome.

I was particularly interested in Fr. George’s observations on synodality:

It was Pope John VI who instituted a permanent secretariat for synods. Now there is a special Synod hall on the side of St. Peter’s Basilica with all modern facilities. It is named after Paul VI. Before, the Synods or Episcopal Councils were not a regular event in the life of the Roman Church. For example, the famous Second Vatican Council (1963-65) met about 100 years after the First Vatican Council.

Pope John Paul II was enthusiastic about holding synods, because they expressed the principle of ‘collegiality’ so essential to the church’s life. There is certainly the influence of the Orthodox Churches in this since they insist on episcopal collegiality as fundamental to the governance of the Church. Collegiality is the spirit of togetherness when the bishops like the Apostles think and act as one body through mutual understanding, exchange of constructive thinking. This is expected at all levels of the Church from parish council to the synod.

…

In the Roman system, synods have only a consultative, advisory status. It is the Pope who makes the final decisions. So Synods are not in fact decision-making bodies. This is different from the Eastern Orthodox tradition where synods are decision-making bodies. Patriarchs and Catholicoi are subject to their synods though they can in effect lead the synod with personal charisma, vision and general acclamation. However, the primacy of the head cannot be in conflict with the principle of collegiality. The Roman Catholic Church now wants to combine the absolute primacy of the head, namely the Pope, with the ancient principle of episcopal collegiality.

It is important, I think, that more than a year before the Synod, Pope Benedict XVI gave synodal authority a slight boost by giving the bishops the power to vote on issues. The vote would still require the ratification of the Pope to take effect, of course, but it is still a significant change in that, whereas a Catholic synod played a strictly advisory role to the Pope, Benedict XVI has consciously accorded it greater decision-making authority. As such, the current Catholic practice moves a bit closer to that of the ancient Church.

The interview with Fr. George can be found in full here.