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Cover
story To
reform church, embrace democracy
The following address, Enhancing Democracy: the Key to
Religious Reform, was presented by author James Carroll Nov. 2 at the
annual Call to Action conference in Milwaukee. The speech was adapted from his
recently published book, Toward A New Catholic Church: The Promise of
Reform.
By JAMES CARROLL
In the last 13 months, we Americans have discovered with something
approaching astonishment the wild diversity of religious and spiritual impulses
that has come to mark not only the planet, but our own nation.
Today, as the great Catholic theologian Karl Rahner put it,
everyone is the next-door neighbor and spiritual neighbor of everyone
else in the world. And the organizers of this conference have wisely
recognized that in choosing our theme, for as Rahner argues, even from within
Catholicism, this new circumstance means the assumptions of every religion must
now be the subject of reexamination.
Here is a fuller version of Rahners statement; The
West is no longer shut up in itself, he wrote. It can no longer
regard itself simply as the center of the history of this world and as the
center of culture, with a religion that
could appear as the obvious and
indeed sole way of honoring God.
Today everybody is the next-door
neighbor and spiritual neighbor of everyone else in the world
which puts
the absolute claim of our own Christian faith into question.
Ideological and religious elbow rubbing is a global phenomenon,
but it occurs in United States as nowhere else. A nation that welcomes an
unending stream of immigrants, with their plethora of faiths and traditions,
America implicitly sponsors this reexamination, as religiously diverse peoples
encounter each other in the mundane neighborhoods of work, school
and living. The testing of assumptions that inevitably follows is one of the
reasons America is suspect in the eyes of rigidly traditional societies.
To ask the question, as this gathering does, Who is my
neighbor? is implicitly to seek ways of honoring that neighbor by
honoring her or his self-understanding and separate integrity, which means
honoring her or his beliefs. But the gifts of diversity, as the conference
title suggests, bring challenges, too. That is especially true for those of us
of the Roman Catholic tradition in which diversity has so often been defined as
heresy, pluralism as a denial of the oneness, holiness and even catholicity of
the church.
The Call to Action theme was chosen, I suspect, with a feel for
the fact that diversity and pluralism -- the presence of neighbors who do not
believe as we do -- represent a profound challenge to contemporary Catholicism
-- not just to the hierarchy, but to all of us who find a home in this
community. Here is the problem, laid bare this year in ways it may never have
been before: It is impossible to reconcile a rejection of pluralism with an
authentic commitment to democracy, and a Catholic devotion to the eradication
of pluralism remains dangerous. Internal church policies have relevance here
because the use of anathemas, bannings and excommunications to enforce a
rigidly controlled intellectual discipline in the church reveals an institution
that has yet to come to terms with basic ideas like freedom of conscience and
the dialectical nature of rational inquiry.
What is it that we Americans, for all our criticism of our
country, most love about it? Obviously, the precious idea of consitutional
democracy, which, since 1989, has taken a firm hold on the worldwide human
imagination. But the very idea of constitutional democracy begins with the
insight that government exists to protect the interior freedom of
citizens to be different from one another, and to cling, if they choose, to
opposite notions of the truth. The political implementation of this insight
requires a separation of church and state, since the states purpose is to
shield the citizens conscience from impositions by any religious entity.
And, of course, it tells us everything that this political insight was spawned,
in the 16th and 17th centuries, by religious conflicts.
As the forces of secular enlightenment targeted
religion itself as the source of conflict, the Catholic church understandably
came vigorously to the defense of religion. Alas, the absolutism of the ensuing
argument corrupted truth on both sides. The church, for example, repudiated the
violence of the Inquisition, but it continued to hold to the ideas that had
produced it. In the 19th century, a panic-stricken Vatican launched a sequence
of condemnations -- socialism, communism, rationalism, pantheism, subjectivism,
modernism, even Americanism -- all adding up to a resolute
denunciation of everything we mean by democracy.
From the standpoint of the hill overlooking the Tiber, all of this
was simply an effort to defend the key idea that the worlds of science,
culture, politics and secular learning were apparently conspiring to
attack -- the idea that there is one objective and absolute truth, and that its
custodian is the Catholic church.
The churchs rigidity during that period of conflict was
central to what Pope John Paul II apologized for in his momentous declaration
of March 2000. That apology was the beginning of a process, not the completion
of one, because, while John Paul II confessed the sin of the use of
violence that some have resorted to in the service of truth, the apology
did not confront the implications of that still maintained idea of truth.
Universalist claims for Jesus as the embodiment of the one objective and
absolute truth, launched from the battlement-like pulpits of basilicas, have
landed explosively in the streets for centuries.
Nothing demonstrates the links joining philosophical assumptions,
esoteric theology, and political conflict better than the claims we Catholics
have made for Jesus -- claims that have often led to terrible violence against,
yes, our neighbors. The violence of the heresy hunts of the fourth and fifth
centuries is tied to that story, and so, at its other end, is the violence of
Europes imperialist colonizers who, even into the 20th century, felt free
to decimate native populations -- poor devils -- because they were
heathens. Hanging from the line joining those two posts, in addition to the
Inquisition, are the religious wars waged in the name of Jesus, not only
against heathens and Jews, but against other Christians who believed, but
wrongly.
What is truth?
Underlying all this is a question that the Catholic reform
movement must confront, a question the answer to which shapes attitudes toward
democracy, a question the answer to which has profound relevance to the
churchs past and future relations with Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists,
Jains, animists and atheists -- the churchs relationship not only to
neighbors but to its own members: people like us. It is a question
the answer to which shapes the meaning of the churchs self-understanding
as, in Rahners phrase, the absolute religion. It is the
question that was put most famously by Pontius Pilate, in the
Pilate-exonerating Gospel of John. This was an instant before Pilate told the
Jews that Jesus was innocent, preparing the ground for Judaisms permanent
blood guilt. Everyone who is of the truth hears my voice, Jesus had
just told Pilate. To which the Roman replied, What is truth?
Latin philosophy had long answered that question by appealing to
an objective and external order. As you know, the various traditions claiming
Plato and Aristotle as patrons had given shape to Christian theologies. The
dualism of Christian Platonism posited a divide between nature and grace, with
grace the realm of truth approachable only through faith. The more
rationalistic tradition of Thomas Aquinas affirmed the compatibility of nature
and grace, the knowability of God through reason. But in asserting the absolute
character of truth, Thomas took note of the problem that occurs when a
contingent, nature-bound creature attempts to perceive it. Truth, he said, is
perceived in the mode of the perceiver. Human perception can take in the
absolute truth, but not absolutely. Thus Thomas makes a modest claim for human
knowing, with room for ambiguity -- which means room for diverse claims made in
the name of truth. Alas, this aspect of Thomas Aquinass subtlety would be
lost in the rigidities of the Catholic response to the Reformation.
Indulge me for a moment here with a little history of philosophy.
The question can seem esoteric, but it is crucial to what we are doing here,
and we must take each other seriously at this level of intellectual inquiry if
we want to carry the argument in the church. You recall that René
Descartess Discourse on Method (1637) asserted that truth can be
arrived at only on the basis of what is immediately self-evident, which
eliminates knowledge gained through the unreliable senses. Therefore it is
impossible to really know the truth -- an impossibility that condemns the human
mind to skepticism.
In the mantle of Thomas Aquinas
It is this skepticism that the Catholic scholastics of the 18th
and 19th centuries went to war against, and though they wrapped themselves in
the mantle of Thomas Aquinas, calling themselves Thomists, they narrowly
defined truth as the unambiguous conformity of the mind to the objective truth,
without any sense that ambiguity might be a property of that mind.
Enlightenment science had adopted a mechanical view of the universe that
eliminated God (Nietzsches Thus Spake Zarathustra announced the
death of God in 1883). Ironically, to defend God the Thomists assumed an
equally mechanical view of the universe, with a gear-like correspondence
between nature and grace, subject and object, mind and truth. Imprecision,
ambiguity, paradox, doubt and mystery had as little place in the mind of a
Catholic scholastic as in the mind of a catalogue-obsessed 19th-century
naturalist.
This Catholic view of truth meshed perfectly with, indeed
required, the 19th-century view of Catholic authority, whose role was to guard
against ambiguity -- which it could do, after 1870, infallibly. Once the
church, in its hierarchy and in particular in the pope, had defined the
objective truth, the duty of the Catholic was univocally to conform his or her
mind to that truth.
But history has a way of challenging such ideas. The implications
of Darwins theory of evolution outran its first adherents and soon
frustrated the most compulsive cataloguer. Human knowing is as dynamic as the
development of species is. The absolute truth can in no way evolve
or change (God as the Unmoved Mover), but what if everything else does? Then,
in 1918, Albert Einstein published Relativity: The Special and General
Theory, suggesting that neither the ground on which one stands while
thinking nor the time in which one pursues a thought to its conclusion is free
of ambiguity, paradox, contradiction, movement -- relativity.
Suddenly thinkers had a new language, based in physical
observation, with which to describe the fact that every perception occurs from
a particular point of view and that not even the point of view is constant.
Every person is a perceiving center, and every perception is different.
Every person is a perceiving center, and every perception is different.
There is no absolute conformity of the knowing subject to the known object.
Therefore truth can be known only obliquely and, yes, subjectively.
Catholic theology spent much of the 20th century recovering from
the defensive rigidities of Counter-Reformation scholasticism, but the recovery
is not complete. The Catholic reform movement must retrieve for the church the
deep-seated human intuition that mystery is at the core of existence, that
truth is elusive, that, as Abraham Joshua Heschel put it, God is greater than
religion. If mystery is at the core of religion, then ambiguity, paradox and
even doubt are not enemies of faith, but aspects of it.
But how? Are we condemned to a mindless pluralism that is ready to
equate the shallow with the profound, the stupid with the wise, the cruel with
the kind? Does subjectivity condemn the person to the tyranny of the self? Does
subjectivity condemn the community to, in the great contemporary Catholic
theologian David Tracys phrase, the void of sheer fascination at
our pluralistic possibilities? Fearing the answer to those questions had
to be yes, the church set itself against democracy, and still openly regards
pluralism with suspicion. But Tracy and others suggest that the antidote to the
equivocation of modern skepticism is not the univocal mindset so firmly
defended by Catholic authority today, but the analogical
imagination. Instead of a dualistic universe, with nature and grace
impossibly alienated, or conformed into the mold of one or the other, the
analogical imagination posits a world in which every affirmation contains its
own principle of self-criticism, if you will. Affirmation, therefore, does not
close off further thought, as the Vatican would have it, but inevitably opens
to the next thought. What does this mean? That even in our own thinking
there is diversity and difference. Diversity and difference, therefore, are to
be respected, not condemned. That is the gift and challenge of diversity.
Ferociously against democracy
Tracy explains the vivid connection between such a frame of mind
and the respect we must have for a neighbor, even for a formerly hated other:
We understand one another, if at all, only through analogies. Each
recognizes that any attempt to reduce the authentic otherness of anothers
focus to ones own with our common habits of domination only seems to
destroy us all, only increases the leveling power of the all-too-common
denominators making no one at home. Conflict is our actuality. Conversation is
our hope.
Conversation is our hope. In that simple statement lies the kernel
of democracy, which is based not on diktat but on the interchange of
mutuality. The clearest example of conversation as the sine qua non of
democracy is the electoral process, in which candidates literally engage in
conversation with the citizenry, opening themselves so that voters can judge
them, but also changing their minds in response to interaction with the public.
The proliferation of town meetings and debates in recent American political
campaigns exemplifies this social equality and supports it.
There is a special tragedy in the fact that, for contingent
historical reasons, the Catholic church set itself so ferociously against the
coming of democracy -- tragic because Christianity began its life as a small
gathering of Jews who were devoted to conversation. This was, of course,
characteristically Jewish, since Judaism was a religion of the Book. Indeed,
that was what made Judaism unique.
That the Book was at the center of this groups identity
meant that the group was never more itself than when reading and responding to
texts, and while the rabbinical schools may have presided over such a process,
all Jews participated in it, especially after the liturgical cult of sacrifice
was lost when the Temple was destroyed. Gatherings around the Book became
everything. Conversation became everything. The assumption among the followers
of Jesus was that they were all endowed with the wisdom, insight, maturity, and
holiness necessary to contribute to the pursuit of the truth of who Jesus had
been to them.
The religious language for this assumption had it that all
believers were endowed with the Holy Spirit, which was seen to reside in the
church not through an ordained hierarchy but through all. That is why the
apostolic writings are nothing if not manifestations of pluralism. Indeed,
there are four gospels, not one. Each has its slant, and each slant, in this
community, has its place. That there is real diversity in the New
Testament should be clear to any reader of the text, David Tracy
comments, and he goes on to note that the first Christians could admit the
validity of positions not their own -- from the charismatics to the
apocalyptics to the zealots to the prophets.
A diversity of images
There is even a diversity of images that disclose the meaning of
Jesus life, with some giving emphasis to the ministry, some to the death,
some to the symbolic assault on the Temple, some to the expected return. There
are those who emphasize bringing the gospel to the gentiles and those who
insist on the gospels place within the hope of Israel. And because the
texts gather all of this, honor it, and declare it all sacred, nothing
could be further from the mind of the early church than making its subjects
conform to a narrowly defined objective truth. The Spirit was seen
to be living in all, and the truth, for all, remained shrouded in mystery.
It would be anachronistic, of course, to read this as evidence of
an early church polity that was what we would call democracy. That does not
mean, however, that democracy, by taking each member of the community as of
ultimate worth, equal to every other, is not a fulfillment of the biblical
vision that attributes just such valuing of each person to God. Isaac Hecker,
the American who founded the Paulist Fathers, the religious order to which I
was privileged to belong, argued that America and Catholicism were inherently
compatible because of this. Roger Haight gave a magnificent expression of this
insight in the first session here this morning. To Hecker, the equal rights of
citizenship was a secular expression of the religious indwelling of the
Spirit in each person.
When this idea was brought to Europe at the end of the 19th
century, Leo XIII condemned it as the heresy Americanism. In
particular, the pope denounced the idea that certain liberties ought to
be introduced into the church so that, limiting the exercise and vigilance of
its powers, each one of the faithful may act more freely in pursuance of his
own natural bent and capacity. The anathemas were nearly pronounced over
Hecker himself. My own life as a 20th-century Catholic, in dissent from a
19th-century Catholicism, began with my falling under Heckers spell. The
Catholic church should rescind the condemnation of Americanism,
acknowledging that the pursuit of happiness assumes the
pursuance of ones natural bent and capacity, and that nothing
better defines the purpose for which our Creator made us.
So the answer to Pilates question, What is
truth? matters. If truth is the exclusive province of authority, then the
duty of the people is to conform to it. That answer to the question fits with
the politics of a command society, whether a monarchy, a dictatorship or the
present Catholic church. But if truth is, by definition, available to human
beings only in partial ways; if we know more by analogies than syllogisms; if,
that is, we see in a mirror dimly, then the responsibility of the
people is to bring ones own experience and ones own thought to the
place where the community has its conversations, to offer and accept criticism,
to honor the positions of others, and to respect oneself, not in isolation but
in this creative mutuality. The mutuality, in this community, has a name -- the
Holy Spirit.
The implication here is that truth is not the highest value for
us, because, in St. Pauls phrase, our knowledge is imperfect and
our prophecy is imperfect. Which is why the final revelation of Jesus is
not about knowing but about loving. This, too, places him firmly in the
tradition of Israel, which has always given primacy to right action.
Beloved, the author of the First Epistle of John wrote, let
us love one another; for love is of God, and he who loves is born of God and
knows God. He who does not love does not know God; for God is love.
This statement of a biblical faith in the ultimate meaning of
existence as love is a classic affirmation of what one might call the
pluralistic principle: Respect for the radically other begins with Gods
respect for the world, which is radically other from God. In other words, God
is the first pluralist. In this the love of God was made manifest among
us, that God sent Gods only Son into the world, so that we might live
through him. In this is love, not that we loved God but that God loved us and
sent Gods Son to be the expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved
us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one
another, God abides in us and Gods love is perfected in us.
Religious pluralism begins with this acknowledgment of the
universal impossibility of direct knowledge of God. The immediate consequence
of this universal ignorance is that we should regard each other respectfully
and lovingly. But our clear statement of Christian openness to the other is its
own revelation. The epistle just cited is attributed to John, the author of the
fourth gospel. The epistle was written, apparently, about the same time as the
gospel, around the turn of the first century. It was addressed to Christian
communities that were ridden with the disputes that had come after the
destruction of the Temple and with the first serious conflict between what was
becoming known as the church and the synagogue. This plea, whatever else it
referred to, concerned the tragedy then beginning to unfold -- it is John whose
gospel demonizes the Jews above all.
Language of love and justice
And the tragedy is underscored by the fact that in this same
letter John, as if understanding already what is at stake in the conflict, begs
his readers to not be like Cain who was of the evil one and murdered his
brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own deeds were evil and his
brothers righteous. The tragedy, and the sin, and what must forever
warn us off cheap talk of love, is that all too soon, and all too easily, the
followers of Jesus were content to read these words and identify Cain with
Jews.
That sin, embedded in the gospel itself, is proof of why the
church needs democracy, for the assumption of democratic politics, in addition
to the assumption that all citizens can contribute to the truth-seeking
conversation, is that all citizens are constitutionally incapable of consistent
truth-seeking and steadfast loving. God may be love, but the polis
isnt, and neither is the church. So we come full circle and recall that
the language of love is often used by those in power, while the language of
justice is used by those who suffer from the abuse of power. The language of
love is not enough. Because the language of love does not protect us from our
failures to love; only the language of justice does that.
Democracy assumes that a clear-headed assessment of the flaws of
members extends to everyone. But even the leaders of democracies, especially in
the United States, salt their speeches with Christian chauvinism or an
excluding religiosity, assuming that a democratic polity could be called
univocal -- no voices, that is, for religious minorities or those of no
religion. And that, finally, is why a democracy assumes that everyone must be
protected from the unchecked, uncriticized and unregulated power of every
other, including the well-meaning leader. The universal experience of
imperfection, finitude and self-centeredness is the pessimistic ground of
democratic hope. The churchs own experience -- its grievous sin in
relation to the Jews, for example, its long tradition of denigrating women,
and, lately, the inability of clerical leaders to dismantle an autocratic
structure that enabled priestly child abuse -- proves how desperately in need
of democratic reform the Catholic church is.
Restore broken authority
The Catholic reform movement, represented at its best by Call To
Action, must therefore turn the church away from autocracy and toward
democracy, as the Catholic people have in fact already begun to do. The
explosion of grassroots participation by laypeople in the project of changing
the church is the first step on the new road. Call to Action, simply by already
being here, has been a crucial model for Voice of the Faithful. That Voice of
the Faithful is self-consciously moderate in comparison to Call to
Action is good, for a main function of a more liberal movement for change is
precisely to empower the moderate effort. Together we bring about change, and
together we keep the faith.
The Catholic reform movement, however identified, must solidify
this impulse and restore the broken authority of the church by locating
authority in the place where it belongs, which is with the people through whom
the Spirit breathes. In this way, the Roman Catholic church must affirm that
democracy itself is the latest gift from a God who operates in history, and the
only way for the church to affirm democracy is by embracing it. The old dispute
between popes and kings over who appoints bishops was resolved in favor of the
pope, but bishops now should be chosen by the people they serve.
The clerical caste, a vestige of the medieval court, should be
eliminated. The Catholic reform movement must establish equal rights for women
in every sphere. A system of checks and balances, true due process, legislative
norms designed to assure equality for all instead of superiority for some,
freedom of expression, and above all freedom of conscience must be established
within the church -- not because the time of liberalism has arrived, but
because the long and sorry story of church hatred of Jews, church triumphalism
in relation to other religions, church rigidity in relation to dissent from
within, and the fresh outrage of child rape all lay bare the structures of
oppression that must be dismantled once and for all.
If Russia can do it; if East Germany can do it; if Poland can do
it; if Czechoslovakia can do it; if South Africa can do it -- so can the Roman
Catholic church. Democracy is the key to religious reform. You are the
Lech Walesas of Catholicism; the Vaclav Havels, the Nelson Mandelas, the
Corazon Aquinos. You are the prophets of democracy. You are the salt of the
earth, the yeast of the bread, the hope of the church. Which is why I salute
you, and why I thank you.
James Carroll concludes his best-selling 2001 book,
Constantines Sword: The Church and the Jews, with a 50-page Call for
Vatican III. Carroll, a former Paulist priest, is the author of nine novels.
His memoir, An American Requiem: God, My Father and the War That Came
Between Us.
National Catholic Reporter, November 15,
2002
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