Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Habemus papam!

This week, as everybody knows, the Christian world got a new Pope. I say "the Christian world" deliberately. Whatever we "separated brethren" believe about the Papacy, we are related to it by virtue of our baptism. The Pope is the successor of Peter and the rightful leader of all Christians. Of that I am certain, whatever problems I may have with some of the papal claims.

I've been an admirer of the theological work of Cardinal Ratzinger (now Benedict XVI) for years. I generally say that my three favorite living Catholic theologians are Ratzinger, Avery Dulles, and Aidan Nichols. However, I've also been influenced by the prevailing stereotype of Ratzinger as a hardline conservative. I've read parts of his early Introduction to Christianity, which I found extremely moving. And I've read bits of his more recent work. But when I think of recent Ratzinger I've tended to think of Dominus Iesus and the Ratzinger Report. Both of these documents contain a lot of wisdom, and I've defended Dominus Iesus to fellow-Protestants (and even some Catholics) on many occasions. But as prefect of the CDF, Ratzinger has spent much of the past 24 years laying out the limits of orthodoxy. And this has led many people--including myself--to assume that he has changed significantly from his early years.

Since his election, I've been reading more of his work--some of the essays and addresses found on the EWTN website for one thing, and the book of conversations God and the World for another. And I've become increasingly convinced that the stereotype has been seriously mistaken. Ratzinger's job has been to preserve orthodoxy, so most of us have only paid attention to him when he was wagging a finger at someone. Yet all the while he has continued to produce (as a theologian) thoughtful, creative reflections on the Christian life and the role of the Church.

The central and consistent theme of Ratzinger's thought is communion. Not authority, not law, not order, not even tradition. Human beings are created for communion with God and one another. The Church is the fellowship in which this communion takes place--a fellowship that sums up God's work of creation throughout the aeons, and God's work of revelation throughout the centuries. The purpose of doctrine and liturgy and discipline is to shape this fellowship of communion. All the history of the universe and the human race is pointing toward the eschaton, in which the creation to which God has given freedom will freely return to communion with Him. The Church exists as a sign of that final goal of all creation. This is the context which Ratzinger's critics repeatedly miss. And without it nothing he says or does makes sense.

The new Pope's abhorrence of relativism stems from its threat to this doctrine of communion. If the truth is changing and uncertain, then the history of the universe lacks a goal. Communion is not simply a matter of warm feelings or of tolerance. It involves a deep spiritual unity, and this requires a shared vision of the truth.

This does not mean that the Church's grasp of the truth does not change or develop. In _God and the World_ Ratzinger makes this clear: "It is never the case that we can say, Now we know everything; now the knowledge of Christianity is complete. There are unfathomable depths both in God and in human life, so that there are always new dimensions to faith." (God and the World, 38.) "What has at least been vouchsafed to the Church," he continues, "is a certitude about what can not be reconciled with the gospel."

Benedict XVI is a "conservative" not because he wants to return to an earlier era, and not because he thinks progress is impossible, but because he understands that for progress to take place it must build on what has already been learned rather than rejecting it. Progress implies a goal. And as Chesterton pointed out more than a century ago, you can't have progress if the goal keeps moving. We live in a society that has glorified change for its own sake. Suggest that a given change might possibly be bad, and you find yourself branded a "conservative." And in a society that has abandoned a shared vision of truth, slurs and labels are our most powerful weapons, because rational disagreement has become impossible. Ratzinger complains in Conscience and Truth: "In many places today, for example, no one bothers any longer to ask what a person thinks. The verdict on someone's thinking is ready at hand as long as you can assign it to its corresponding, formal category: conservative, reactionary, fundamentalist, progressive, revolutionary." (In all fairness, Ratzinger himself sometimes falls prey to this tendency--like many German academics, he's too prone to sum something up with a generalizing label and act as if he's adequately described it. But even his worst enemies cannot accuse him of not bothering "to ask what a person thinks.")

The accusation of hardboiled conservatism, while mistaken, at least has some basis in truth. But the other major accusation against Ratzinger--that he defines the Church in terms of power and authority rather than love or communion--is pretty nearly the opposite of the truth. Throughout his writings, the Pope has insisted that the power of the Christian faith is the power that flows from the Cross of Christ. He has made it clear that the Papacy's detour into temporal power was a terrible distraction from its true ministry, which is one of martyrdom in all the senses of the word.

Benedict's marvellous sermon at the Inauguration Mass this morning expresses this with eloquence and clarity:

The symbol of the lamb also has a deeper meaning. In the Ancient Near East, it was customary for kings to style themselves shepherds of their people. This was an image of their power, a cynical image: to them their subjects were like sheep, which the shepherd could dispose of as he wished. When the shepherd of all humanity, the living God, himself became a lamb, he stood on the side of the lambs, with those who are downtrodden and killed. This is how he reveals himself to be the true shepherd: "I am the Good Shepherd . . . I lay down my life for the sheep," Jesus says of himself (John 10:14f). It is not power, but love that redeems us! This is Gods sign: he himself is love. How often we wish that God would make show himself stronger, that he would strike decisively, defeating evil and creating a better world. All ideologies of power justify themselves in exactly this way, they justify the destruction of whatever would stand in the way of progress and the liberation of humanity.

We suffer on account of God's patience. And yet, we need his patience. God, who became a lamb, tells us that the world is saved by the Crucified One, not by those who crucified him. The world is redeemed by the patience of God. It is destroyed by the impatience of man. One of the basic characteristics of a shepherd must be to love the people entrusted to him, even as he loves Christ whom he serves. "Feed my sheep," says Christ to Peter, and now, at this moment, he says it to me as well. Feeding means loving, and loving also means being ready to suffer. Loving means giving the sheep what is truly good, the nourishment of Gods truth, of Gods word, the nourishment of his presence, which he gives us in the Blessed Sacrament.

"It is not power, but love that redeems us." These are not the words of a doctrinaire authoritarian. These are the words of a man who truly loves Christ, and who has grasped with his whole soul the heart of the Gospel. In his recent diatribe, Fr. Matthew Fox claimed that a canon lawyer had told him that to understand Ratzinger he had to understand that Ratzinger was not a Christian. Unless everything I have read and seen and heard of Ratzinger/Benedict is false, Fr. Fox and his unnamed source have it exactly wrong. To understand Pope Benedict, we must first understand that he is a Christian. One would think that this would be easy to grasp. Yet most criticisms of him seem predicated on the idea that he can't really believe what he says. He can't really think that all of history is summed up in the Gospel of Christ, as historically preserved (though unworthily) by the Catholic Church. This must really be a mask for something else, something secular people can understand and account for.

This failure to understand what Benedict is all about has led to misunderstanding of one of his most provocative remarks (repeated in several different contexts in recent years): that the Church may have to become smaller in order to witness effectively to the Gospel. Coming as I do from a "Holiness" background in which "a big church" was more or less synonymous with corruption (indeed, my family believed that the Catholic Church's sheer size alone testified that it couldn't be the true Church), I find this vision rather appealing. But again, it has been interpreted as a sign of authoritarianism--that Ratzinger wants to get rid of all those who won't bow to his yoke. In fact, it is the reverse. Ratzinger's vision of the Church is the antidote to triumphalism. It does not glorify smallness in itself, and it is certainly not dour and pessimistic. But it calls on the Church to be faithful without counting the cost--to give up the quest for worldly power in order to testify to the God who reigns from the Cross. If this should lead to a revitalization of Christian Europe, then Ratzinger clearly welcomes that prospect. (Indeed, he seems quite optimistic that eventually secularism will pall, and that a revitalized Church will become attractive once again to jaded Europeans.) But that is not the Church's goal in itself, and the Church must not (as she has done in the past) compromise her message in order to establish a "Christian" society.

This vision of the Church is surely linked to Ratzinger's choice of a papal name. Alasdair McIntyre closes his masterpiece After Virtue with the somber pronouncement that we face a situation much like that of Christians at the time of the fall of the Western Empire. The barbarians, McIntyre warns, have been ruling us for some time. This "barbarism" expresses itself in a loss of the conception that human life has a telos, a final goal. Such a rejection of teleology also involves a rejection of the traditional distinction between human beings as they are and human beings as they should be. (See for instance Sidney Callahan's reaction to Ratzinger's "Conscience and Truth.") We attempt to construct ethics on the basis of empirical observation of human behavior, and the result is that we can find no convincing rationale for many traditional values, and when we face major ethical debates we have no common ground on which to discuss (much less resolve) our differences.

McIntyre's answer to this dire predicament is to form communities of people who do practice the virtues, within which a conception of human life as ordered toward a "telos" remains living and effective. "We are waiting," he proclaims, "not for Godot, but for a second, no doubt very different, St. Benedict." These words of hope have taken on a new meaning this past week. Whether the new Pope will turn out to be a saint is not for me to decide (or for anyone to decide yet). But he has already proclaimed himself to be a Benedict.

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Requiescat in pace JPII

I've spent much of the past day and a half watching coverage of the Pope's death. It's still sinking in. Karol Wojtila has defined the world in which I live more than anyone else--which is ironic, given how often he opposed what seemed to be the dominant culture of our era. I was four years old when John Paul II became Pope, and Popes weren't really on my radar screen except as mythical monsters. It took me years to overcome the prejudices I'd inherited and recognize just how saintly and wise he was. And now he is gone. We will not soon see his like. He was not perfect, and as an Episcopalian (though a relatively conservative one) I obviously differ with some of his beliefs and actions. But he taught the world what a Pope could be. The office has had its share of scoundrels, and far more mediocrities. But in John Paul the spirit of the Apostles stood up and roared. This was a man unquestionably, devotedly in love with Jesus Christ; a man fervently convinced of the existence of truth, and committed to the proposition that all truth ultimately led to one source. His outreach to other religions (criticized by conservatives) and his defense of traditional Christian sexual morality (criticized by liberals) reflected a unified Christian humanism that his critics rarely seem to have grasped. It was easier to portray him as a man of contradictions than to face the possibility that he saw what we did not. He was standing on top of the mountain while we threw stones at him from opposite valleys. For John Paul II, all goodness and truth and beauty in human culture came from Christ, and for him there was no radical discontinuity between the dignity given us in creation and the new nature restored in Christ. Christ is the goal of all creation, the lens through which every human aspiration gains its nobility. The religion of John Paul was one that set demanding standards, but had room for deep compassion with human weakness. The popular faith of our culture does exactly the opposite--it cheapens forgiveness into tolerance and then has no true forgiveness left for those who need it.

John Paul's motto, from the beginning, was "Be not afraid." I used to find this rather superficial, as if all the problems of the world could be brushed away with an exhortation to buck up. But the older I get, and the more deeply I delve into my own fears, the more I realize that this was the one truly profound thing that could be said to our cowardly age. The great sin of our era is not that we are cruel or lustful or unjust or unbelieving. We are all those things, but there's nothing new in that--people have had these vices since the beginning of recorded history. The great sin of our age is that we are afraid. In our heart of hearts, many of us do not believe that there is any life beyond this one, that there is any transcendent value worth living and dying for, that there is any truth that can satisfy our souls like bread and wine. And so we dare not risk our lives by daring to believe, to hope, to love. We fritter ourselves away in little deaths, because we fear death so much. We browse the Internet, we watch TV, we read self-help books, we eat fast food. We spend our last days in a coma (if our relatives don't starve us to death), and we die and are reduced to ashes. And we call ourselves great and enlightened and civilized.

We are a culture of death because we are a culture of fear. Far from being irrelevant, John Paul was feared and hated because his message was exactly the message we needed to hear. We said that he did not understand us, because he understood us too well. He did not accept our heroic vision of ourselves, so we said he was blinded by his archaic prejudices. But in fact, like all prophets, he saw through our false images of greatness. He saw our pitiful souls, made for holiness and contented with mediocrity--he saw us and he loved us, as his Master loves us. And we could not stand it.

May he rest in peace, and may light perpetual shine upon him. And by his prayers, may we obtain the grace to follow his example. May we love without fear, and hope without shame. May we never rest content with anything less than the full humanity that is ours in Christ. And may we be gathered together, with Karol Wojtila and all the faithful departed, in the presence of our Lord who bought us with his blood.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Good Friday in Florida

I don't really have anything to say about the Terri Schiavo case that hasn't been said already--by Kathleen Parker, for instance, in two excellent recent articles in the Orlando Sentinel. For that matter, President Bush has summed up the core of the matter--we should always err on the side of life. Schiavo is being killed slowly by a legal system so dedicated to privacy and self-determination that it allows a husband now living with another woman to end the life of his wife against the protests of her parents. A case like this shows that something is rotten with our approach to questions of life and death.

I don't know if Schiavo's parents are right in thinking that she may recover. I don't know if there are any brain cells left in her cerebral cortex. I don't know if her apparent interaction with visitors is an illusion. I don't even (as many supporters of Schiavo claim to do) know what kind of a person Michael Schiavo is, or what his motives are. I don't know if she really expressed a desire not to be kept alive or not. But even a slight shadow of doubt on any of these issues is enough to make the withdrawal of her feeding tube a damnable act of murder.

Suppose all the things claimed by Michael Schiavo and the judges who have sided with him are true. Suppose Schiavo really isn't "in there" any more. What horrendous evil is being committed? A human body is being kept in some sort of functioning biological state even though (in traditional religious/philosophical terms) the soul has fled. If this were true, it would be a waste of money, and it would hinder Michael Schiavo's plans for the rest of his life. But neither of these things is the end of the world.

Killing an innocent human being, however, is the end of the world--for that person at least. (Hence the Jewish maxim that saving one life is equivalent to saving the whole human race, with its corollary that killing one person is equivalent to wiping out the human race. Life and death are not subject to arithmetic.) There's a kind of Pascal's wager here. If Terri is still a living human being (however disabled) then what is being done to her is murder. If she is not, then keeping her body "alive" is foolish but hardly wicked.

This is very similar to the logic that leads me to oppose the death penalty. I don't think that it is wrong to execute someone who has deliberately killed another human being. But neither do I believe that society has a moral duty to do so. Therefore, given the fact that it's almost impossible to be absolutely sure whether an accused murderer is guilty, I see no moral justification for imposing the death penalty unless leaving the murderer alive would put innocent people in imminent danger. Again, we should always err on the side of life.

It is often claimed that pro-life people are inconsistent if they don't oppose the death penalty. I don't think this is true (although I oppose both abortion and the death penalty), because the distinction between innocent human life and the life of a murderer is a consistent one, even if you don't agree with it. But the reverse _is_ true, in Schiavo's case as with regard to abortion. If the danger of executing an innocent person is a powerful reason for opposing the death penalty (as it surely is), then all those who use this argument or rely on this as a reason for their anti-death-penalty stance should be lining up in support of Schiavo. That many of them are not doing so is a witness to just how far _they_ (rather than Schiavo's supporters) are the ones motivated by political considerations.

I'm particularly disappointed with Jim Wallis of _Sojourners_. I agree with his position as often as not, and was very impressed with his open letter to Chuck Colson a few weeks ago. But the most recent _Sojourners_ email newsletter contains two articles which contrast sadly with each other. One of them praises (rightly) the U.S. Catholic bishops for a new statement against the death penalty. The other takes a rather mealy-mouthed stance with regard to the Schiavo case, saying that we should indeed be particularly careful to protect the rights of vulnerable people like Schiavo, but at the same time claiming that issues regarding withdrawal of life support are difficult ones and there are no clear-cut answers. I applauded Wallis when he claimed (against Colson) to be the supporter of a consistent ethic of life, challenging both the major parties wherever they depart from this ethic. But this most recent newsletter confirms my suspicions that Wallis does not live up to his claims in practice. He is far more concerned with the ways political conservatives support the culture of death than with the ways liberals do.

On this Good Friday, we are reminded that we are a people whose King reigns from the Cross. The answer that the Church has to give our conflicted and confused society does not lie in the use of power, even though power has its legitimate uses to defend the innocent. It is our calling as Christians to take our stand on the Cross with our Lord and with all those throughout history who have suffered at the hands of the powerful. It is not our job to make compromises in order to get things done. It is not our job to choose the lesser evil to avoid the greater. We are called not to side with the winners in the political game, but with the victims for whom the game has a deadly seriousness. We should indeed call on those in power to use that power on behalf of Schiavo and those like her, and we should hold them accountable if they do not. But we should not be surprised when they let us down (and more importantly, let the Terri Schiavos of the world down, and Christ in them). We must speak out on behalf of all the victims, not just those whom our favored political party chooses to champion. We must suffer with them, weep with them, and if necessary die with them. God knows that I have done little in this regard. I am far more concerned with ecclesiology and liturgy and history (important as all these things are) than with the sufferings of Christ in those whose humanity He shares. May God forgive me. May God forgive us all, and as Easter morning dawns, may our victorious Lord grant us the strength to do better.

And may God grant deliverance to Terri Schiavo, unjustly condemned to death--and if not, then may He grant rest to her soul, and repentance and forgiveness to those who are killing her.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Two kinds of relativism

"Relativism" is one of those words that gets thrown around in our culture a lot, but we don't always clarify what we mean by it. In particular, it gets used by conservatives as a slur--often to discredit a view that seems too fuzzy: "That seems dangerously relativistic to me." On the other hand, I've talked to at least two people in my life who did claim to be thorough-going relativists (one was a philosophy Ph.D. student at Duke, the other was an eccentric elderly gentleman, also with a philosophy background but not a member of the academic establishment, whom I met in Barnes and Noble). Neither of them gave what seemed to me like a convincing answer to the objection that their position undermined any kind of moral judgment. They both (particularly the guy in Barnes and Noble) appeared to endorse a code of ethics that relied primarily on leaving one another alone and respecting the rights and privacy of others. But neither of them seemed to be able to answer (to my satisfaction at least) my objection that if there are no absolutes then this code itself has no valid basis. Furthermore, any thorough-going relativism exposes itself to the old stand-by: if there are no absolutes, then it is absolutely true that there are no absolutes.

Precisely for this reason, I think we need to take more seriously a much more modest kind of relativism (one could call it "relative relativism") which fulfills the need felt by relativists (for acknowledging the limitations of our viewpoint as limited human beings) without falling prey to the charge of self-refutation. An old friend of mine in college put it best: in this kind of relativism, what is being claimed is simply that everything we know or affirm to be true is known and affirmed from a particular standpoint, influenced and shaped by particular circumstances. (I'm paraphrasing him, not quoting him.) This does _not_ deny that there are absolute truths. Nor, in a sense, does it deny that we have access to those absolute truths. But our access is not itself absolute. We know the absolutes, but we do not know them absolutely. This, it seems to me, is true to the Thomistic maxim that knowledge exists according to the mode of the knower, and to the far more important Pauline saying that we "see through a glass, darkly" in this life.

This results in a paradox. I can see with utter conviction that certain things are absolutely right and wrong, while remaining aware of the fact that I am speaking from a particular perspective, shaped by particular influences. I can be at least somewhat self-aware in this regard, and will naturally be more confident of the absolute relevance of what I'm saying insofar as my perspective appears to be that of the human race as a whole, or at least of a large cross-section thereof. From a purely rational point of view, it is far more certain that cruelty is wrong than that democracy is the best way to govern human beings, and it is far more certain that a God of some kind exists than that God is Three Persons in One, and that the Second Person of the Godhead became man for our salvation. This is primarily relevant in terms of our attitude toward those with whom we disagree. Contrary to what both thorough-going relativists and some Christian advocates of "total depravity" would argue, the Nazis for instance were aware that what they were doing to the Jews was cruel (or, as they would have said, apparently cruel) and went against certain basic human moral intuitions (they argued these moral intuitions away, but the very arguments they made showed that the intuitions were not simply absent). Absolute monarchy, on the other hand, was regarded as a positive good by many people throughout history, and we should be very cautious about judging those who accepted this belief, even if we strongly believe otherwise.

As I suggested in a comment to an earlier post of mine, this is somewhat relevant to the old story of the blind men and the elephant. We do in fact see only in part, but that does not mean that our knowledge is purely subjective, or that all knowledge is equally valid. One poster, "Basil," objected in a further comment that this leaves out the fact of revelation. If the "elephant" has revealed Himself to us, then the analogy no longer works. I don't think this is true, because of the Pauline and Thomistic principles I've already mentioned. Even revelation is received according to the mode of the knower. This is why certain Protestant understandings of the perspicuity of Scripture are simply false to reality. A certain kind of Catholic apologetic rightly points this out, but then lands itself in the trap of trying to eliminate the limitations of the "through a glass" perspective via an infallible magisterium. As I've already said on this blog, I'm simply not convinced that this epistemological strategy works.

Christianity is necessarily rooted in particularity. We believe it either because it was taught to us from infancy or because at some point, due to particular circumstances, it commended itself to us as true and good. (For most of us it's some combination of the two.) This does not negate the universal claims of Christianity. But it should affect how we express those claims, and how we regard both non-Christians and adherents of forms of Christianity other than our own. We have no direct access to some kind of God's-eye perspective from which to evaluate our own beliefs vis-a-vis other ways of seeing the world. This should not be a reason for discouragement or cynicism. This is the way God made us to know the world--through eyes of flesh and with a brain made up of little gray cells, subject to headaches and chemicals and hormones. To try to transcend this perspective is to try to transcend our humanity.

Saturday, February 12, 2005

Subjectivism

Yet again, I'm provoked to blog by the discussion over at Pontifications, where some of the issues that most concern me are being hashed out in some very thoughtful ways. There's been some discussion recently about Eucharistic theology and practice among Protestants, and I have been defending the view that Christ is truly present (whatever the true meaning of that presence may be) wherever the Lord's Supper is celebrated, whether or not the proper minister (i.e., an episcopally ordained priest) is presiding. This is obviously subject to criticism on a number of fronts. There are two objections that most concern me.

The first is that this position contradicts the historic stance of the Church. I'm not sure this is quite as evident as is often claimed. Most of the insistence on proper ordination of the minister of the Eucharist can be interpreted as referring to proper order rather than necessarily to validity (in Catholic terminology, to the licit or illicit character of the sacrament). Occasionally there are positive bits of evidence that validity is not the issue at stake. For instance, William Durandus's Rationale Divinorum Officiorum tells the story of two shepherds who said the words of institution over some bread which they had placed on a rock. As a result, the bread was miraculously transformed into flesh. Granted, Durandus adds that they were immediately struck by lightning for their blasphemy. But the clear implication is that the words _themselves_ have power irrespective of the person using them. This isn't particularly the view of the sacrament I'm trying to defend. But neither is it what passes for Catholic orthodoxy today. Yet the Catholic Encyclopedia, that bastion of pre-Vatican-II respectability, informs us that Durandus is "one of the most important medieval liturgical writers." http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/05207a.htm
The pre-Reformation Church's position was not as clear-cut as it is made out to be. Of that much I'm certain. And when you throw into the mix St. Jerome's well-known denial that bishops were more than presbyters given a certain preeminence of jurisdiction for pragmatic and historical reasons, I think the case for some kind of emphatic, universal consensus on this question looks rather shaky.

In the second place, I have found myself accused of "subjectivism." In other words, my view allegedly amounts to saying that Christ is present where He is believed to be present. Well, that isn't entirely true, since I believe that Christ is present sacramentally even where no such presence is believed in. But it's certainly true that for me the fact of Protestant sacramental piety (however vague and insufficient by Catholic standards) is a strong argument for the reality of sacramental grace among Protestants. I myself came to believe in the Real Presence largely through my experience of weekly communion in Plymouth Brethren assemblies in Romania (about as "low church" and anti-sacramental as you can get, except for the fact that they celebrated the "breaking of bread" every Sunday). One poster on Pontifications asked me if I would similarly say that Muslim piety must have some objective correlation.

I've been thinking about that, and my answer is yes. That doesn't mean that I accept all the things Muslims claim about their religion, of course. I don't believe that the Qur'an is divinely inspired (except insofar as any book containing truth and goodness is divinely inspired), for instance. But I would never say that Muslims (or, for that matter, Hindus) are worshipping a God who exists solely in their own minds. Insofar as there are elements of truth in what they believe, their piety _does_ in fact relate to something "objective," something outside the psyche of the worshipper. There are forms of "spirituality" that do appear to be almost entirely subjective. But I certainly would not bring this charge against Islam.

Similarly, I am not claiming that everything Protestants claim about themselves is true. Clearly, for instance, many evangelicals, especially Pentecostals and charismatics, are deceived when they claim special revelation from God--this is an almost unavoidable conclusion, given how mutually contradictory and often self-refuting many such "revelations" are. More broadly and relevantly, many Protestants claim a kind of perspicuity for Scripture, and an ability to determine its meaning with certainty, for which I can see no warrant. I do not even accept the versions of inerrancy upheld by many conservative Protestants. So I'm very far from maintaining the ridiculous proposition that because good and pious people believe something, it must be true. Rather, I'm saying that the existence of a form of piety that produces fruit is an argument for the existence of something real giving substance to that piety. Not an irrefutable argument, but an argument nonetheless. I would have to see very strong arguments indeed to be persuaded that Christ was not sacramentally present in Plymouth Brethren, Restorationist ("Campbellite"), and Methodist Eucharists (the three non-episcopal traditions among whom I've most often partaken of the Lord's Supper--leaving aside the question of Anglican Orders!). And so far I have not seen such arguments--rather, I've seen a lot of assumptions and jumping to conclusions, built largely on the assumption that since Protestants don't believe in the kind of sacramental grace Catholics/Orthodox (and Anglo-Catholics) do, therefore denying validity to their sacraments is doing them no injustice.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Response to Dave Armstrong

I apologize yet again for being so slow to blog. I'm currently teaching three sections of Western Civ at a local state university, besides trying to finish my dissertation (at last!). Also, I've been working on two essays which will eventually find their way to this blog: a discussion of women's ordination in the format of a Thomistic "quaestio," in response to challenges from several people on the Crowhill discussion board and the comment section of Pontifications; and a long-delayed piece on the development of Protestant ecclesiology which I promised to Dave Armstrong in some antediluvian era.

Today, though, I want to try to respond to some of the comments regarding my previous posting, and I'll start with Dave's lengthy response on his blog "cor ad cor loquitur," to which I've provided a link (scroll down to last Wednesday's posting). Dave, please accept this as a temporary payment in lieu of my long-in-arrears discussion of development! If I have time, I will then try to respond to some of the many comments my post has generated, some of them here but far more of them either at Dave's blog or at Pontifications.

I appreciate Dave's courtesy in quoting my entire post. I trust he will not be offended that I don't respond in kind, in order to keep the volume of text a bit briefer. I will quote the relevant sections to which I'm responding--you can read the rest on Dave's blog. Any quotes from my original post are in blue--Dave's words are in red.

Dave wrote (in response to my argument that unity and authority are the principal reasons someone would convert to Catholicism):

I am a Catholic in part precisely because I see Catholicism as the "unchanging" faith. I see it uniquely holding to ancient Christian morality in areas such as divorce and abortion. I see it acknowledging a papacy, which certainly seems to be a strong motif in the Fathers (with even current-day Orthodox and many Anglicans agreeing that papal primacy in some form was the norm throughout Church history). In areas where Catholicism appears, at first glance, to be significantly different from earlier Christianity, I think this is able to be sufficiently explained by development of doctrine (the factor that was most important in my conversion).

And here we run yet again into the need for some kind of dialogue on development. As I said above, I've been trying to put together an argument concerning ecclesiology specifically. Our most serious attempt to discuss development, if I remember rightly, ran aground on questions of definition. Development is a vast and tricky subject and I don't claim to have a good handle on it. But it seems to me that its primary usefulness for Catholics is simply in establishing internal consistency. I don't see how it can be used to overcome the a priori impression that Orthodoxy is more like the early Church in most respects than Catholicism. If one is convinced on other grounds that Catholicism is truer--if for instance one decides that the existence of a papacy is more important than changes in how the papacy functions--then development is a legitimate explanation for the fact of considerable apparent change.

I wrote, with regard to the Papacy: a unique role does not have to mean a necessary role.

No (strictly logically speaking), but I maintain that Church history in the first millennium shows that both the papacy and ecumenical councils were permanent aspects of ecclesiology. The fact that both Orthodox and Protestants either have neither, or in theory only, is quite telling and a good argument for the Catholic position.

I agree. It is _one_ good argument, which has to be weighed as part of a complex set of arguments on both sides. It is not decisive in and of itself _unless_ one has decided already that the question of legitimate authority is the dominant question.

I wrote: It may be that Rome has in fact fallen into heresy,

Dave resonded: Who would authoritatively decide that?

If that is the first question that comes to mind, then the answer is clear--and it's the answer you've chosen. But something can be true--and can be known to be true--in the absence of some kind of formal and final judicial authority for determining it. The fact that I said "it may be" is an admission that I do _not_ think that this can be known with certainty at this point. Again, if one is putting questions of authority in the forefront, that settles the issue there and then.

I am not a Catholic in part because I don't believe that the consent of Rome is sufficient to make a group of bishops an Ecumenical Council. But I am firmly convinced that it's necessary.

Then it seems to me that Catholic ecclesiology is closing in on you . . . you can hold such a view, but you will always be an odd duck in Anglicanism or Orthodoxy. The logic here leads inexorably to Rome, where there is a consistent, coherent position on such matters (agree or disagree).

Well, there are many such "odd ducks" among Anglicans, and even a few among the Orthodox. I don't see anything incoherent or inconsistent about my position. It is not inconsistent with high-church Protestantism (it may or may not be inconsistent with Orthodoxy), and it is inconsistent with Catholicism. So I don't see that my logic leads to Rome. A sense of intellectual comfort leads to Rome, true enough. It's a delicate balance holding the position I do, and that's the single biggest argument against it--one Diane Kamer has pressed on me in the past. Can orthodox Christianity really depend on intellectual gymnastics? My response would be that in my ecclesiology, ecclesiology itself is not vitally necessary to the Christian life. Most Catholics don't understand the nuances of their own Church's position (does anyone?), but they hold to it nonetheless by implicit faith. In much the same way, most Protestants hear the Word and receive the Sacraments, and in my view this is sufficient for them to participate in the reality of the Church, even if they have what I think are muddled or downright mistaken views of what the Church is.

One can't speak of "the Church" when speaking of dogmatic definitions without speaking of Rome. Any non-Roman ecclesiology is going to find its style a bit cramped when it comes to fighting heresy and laying down the boundaries of orthodoxy.

Why is this? I would like to see this developed a bit, and reasons given why. If the reason is lack of central authority, then I would ask why it is that many people have a hard time grasping what you see as rather obvious? And, conversely, how and why do you see it as obvious, while they don't?

If the validity of my views depended on explaining why learned and devout people disagree with me, I would never have time to have any views at all. Briefly, I think that most Protestants do recognize that this is true in some sense. For some it's not a problem because either total tolerance or what I characterize sectarianism seem desirable to them. For others, reasons other than the rejection of Rome are responsible. Others would say that it is a problem but is more than made up for by other virtues peculiar to Protestantism. Quite a few would agree with me that it is a problem that we may have to live with for now but should not cease lamenting. Witness the position of Canon Heidt to which Pontificator recently referred. There are more of us "papal Protestants" than you might think. My wife had to read _Veritatis Splendor_ in her ethics class in seminary, and I think this attention to JPII by many Protestants isn't _just_ a matter of recognizing him as an important Christian thinker of our time (though it may be largely that), but also acknowledges implicitly or explicitly that his office as such demands some regard from us. Increasingly, I think would-be orthodox Protestants are being pushed in that direction.

I would also like to make the caveat that I think the problem is the lack of an authority Christ ordained for the Church--not necessarily "the lack of central authority," which is the kind of generalized epistemological argument I'm rejecting.


For me, a large part of my decision wasn't authority per se, but simply looking to see who held most closely to the Ancient Christian Faith as I understood it (through study) to be. It was more a matter of (historical) factuality than of epistemology and authority (though the latter played a
role, too). In other words, for me, the question, "What [or, Which] is the Church?" was one of plausible historical continuity, not a matter of which claimant had the best or most coherent functioning authority. Truth was paramount in my mind, not authority (which doesn't always coincide with truth).

Interesting. But why would you regard the line of development leading to Rome as more plausible than the line leading to Orthodoxy, _unless_ you saw Rome's claims of authority as decisive? I know that the contraception issue is important for you--was that (and divorce) the deciding factor?

From our previous discussion of development, I don't recall where we left this issue (which I'm pretty sure I did raise--in fact I think this was the initial claim on my part that drew you into the discussion), but one of my criticisms of Newman is that he really seems to have thought that development was some sort of discernable pattern that you could in some sense predict beforehand. In other words, he seems to be arguing that there is some sort of discernable philosophical necessity for Christian dogma to develop in the forms it did in Catholicism, and that this is a decisive reason to choose Catholicism over other forms of Christianity. His argument about the Virgin Mary being parallel to the Arian view of Christ is a prime example of this--but his belief that erroneous doctrines also have "corruptions" as opposed to "developments" is a more fundamental one. I don't think "development" can be meaningfully distinguished from "corruption" except in the case of true ideas. In other words, a development of an idea is linked to it by the fact that they are both true. Otherwise "development" is simply another word for change.

I raise this point because, as I said, in my view development is _only_ useful as an apologetic tool once one has other reasons for suspecting that Catholicism may be true. "Development" is a legitimate response to the claim that Catholicism (or, hypothetically, some other system one believes in) can't be true because it has changed over time. A theory of development shows the continuities lying underneath the change. But I think that such a claim can be made for most religious systems that command the loyalty of significant numbers of people. I don't think it's a useful way of distinguishing a true belief system from a false one--only for refuting objections to a system one is inclined to accept on other grounds.


It was the intersection of historical truths and ecclesiological claims which fascinated me and ultimately drew me in, via Newman's Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine. In fact, my strong tendency was away from centralized or infallible authority, since my biggest beef was with infallibility. I fought that with all my might in the year preceding my conversion, utilizing Dollinger, Kung, Salmon: many of the most-used anti-infallibilist tracts. Cardinal Newman overcame my objection through the force of reason as applied to history, and the argument from analogy.

Interesting. Are you saying that you were inclined to become Catholic on other grounds, and Newman simply cleared away your objection to infallibility by showing that it was compatible with a theory of development? Or are you saying that Newman gave you a decisive reason to become Catholic by proving that infallible authority was necessary? If the latter, then my argument stands. But it seems that you are saying the former, in which case my critique doesn't apply to you (and since frankly you're one of the pillars of what I think of as "authority-based" Catholic apologetics, this is a major issue).



For the authority-minded, everything tends to boil down to epistemology. How do you know that you are in possession of the truth?

Yes. I think this is very important, and it is a major reason that I am an apologist. Part of our job is to try to provide answers to such questions for (in my case) Catholics, and Christians generally, in areas where we all agree. I would argue that this question, in relationship to Christianity, inevitably becomes an historical one. That's how the system was designed. The resurrection was historical. So was the Crucifixion and Ascension and Post-Resurrection appearances. How and why we believe in those things is determined by legal-historical types of evidence; eyewitness testimony and so forth. Miracles which lead us to accept Christianity are matters of historical testimony.

I recognize that there are sincere and intelligent people who become Christians on these grounds. Given that I was brought up to believe, it's a different sort of issue for me and I can't really comment. But those arguments have _never_ been primary in keeping me a Christian. Rather, arguments about the historicity of the Resurrection are in my view sufficient to make it not unreasonable to accept the Resurrection. I don't think they would convince me if I were not a Christian, and if asked why I was a Christian they would not be the answers that would first spring to mind--certainly not the answers that would lie closest to my heart. The Resurrection and the Christian story generally speaks _first_ to the human condition as I experience it. It is a story that makes sense of my life and of the world around me, and one that I receive experientially as having the ring of truth and goodness. Then I look at the evidence to make sure that I'm not fooling myself. And when I find that the evidence for the Resurrection is quite remarkably good compared to other claims of supernatural events, and when I see other assorted bits of historical evidence for the truth of Christianity, then that helps settle my faith over against arguments purporting to show that Christianity _can't_ be true. But if Christianity did not make sense of the universe as I experience it, the existing evidence would be hopelessly inadequate to convince me. You can call this post-modern or subjectivistic or whatever, but I don't know any other way to proceed in these matters.

The same is true of Catholicism. I think the historical argument for Catholicism is quite enough to permit people to remain Catholics if they are inclined to do so on other grounds. Whether it is strong enough to convince me that being Catholic (in the sense of submitting myself unconditionally to the teaching and authority of the Roman Communion) is a necessary consequence of being a Christian--that is precisely the question with which I've been struggling for years. It certainly would not, on its own, convince me if I were not already a Christian, or if I were a Christian for whom questions of ecclesiology were not primary.


Catholic online apologists jump all over this kind of thing, with great glee.

As they should, because if that is the argument, it is circular reasoning, and the heart cannot accept what the mind rejects as false. The Orthodox have to prove their "case" from history just like everyone else does. They can try to make such a case, and sustain it over against Catholicism. I think it fails, and won't withstand scrutiny, but in my opinion, this is the argument that they must make if they are to establish their own ecclesiological preeminence over against Rome.

I don't reject circular reasoning as false. Most positions wind up with some kind of circularity. (In my opinion Biblical arguments for Catholicism are completely circular, and the attempt of one Catholic Answers tract to make a non-circular argument by relying on historical evidence for the basic accuracy of the NT fails completely, because the evidence just isn't strong enough to bear that kind of weight.) Circularity isn't self-refuting, but it's not going to convince someone who doesn't accept the necessary presuppositions. The Orthodox position is not circular because it doesn't rest on this kind of argument at all. Converts to Orthodoxy discern that Orthodoxy is uniquely continuous with historic Christianity based on a whole complex of factors. Sorry to bring in Abraham again, but I think he's made the case well--everyone has _different_ epistemological reasons for accepting whatever set of canonical authorities they do accept. A standard apologetic is not a necessary part of a religious system, as you seem to be demanding.

Abraham can make the argument he does because he is philosophically what he calls a "soft rationalist" (a wonderful term which excited me when I discovered it, because it described the position I'd come to years before but hadn't had a name for). A soft rationalist holds (in contrast to a fideist) that religious truth is based on rational evidence, but (in contrast to what Abraham calls a "hard rationalist") that you can't necessarily quantify the evidence. In other words, one decides to believe in one religious view rather than another based on a whole set of converging factors--experiences of saintliness or beauty or the presence of God, historical arguments, internal consistency of teaching, and so on. There is no fideistic "leap of faith" except in the sense that at some point one says "OK, all of these things add up to enough certainty that I'm ready to make a commitment." One can't point to certain specific arguments and say "these alone are necessary and sufficient reasons." I think that's what you and many other Catholic apologists are asking for, and I don't think it's a reasonable thing to ask with regard to religious commitments.

I agree of course with your rejection of anti-Catholic Orthodoxy. Any view that depends on caricaturing another view is flawed from the start (my first encounter with this was a schoolteacher in Romania who assured me that Catholics believe that God "remains parallel to the world"; I may have misunderstood a Romanian metaphor, but this has always stuck in my mind as particularly bizarre, though I can see what she was trying to say).


A unity-minded person with no concern for the authority issue may well become Catholic without worrying about infallibility--but with a deep allegiance to the concrete reality of the Catholic community. Indeed, some such people become Catholic while disagreeing flatly with certain Catholic dogmas. This is much decried by conservative Catholics, but it happens.

It happens, but it is not in accordance with the Catholic system as it actually is. Part of what it inherently means to be Catholic (and, I think, Orthodox, as well) is to fully accept what the Church teaches, not to pick and choose. Why even be a Catholic if one thinks that way? Protestants have the right to private judgment (within denominational parameters). They can choose this from this tradition and that from that (this is what I did myself: very much so). To try to be a Catholic with the same approach is to simply be a Protestant-in-disguise. In a word, it's dishonest and deceptive at worst, and wrongheaded and misinformed at best.

Well, that's an argument that I'm afraid is going to have to take place within your own Communion. As an outsider, I can certainly judge that many Catholics have views that don't correspond to official Catholic teaching. But I am in no position to acquiesce to the view that they "aren't really Catholics." Certainly I doubt that you are willing to grant that John Shelby Spong "isn't really an Episcopalian," even though he clearly contradicts defined teaching of our Communion. In my opinion the Catholic claim that Protestants are in a different category because we have "private judgment" is a cop-out. We have looser teaching than you do, true. But I don't think we can reify "private judgment"--it's a vague and not very useful slogan used by many modern Protestants, but I don't think it's the kind of Basic Principle of Protestantism Catholic apologists claim it to be.

All churches have definite teaching of some sort, and all churches I know of have members apparently in good standing who don't accept every aspect of what appears to be the definite teaching of their communion. Certainly Catholics have a particular emphasis on this, and the Catholics I have in mind are indeed in a difficult tension between their belief that Catholicism is the necessary center of unity and their inability to accept some of its current teaching. But of course if such people remain Protestants they're in just as much tension. I choose to do that precisely because it seems the more honorable course. But I can sympathize with those who persuade themselves otherwise, and believe for whatever reason that things the Vatican teaches as defined are not in fact defined. They (the ones I know anyway) are intelligent and sincere people--argue with them, not me. As I said, it's an issue you're going to have to deal with within your own communion, and you can't blame me for observing what I see.


A unity-minded Catholic could submit quite happily to a church that got things doctrinally wrong, occasionally.

If they didn't believe in infallibility, sure. But then that gets back to my earlier point: such a perspective is not Catholic, by definition. You could only have such a view when you accept some form of non-binding, non-infallible Tradition, and still hold on to sola Scriptura as the rule of faith. In other words, Anglicanism (or "high" Presbyterianism or Lutheranism) fits the bill perfectly.

But as you pointed out earlier, if one believes in the need for unity and the historic role of the Papacy, then Anglicanism or other forms of high-church Protestantism do _not_ "fit the bill perfectly." Granted, the tension is probably less, and certainly doesn't reach the point of dishonesty. Which is why I'm still a Protestant, however uncomfortable a one . . . .


Between the difficulty of interpreting all the Magisterial documents, the questions about what is and is not infallible, and the propensity for the Vatican to demand and conservative Catholics to give a high degree of assent even to non-infallible teaching, it all got very confusing.

But that is for the Church to do! This is one big reason why God wanted there to be the Church in the first place. When an individual tries to do this himself, he is still operating within the paradigm of sola Scriptura and private judgment -- precisely the things that the Catholic system disallows. One could reject Catholicism by using Protestant epistemological methods, but it would not be an examination of the system as it views itself internally. In other words, Catholic epistemology and self-justification is not made or broken by Protestant epistemology and self-justification (this is a somewhat subtle point, but an extremely crucial one, especially when talking about conversion).

The first quarrel I have with this is the meaning of the word "Church." Even granted that it doesn't include me, as an Anglican--nonetheless I observe Catholics wrestling with the same issues. And even Catholic bishops (let alone priests) clearly do not always come to unanimous conclusions on this point. So when you mean "Church" you mean in fact "the Magisterium" as defined in modern Catholicism--the Pope and those bishops (and in some sense also those priests and laity) who agree with him on any given point. The Magisterium and _only_ the Magisterium has the right to speak; all its pronouncements are authoritative; and everyone else must simply listen. This would seem to mean that authority in Catholicism _does_ (as anti-Catholic polemicists claim) boil down to "what the Pope says." Or, as one of my best friends (a Christian Church pastor) put it, "add Pope and stir." If it doesn't simply mean that--if a lay Catholic, or even a priest or bishop, sometimes has to interpret a document and figure out just how authoritative it is--then my point stands and what you're calling "private judgment" exists within Catholicism.

It seems pretty evident to me that this is not how Catholicism functions. What you are calling "private judgment" when I do it is done routinely by all Catholics I know. (By Catholics who believe in the death penalty, for instance--they have to make the determination that the Pope's views on that subject are not in fact authoritative in the way that other teachings are.)


The Protestant methodology of critique described above involves circular reasoning in the following way: The Protestant presupposes private judgment and the rule of faith of sola Scriptura, and also assumes that all Christian belief-systems must be subject to it. But of course, this is one of the very things in dispute between Protestantism on the one hand, and Orthodoxy and Catholicism on the other (with Anglicanism betwixt and between, as so often).

I don't think Protestantism as a whole presupposes anything. I don't know if I presuppose private judgment, because private judgment can mean all sorts of things (as does sola scriptura). If private judgment means that the individual Christian has to make decisions about which things presented to him/her for belief are true and which are false, then yes, I presuppose "private judgment," and I observe all Catholics exercising it. Indeed, it seems axiomatic that everyone exercises it all the time.

If you mean by "private judgment" that the individual's decisions are ultimate, in such a way that having decided X I would never change my mind to Y because of ecclesiastical authority, then no form of Protestantism to which I belong presupposes any such thing. Certainly you find Protestants and Protestant churches who teach this. But it is not a necessary consequence of Protestantism.

If you mean that the individual's decisions are ultimate in the sense that submission to an authority depends on a prior decision that the authority is valid--a decision that might be reversed if more evidence of some kind turned up--then again, I think everyone exercises this, except those who simply believe what they believe because the religion or culture or nation in which they were educated teaches it (a position that I think has more merit than modern people recognize except when it rests on mere subservience to political power). If for instance you found _convincing_ reason to believe that all documents and artifacts of the history of Christianity before the Middle Ages were forged, you would almost certainly reexamine your commitment to Catholicism, I suspect. Of course, there is no probability that this will happen--something like it is maintained by some crackpots, but neither of us take them seriously. That, however, is the point--we both make a _judgment_ of our own that they are not worth taking seriously.

Finally, you may mean that the individual is responsible for more than simply determining the validity of an ecclesiastical authority (such as the Catholic Magisterium) and the degree of weight the Magisterium _itself_ intended a given pronouncement to have, but rather must analyze each decision of the Magisterium against a background other than its own pronouncements and expressed intentions. This probably _is_ what you mean, and it is a meaningful distinction. But I don't think I'm presupposing it. I'm saying that anything else seems hopelessly circular in a way that really _does_ vitiate Catholic claims (in a way that the alleged Orthodox circularity doesn't vitiate Orthodox claims, because they aren't resting so much on it). If the Magisterium is the only interpreter of itself, then of course you wind up theoretically with internal consistency, because the current Pope can always explain away any conflict. As a matter of fact, the problem you face is that the Pope _doesn't_ choose do to this. He allows Cardinal Ratzinger to say that Ordinatio Sacerdotalis is infallible instead of saying it himself, for instance. He allows apologists and historians to speculate about the intention of Boniface VIII and reconcile it with Vatican II, instead of issuing a pronouncement himself (as far as I know). The relative reticence of the Papacy (which I find commendable and a strong argument for its claims) makes necessary the kind of private judgment you're arguing Catholics find superfluous.

When you believe Ratzinger that OS was infallible, and another Catholic doesn't, you're both making an act of private judgment, in the sense you seem to be using the term.


But this has to itself be established in order for the criticism to have any force. The Protestant can't simply presuppose all this stuff, analyze Catholicism by using it and then declare victory.
And that is because Catholicism operates on a different rule of faith and a different epistemology than does Protestantism.

I'm not declaring "victory." I'm simply saying that the kind of logic games we get involved in when the issues are put in this way are totally unconvincing to me. Of course if I accepted your presuppositions it would all make sense. The purpose of my blog was to try to sketch why I _don't_ accept your presuppositions.

So immediately the question becomes, rather: "why does Catholicism disallow these beliefs and this epistemology? And why does Protestantism accept them?"How is that resolved? Well, it's resolved in the usual way that all such disputes are: by recourse to Scripture, Church history, reason, and (I would add) practical workability. Sola scriptura and private judgment (as an epistemological approach inexorably tied to sola Scriptura) fail on all four counts. These notions cannot be found in Scripture (despite many near-ingenious attempts to do so from our esteemed Protestant brethren). They can't be found in history, either (ditto to my last parenthetical comment). Both history and Scripture also offer tons of directly contrary evidence. Nor are they reasonable or workable.

I don't find that the kind of Catholic position you're outlining (one that attempts to exclude "private judgment" in sense 4) meets these tests, frankly. I think it fails historically and it's not workable. You can say that that's because I'm working with Protestant presuppositions--of course I am. Similarly, you're analyzing Protestantism with Catholic presuppositions. One obvious example--Protestantism fails from history if one assumes that there must be an infallible ecclesiastical authority. But if ecclesiastical authority is fallible, then those teachings of the Fathers that point toward infallibility may themselves be mistaken. I don't think this is any more circular or self-serving than the Catholic position--maybe less.


Getting back to the larger question at hand: one can believe that it is difficult to interpret all these magisterial documents, and wonder about some things, yet accept the Church's authority on faith, based on a number of various criteria, which taken together, and cumulatively, convince one that the Catholic Church is what it claims to be.

I agree. That's not what I'm arguing about. My claim is that the need for an infallible authority is not _itself_ a convincing reason to become Catholic. At least I have not found it so.


As C.S. Lewis said, "the rules of chess create chess problems." Catholics can easily look at all these alleged "historical difficulties" the way a Protestant approaches alleged "biblical difficulties."

Absolutely. The analogy here is with a Protestant (there are many such) who should use a claim of Biblical inerrancy as a reason to become a Christian (the Bible is free from error, therefore Christianity is true). This seems patently wrong-headed to me.

But it now seems to me that the Church can live relatively well (though not perfectly) without the kind of authority offered by Rome.

On what basis? How does this overcome the necessary factors that you yourself outlined above?

I'm not sure how one could go about answering this. One judges the problems raised by lack of papal authority to be insuperable or not. I judge them to be not. Grave, but not fatal, given that I'm not committed to a view of the Church's perfection like that of your Communion.

It's no longer clear to me (if it ever was) that doctrinal certainty is so much more important than some of the practical issues with regard to which the Roman Communion is manifestly imperfect.


I contend that this viewpoint cannot be squared with the biblical one, where it seems to me that all doctrine is considered to be highly important and non-negotiable (we especially see this in St. Paul's writings).

I don't recall anywhere where St. Paul says that all doctrine is non-negotiable. I can find plenty of places where right doctrine is considered highly important--but I can find at least as many (probably more) where holiness of life is considered highly important. I think it's harder to prove from Scripture that infallible doctrine is a necessary mark of the true Church than it would be to prove (from the Pastorals especially) that uniformly holy bishops are a mark of the true Church. Of course this second view is false--we both agree there. I don't see why the first is any truer. Bishops are _supposed_ to be characterized by certain moral qualities. They are also _supposed_ to maintain the deposit of faith without the slightest error. I don't see anywhere in Scripture where divine assistance is promised to the latter more than to the former. Neither holiness nor truth will fail utterly from the Church--that's about as much as I can see in Scripture.

A serious, troubling line is crossed when one argues in this fashion. It's one thing to be an agnostic and say that one isn't personally sure what is true about doctrine x or competing doctrines of x. It's quite another to reach the somewhat-despairing conclusion that doctrinal certainty can be softened in such difficult areas, and that this is how things should be.

The Church reached this conclusion long ago with regard to morals. There's no doubt that modern Catholicism has nothing like the moral rigorism of early Christianity. Why is that any less damning to Catholicism than our relative doctrinal laxity is to Protestantism? With regard to morals, we have clearly discovered that even horrendous shortcomings do not compromise the validity of the Church (because _all_ churches have moral shortcomings, though small sectarian churches sometimes manage to do a little better on some fronts). What reason can you give for resisting a similar conclusion with regard to doctrine?

BTW, I don't take offense at the "liberal" charge.


You may arrive at the Catholic position by any number of doctrinal and intellectual and faith avenues which have little to do with infallibility (in my case, I started with the moral issues and questions about internal inconsistencies in Protestantism), but once you get there and have decided to swim the Tiber, you must accept this in faith, and grant even internal assent to it.

I wasn't questioning that. I'm sorry if I gave a different impression. My point was simply that infallibility is not what _drives_ me any longer. Of course it's part of the package.


That's right. They were accepted in the same way that most Christians accept the existence of God. It was on a pre-rational basis, based more on intuition and faith. It is an innate thing. Choice of a church is not quite like that, but there are certain things (the whole body of dogma and moral teaching) that are accepted on faith, and that was what it meant to be a Catholic, through the centuries. Therefore, it would have been meaningless and not an option to sit there and pick and choose what one thinks the Church got right and what it got wrong. The fathers would have said: "the Church decrees thus-and-so. Who are you to disagree, and on what basis? You don't decide these things. The Mind of the Church does."

True enough, but there was a lot of give-and-take involved in this. Origen, for instance, sorts out very carefully which Christian beliefs of his time he understood to be part of the Rule of Faith, and which were open for speculation. Eventually many of his speculations were seen as contrary to the Rule of Faith, but that took centuries.

The reasons why any given individual chose to believe the Christian faith might vary, and were not themselves part of the Faith.

Yes. I agree. But then, does this not nullify much of your own analysis above? If you say you agree with this, then it wipes out much of your contention that you can decide as an individual what you will accept and not accept. You're doing epistemology while claiming that you deny that it is ultimately decisive in matters of faith and ecclesiological adherence.

I'm not sure I get your point. First of all, I'm not sure where I said that I "decide as an individual what I will accept and not accept." I wouldn't say I decide "as an individual." I would say that I decide as a member of the Body of Christ. But yes, I do think (as I indicated in sense 4 of "private judgment" above) that I have to judge that the doctrines presented to me are the authoritative doctrines of the Church. In many cases this is a latent, implicit judgment, and in times when the Church was more unified it would have been far more so (the bishop said this in his sermon and it didn't raise any red flags in terms of what I know already, so I assume it's what the Church teaches--as a matter of fact, most Christians of whatever church proceed this way even today). But at times it has to be explicit, even for Catholics. How this relates to my claim here I'm not sure. I don't deny that I'm doing epistemology. I deny that epistemology is itself part of the content of the Faith. I deny that the Faith must itself deliver to me a valid epistemological framework in order to be true. Of course every attempt to decide what is true is epistemological by definition.


If Abraham is right, then the Catholic internet apologists who chase the Orthodox round the Golden Horn asking them "how do you know a Council is ecumenical" are pursuing a red herring.
I strongly disagree. It was crucial to know which council was orthodox and which wasn't.

The point is that it was decided on an ad hoc basis, not because of a predetermined criterion.

Otherwise, you have a situation where, e.g., the "Robber Council" of 449 in Ephesus is orthodox, and heresy is promulgated at the highest conciliar levels. But it was not orthodox, and that was determined authoritatively by Pope Leo the Great.

The evidence seems to be that Chalcedon accepted Leo's teaching because it judged it to be true, not just because it came from Leo. Leo's word was not enough. Rather, Leo took the lead in making the theological argument that showed why and how Ephesus was wrong. That is what Protestants and Orthodox are objecting to--a view of papal authority that makes _convincing_ the rest of the Church unnecessary. And this is what we see Catholic apologists trying to short-circuit by lumping a diverse collection of epistemological positions together as "private judgment" and condemning them.


I contend that the papacy is a divinely-instituted office (biblically-based) for the purpose of maintaining unity and doctrine both.

I don't dispute this. I dispute the claim that the papacy is _necessary_ and/or infallible.

449 offers a sterling example of why it is necessary. 1968 and
Humanae Vitae offers another. If Athanasius contra mundum was necessary way back when (over against Arians),

But, of course, Athanasius was not the Bishop of Rome. Indeed, the bishops of Rome didn't take the forefront in that particular fight, though on the whole they came through fairly well.

then Paulus VI contra mundum was necessary in our own age of sexual revolution.

I see no logic to this argument. The fact that a bishop of Alexandria was necessary in fighting heresy in the 4th century proves nothing about whether the bishop of Rome was right about this particular issue in the 20th. I will say this--the fact that the bishop of Rome takes the position he does is a very strong reason for _questioning_ the shift in Protestant doctrine on this subject (the same is true of women's ordination, on which I'm much more inclined to support the liberal view). But not for rejecting it automatically.

It either is a grave sin or not. If one claims that it isn't, then they have to explain why all Christians until 1930 got this wrong.

I don't think that would be a difficult task at all. There are plenty of social and theological reasons why Christians thought birth control was wrong. Of course, explaining is not refuting. The question is simply irrelevant.

If it is, on the other hand, then one must explain why almost all Christians except Catholics have gotten it wrong in the present age.

I don't think that's very difficult either. Certainly explaining why Catholics maintain a traditional position that Protestants abandon is very easy. The Orthodox wavering on the issue is more interesting, but the different authority structures and relationships to secular society (and possibly even the fact that celibacy goes much further down the Catholic hierarchy) provide pretty good explanations.

Or one simply gives up moral and doctrinal certainty, and that opens up a whole 'nother can of worms (and is unbiblical, and even illogical, for my money).

And I think this is one of my main points. I don't think a lack of certainty is illogical or unbiblical. we see through a glass darkly. Christ will never abandon us or let us fall hopelessly into error, but there may be (and clearly are) a lot of uncertain moments along the road. Furthermore (and this really opens up epistemological cans of worms) I think that a word like "certainty" really is relative. In other words, it may be perfectly right for a Catholic to be certain about contraception, but equally right for me as an Anglican (given the different stance of my ecclesiastical authorities) to be uncertain. That doesn't mean that there is no right or wrong, only that our access to absolute truth is not always immediate or obvious.

That doesn't follow. If a council denies crucial doctrines, such as christology (which the Robber Council did, being Monophysite), it is heretical; therefore, the reason it was rejected had directly to do with the Faith itself, and its maintenance.

I didn't deny that the reasons have to do with the Faith. I denied that they were _part_ of the Faith.

To resist heresy one doesn't need to have an authority one knows beforehand to be infallible. One simply needs (as Abraham has argued in his more recent book The Logic of Renewal) to have the will to exercise discipline.

You can argue that, but you still need the authority, and no one but Catholics have a sufficiently powerful and authoritative figure to do that.

That is patently false. In fact, many churches have much stricter systems of discipline than Catholics so.

You can say he isn't infallible, but unless he is authoritative enough for his decree to be binding (which, practically speaking, is scarcely different than being infallible), then Christians can always simply dissent, and the problem remains.

No, binding authority is not the same thing as infallibility. When the will to discipline is present, then dissenters (on serious issues) will have to leave. Granted, this is where unity and authority come together (something I never denied, and in fact affirmed in my initial post), since in the present state of Protestantism schism is often taken not very seriously. But it's taken a lot more seriously than Catholics realize--as anyone following the current debates in ECUSA and the UMC realizes. Evangelicals are the worst offenders here
If certain structures of authority are necessary, they are necessary simply because they are part of the tradition. They are not necessary on a priori philosophical grounds.

I say that they are necessary on biblical and practical grounds. That would be my argument. We can pursue that in due course if you like.

And that is not the kind of argument I was addressing.

After quoting part of my post "The Ecclesiology of Limbo" Dave wrote:

I must confess that I don't fully understand this perspective, inasmuch as it causes you to remain Anglican, with this more-or-less despairing attitude towards Anglican claims (whatever they are, historically and today). It seems to me that you would almost of necessity (I use the word lightly here) have to convert to Catholicism, because (so it seems to me; perhaps I have misread you) you think it has more truth than Anglicanism.

I think you've answered the question yourself above, when you said that a failure to accept certain authority claims makes conversion to Catholicism dishonest.

You could also convert to Orthodoxy, but I have seen you write that you are a "westerner," so presumably that would tip the scale (rightly or wrongly) Romeward.

And while the Orthodox don't make the kind of epistemological claims Catholics do, their practical claims of authority, and in particular their claims about dogma and liturgy, are in some ways stricter. Also, the lack of the papacy is an issue. If I'm going to give up communion with my wife and parents and all the other things I'd be giving up, I at least want to be in communion with the See of Peter . . . . (This is not a glib answer, but a subject I've thought about a lot in the year and a half since August of 2003 and the beginning of the present crisis in ECUSA.)


I find this dilemma that he describes difficult to comprehend because I was always fairly happy as an evangelical and didn't have this ongoing conflict within me. We tend to understand less those things which are further from our own experience.

Yes, that's true enough. I certainly wouldn't wish on anyone the kind of conflict I've been through in the past ten years. But I'm sure God had some reason for letting me go through it, wherever I end up . . . .

This post has taken a very long time for me to write, and if you respond quickly (as is your custom) it may be quite a while before I respond in turn. And at that point I'll try to keep things briefer. But I appreciated your in-depth critique and wanted to try to respond adequately. Thanks for keeping me accountable to thinking through the implications of my position!


Thursday, January 20, 2005

Two reasons for converting

In following the stimulating discussions over at Pontifications, I've become increasingly convinced that there are two rather different reasons why people convert to Catholicism--unity and authority. By this I don't mean that the same person can't be concerned with both--probably most converts are. Indeed, it would be hard to follow the one impulse into Catholicism without also finding oneself in the wake of the other. But I think on the whole one or the other is likely to be more important, and if you listen to people talk about their reasons for converting (or for considering the possibility) you can usually figure out which.

I'm also not denying that there are many other reasons for considering Catholicism, of course. But in the absence of one of these two concerns (or of personal reasons for choosing Catholicism), any other reason is as likely as not to lead the seeker elsewhere. For instance, someone primarily concerned to recover sacramental piety and the beauty of the liturgy is likely to end up Anglican or Orthodox. Someone concerned for a coherent, logical theology with well-defined boundaries between truth and error may well become Reformed. Someone whose deepest desire is for an ancient, unchanging faith that is clearly reflected in the writings of the Fathers is likely to become Orthodox. And so on, and so forth.

The desire for unity and authority, on the other hand, can be fully and legitimately satisfied (for the Christian) nowhere else but in the Roman communion. As a Protestant (unless one adopts a purely invisible view of the Church), one is continually yearning for a unity that is not fully expressed in one's own denomination. That just comes with the territory. And even the Orthodox, while they try to avoid the fact, have stubborn bits of evidence in their own beloved Tradition that the See of Rome has a unique role in the preservation of unity. That doesn't mean that the Orthodox position is incoherent--a unique role does not have to mean a necessary role. It may be that Rome has in fact fallen into heresy, and can only fulfill its historic role through repentance and reconciliation with Orthodoxy. But meanwhile there is a vacant place in the choir--and it's the place of the conductor. The choir, being Orthodox and knowing all the chants anyway, can probably get on OK without a conductor. But it's still not quite the same.

Similarly, I think it's impossible to deny that the Church cannot speak with full and final authority if the voice of Rome is lacking. I am not a Catholic in part because I don't believe that the consent of Rome is _sufficient_ to make a group of bishops an Ecumenical Council. But I am firmly convinced that it's _necessary_. One can't speak of "the Church" when speaking of dogmatic definitions without speaking of Rome. Any non-Roman ecclesiology is going to find its style a bit cramped when it comes to fighting heresy and laying down the boundaries of orthodoxy. It's going to have strong temptations to slide into either a sectarian orthodoxy that makes certain local peculiarities (such as the Protestant view of sola fide) Dogmas of the Church, or a barren swamp of tolerance that cannot name any heresy except whatever the broader culture of the given time and place considers offensive.

People for whom either or both of these issues are desperately important are going to find it very difficult to resist the pull Romewards. But depending on which issue is more important to them, they will experience that pull in quite different ways.

For the authority-minded, everything tends to boil down to epistemology. How do you _know_ that you are in possession of the truth? How can you believe X and reject Y without having a theory in place that explains why one is true and the other is false? This is one of the issues that most clearly separates those drawn to Rome from those drawn to Constantinople. The Orthodox can never answer these questions in a very satisfactory way. They believe what they believe because it's been handed down. And they believe that the Church that handed it down is the true Church because--well, because it's the Church that has handed down the truth. Catholic online apologists jump all over this kind of thing, with great glee.

For the unity-minded, on the other hand, the primary issue is one of allegiance. How can I live out the Christian life without having unswerving allegiance to the actual Christian community in which I participate? Nothing less than the Universal Church can demand that kind of allegiance. Therefore, one can only live out the Christian life in a community with a credible claim to universality. A unity-minded person with no concern for the authority issue may well become Catholic without worrying about infallibility--but with a deep allegiance to the concrete reality of the Catholic community. Indeed, some such people become Catholic while disagreeing flatly with certain Catholic dogmas. This is much decried by conservative Catholics, but it happens.

To some extent, clearly, these two categories correspond to the labels "conservative" and "liberal." Certainly it's hard to imagine a liberal Catholic being "authority-minded," but the reverse is not necessarily true. "Liberal" is of course a relative term--a primarily unity-minded convert is probably always going to look "liberal" to the authority-minded. But such a person will most likely see the need for authority and dogma, and submit to all the teachings of the Magisterium. At bottom, however, the unity-minded person is not motivated primarily by the need for settled, authoritative dogma. (In the same way, authority-minded converts are usually acutely concerned for unity--my point is simply that the issue of authority tends to come first, with the need for unity being a consequence.) A unity-minded Catholic could submit quite happily to a church that got things doctrinally wrong, occasionally. The fine points of ex cathedra vs. ordinary magisterium, vs. non-infallible statements that demand submission of will and intellect, are not going to bother such a person all that much.

Now the way I've put this probably tips my hand. In fact, my first interest in Catholicism was highly authority-driven. I wanted a haven of certainty, to preserve me from liberalism while rescuing me from fundamentalism. I didn't (and don't) trust myself to make up my own religion.

Yet the more I explored Catholicism the more problems and contradictions I found with this approach. Between the difficulty of interpreting all the Magisterial documents, the questions about what is and is not infallible, and the propensity for the Vatican to demand and conservative Catholics to give a high degree of assent even to non-infallible teaching, it all got very confusing. There came a point where it seemed to me that so many of my issues were at a high level of abstraction and had little to do with the problems I faced in actually living the Christian life. As the years passed, while my interest in Catholicism never went away, I gradually moved over from the "authority" to the "unity" side of the scale. Side of the scale, be it said, not end of the spectrum. I always have been and am concerned with both issues. But it now seems to me that the Church can live relatively well (though not perfectly) without the kind of authority offered by Rome. It's no longer clear to me (if it ever was) that doctrinal certainty is so much more important than some of the practical issues with regard to which the Roman Communion is manifestly imperfect. If I do become Catholic some day, it will not be because I'm convinced that we _must_ have an infallible authority. It will be because I'm convinced that I cannot in good conscience give my heart to any Christian body not claiming to be the Universal Church. Infallibility would, in that case, simply be one of the things that came with the package.

Pontificator, on the other hand, seems to me to be primarily authority-driven. Not of course that he isn't concerned for unity as well. But in recent posts he seems increasingly concerned with issues of epistemology. He's been reading a lot of Newman and seems convinced by Newman's view that the only real alternative to skepticism and individualism is the infallible authority of the Catholic Church.

For me, the coup de grace that fully convinced me to abandon this approach was William Abraham's book _Canon and Criterion_. I disagree with significant parts of Abraham's argument, largely because I think he ignores the distinction I've been making in this post and assumes that the only basis for being (let alone becoming) a Catholic is the concern for an authoritative epistemology. But I find his basic premise thoroughly convincing. Abraham argues that the importation of epistemology into Christian dogma (in the West) has been thoroughly disastrous. For the early Church, according to Abraham, the norms of belief and practice (making up what he calls the "canonical heritage") were simply given. On the dogmatic level, they didn't need to be justified. They just needed to be accepted. The reasons _why_ any given individual chose to believe the Christian faith might vary, and were not themselves part of the Faith.

If Abraham is right, then the Catholic internet apologists who chase the Orthodox round the Golden Horn asking them "how do you know a Council is ecumenical" are pursuing a red herring. Such decisions are made on an ad hoc basis. This Council is ecumenical for one reason, and that Father is a Doctor of the Church (to use a Western term) for another. The reasons are not themselves part of the Faith. To resist heresy one doesn't need to have an authority one knows beforehand to be infallible. One simply needs (as Abraham has argued in his more recent book _The Logic of Renewal_) to have the will to exercise discipline.

This does not dispose of all concerns with authority, of course. The See of Rome _is_ clearly part of the canonical heritage (this is one of the things I don't think Abraham recognizes adequately), even if its current claims are not. Rather, what Abraham's argument demolishes (if we accept it) is the _epistemological_ argument for authority. If certain structures of authority are necessary, they are necessary simply because they are part of the tradition. They are not necessary on a priori philosophical grounds.

The need for unity, however, remains intact. How can we speak of the canonical heritage if we cannot claim full membership in the historic bearer of the canonical heritage? This is, for me, the great issue. I'm going to try to lay out a possible Protestant answer to this question in subsequent posts. I welcome comments (or even anathemas).



Thursday, January 06, 2005

Why do I change so often

Those unfortunate persons who have taken the trouble to follow my posts on various Internet message boards over the past few years have noticed (and sometimes gently remarked on) my frequent flip-flops with regard to Catholicism. This instability of mind cannot be more painful to others than it is to myself, but it seems to be incurable. When the fit is on, it seems clear to me that it is my duty to become Catholic and everything else is a cowardly evasion. Then, often in a matter of days or even hours, I find myself strongly inclined to believe that it's my duty to remain Protestant and work for a deeper appropriation of Christian tradition within Protestantism. Some convictions don't change--that we are called to work for unity, that Christian tradition as a whole is authoritative, that the papacy has a divinely ordained part to play in maintaining the unity and orthodoxy of the Church; or, on the other hand, that the papacy has taken on far too much power in the past millenium, that Protestants are in some sense part of the Church, and that wherever I'm called to be I will always try to preserve many elements of my Wesleyan heritage.

My blogs so far have mostly expressed my more "Catholic" moods. In the past couple of weeks I've swung in a more "Protestant" direction yet again. In the following days and weeks I will try to explain on this blog just why I find it so difficult to leave Protestantism (theologically speaking, that is--there are also personal issues that I don't necessarily want to discuss here), and what kind of Protestantism I am willing to defend. I welcome comments.

My old cyber-acquaintance "Secret Agent Man," whose views I have always found thoughtful and stimulating, has done me the honor of noticing my blog and commending it to his own readers. He has also encouraged me to post more often. I will endeavor to comply. Meanwhile, I wish everyone a blessed Feast of the Epiphany and a very happy New Year.