Pope Francis' responsibility is clear;
He must eradicate the idea of clericalism because all it amounts to is structural sin
Newsday, August 23, 2018
Jesus diagnosed in his tiny band of followers the early stages of the cancerous clericalism that would gnaw at his church, a disease at the heart of the ongoing scandal of clergy sexual abuse. Before the furor over the Pennsylvania grand jury fades, Pope Francis must go beyond words and act decisively to conquer clericalism.
The cancer showed up early, when the mother of two apostles asked Jesus for their future glory: "Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom," (Matthew 20:20). The other apostles were angry, and Jesus offered stern advice: Don't lord it over people. "Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant . . ."
Jesus set the example for radical selflessness and made humble servant leadership the goal for church leaders. But two millennia later, the poisonous notion survives that clerics are close to God and know what's best, and everyone else should listen. That's part of the sexual abuse tragedy. The classic abuse pattern is a powerful person using that power to take sexual advantage of a powerless person. But priests and bishops have an element of power that no coach or producer can claim: the notion that ordination confers on them an "ontological" change, elevating them to a special order of beings.
On top of the theology, there are the symbols: the pointed miter on the bishop's head, the gold-encrusted crozier, a glamorized shepherd's crook that every bishop carries to show he's a shepherd, the elaborate vestments, the use of worshipful terms like "your eminence" when people address cardinals. It all adds up to an air of divinely ordained power.
So, in the past, when a child attracted the attention of a priest, the parents would be thrilled by this proximity to godliness. The child would feel compelled to obey this superhuman creature. Father could do no wrong. But too many priests did something horribly wrong.
Francis himself is suspicious of clericalism. He wants the shepherds to smell as if they've been in the pungent presence of the sheep. But that has not borne fruit. What can he do next?
He should name clericalism for what it is, structural sin, and appoint a special commission to find ways of eradicating it. That commission should have zero members from the clergy. They are, after all, the problem. And when the commission reports, he should act strongly on its recommendations.
As to how to structure the church's reaction to future revelations of abuse, Francis needs to restructure the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors that he named in 2014. It ran into Vatican roadblocks, and an Irish survivor of abuse, Marie Collins, resigned in frustration. Francis should add new members, with some seasoned prosecutors on the list, remove all clergy, and instruct the commission to report regularly on obstruction by the Vatican. Its mandate should include positive recommendations for changes in the statute of limitations, which the church has fought diligently and selfishly. The commission also should closely examine seminaries, which are turning out too many young priests who eagerly embrace clericalism.
Before the conclave that chose Jorge Mario Bergoglio as the bishop of Rome, I wrote a column saying that I hoped the new pope, whoever he might be, would recognize that the church was in need of repair, as it was in the time of St. Francis of Assisi, and call himself Pope Francis. He did. But five years later, the church is more in need of repair than ever. Time for Francis to roll up his sleeves and get to it.
Jesus diagnosed in his tiny band of followers the early stages of the cancerous clericalism that would gnaw at his church, a disease at the heart of the ongoing scandal of clergy sexual abuse. Before the furor over the Pennsylvania grand jury fades, Pope Francis must go beyond words and act decisively to conquer clericalism.
The cancer showed up early, when the mother of two apostles asked Jesus for their future glory: "Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom," (Matthew 20:20). The other apostles were angry, and Jesus offered stern advice: Don't lord it over people. "Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant . . ."
Jesus set the example for radical selflessness and made humble servant leadership the goal for church leaders. But two millennia later, the poisonous notion survives that clerics are close to God and know what's best, and everyone else should listen. That's part of the sexual abuse tragedy. The classic abuse pattern is a powerful person using that power to take sexual advantage of a powerless person. But priests and bishops have an element of power that no coach or producer can claim: the notion that ordination confers on them an "ontological" change, elevating them to a special order of beings.
On top of the theology, there are the symbols: the pointed miter on the bishop's head, the gold-encrusted crozier, a glamorized shepherd's crook that every bishop carries to show he's a shepherd, the elaborate vestments, the use of worshipful terms like "your eminence" when people address cardinals. It all adds up to an air of divinely ordained power.
So, in the past, when a child attracted the attention of a priest, the parents would be thrilled by this proximity to godliness. The child would feel compelled to obey this superhuman creature. Father could do no wrong. But too many priests did something horribly wrong.
Francis himself is suspicious of clericalism. He wants the shepherds to smell as if they've been in the pungent presence of the sheep. But that has not borne fruit. What can he do next?
He should name clericalism for what it is, structural sin, and appoint a special commission to find ways of eradicating it. That commission should have zero members from the clergy. They are, after all, the problem. And when the commission reports, he should act strongly on its recommendations.
As to how to structure the church's reaction to future revelations of abuse, Francis needs to restructure the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors that he named in 2014. It ran into Vatican roadblocks, and an Irish survivor of abuse, Marie Collins, resigned in frustration. Francis should add new members, with some seasoned prosecutors on the list, remove all clergy, and instruct the commission to report regularly on obstruction by the Vatican. Its mandate should include positive recommendations for changes in the statute of limitations, which the church has fought diligently and selfishly. The commission also should closely examine seminaries, which are turning out too many young priests who eagerly embrace clericalism.
Before the conclave that chose Jorge Mario Bergoglio as the bishop of Rome, I wrote a column saying that I hoped the new pope, whoever he might be, would recognize that the church was in need of repair, as it was in the time of St. Francis of Assisi, and call himself Pope Francis. He did. But five years later, the church is more in need of repair than ever. Time for Francis to roll up his sleeves and get to it.
Pope's challenge: Convince Catholics;
His clear stand against the death penalty brings more consistency on life issues
Newsday, August 3, 2018
One reason the Catholic bishops have had so little success teaching about abortion is that it's the one life issue that they proclaim at the highest volume. By declaring the church's total opposition to the death penalty on Thursday, Pope Francis has taken a step in the direction of more consistency and credibility for the bishops.
This is not the first time a pope has spoken out strongly on the death penalty. In January 1999, I covered Pope John Paul II when he visited St. Louis and offered this critique: "A sign of hope is the increasing recognition that the dignity of human life must never be taken away, even in the case of someone who has done great evil."
The state of Missouri regularly used the death penalty, but backed off from the execution of convicted triple murderer Darrell Mease, which had been scheduled for the day of the papal visit, but got postponed by the state Supreme Court until the next month. Later, in response to the pope's in-person plea, then-Gov. Mel Carnahan commuted the sentence to life in prison.
But even after revisions of the Catechism of the Catholic Church following John Paul's 1995 encyclical "Evangelium Vitae," or "The Gospel of Life," it allowed the death penalty in limited circumstances: "Assuming that the guilty party's identity and responsibility have been fully determined, the traditional teaching of the Church does not exclude recourse to the death penalty if this is the only possible way of effectively defending human lives against the unjust aggressor."
To me, prison was always an adequate alternative, and "assuming" that a condemned person has been justly convicted is risky. Writing about criminal justice, I've covered two men sent to death row whose convictions were later overturned, and they walked free. And the Equal Justice Initiative, based in Alabama and led by Bryan Stevenson, continues to exonerate condemned prisoners.
The year before John Paul died, the Vatican's chief doctrinal officer, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (later Pope Benedict XVI), gave this less-than-definitive comment on how Catholics should form their conscience on the death penalty: "There may be a legitimate diversity of opinion even among Catholics about waging war and applying the death penalty, but not however with regard to abortion and euthanasia."
Now Francis has left no wiggle room. The new catechism language notes "an increasing awareness that the dignity of the person is not lost even after the commission of very serious crimes" and the development of "more effective systems of detention." Citing a 2017 speech by Francis, it says: "Consequently, the Church teaches, in the light of the Gospel, that 'the death penalty is inadmissible because it is an attack on the inviolability and dignity of the person,' and she works with determination for its abolition worldwide."
Of course, it depends on how you define church. The hierarchy now teaches definitively that the death penalty is "inadmissible." But the hierarchy also teaches that contraception, banned 50 years ago by the encyclical "Humanae Vitae," or "On Human Life," is a moral evil. North of 80 percent of Catholics reject that teaching. Similarly, many Catholics still believe in the death penalty and make a sharp distinction between innocent life in the womb and likely guilty life on death row.
So, it won't be easy for Francis and the bishops to get this teaching across to the people in the pews—especially when the allegations against now-former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick have added to the sexual abuse scandal's erosion of the hierarchy's credibility. But Francis has taken a laudable, overdue step toward making the church's teaching on life more consistent and coherent.
One reason the Catholic bishops have had so little success teaching about abortion is that it's the one life issue that they proclaim at the highest volume. By declaring the church's total opposition to the death penalty on Thursday, Pope Francis has taken a step in the direction of more consistency and credibility for the bishops.
This is not the first time a pope has spoken out strongly on the death penalty. In January 1999, I covered Pope John Paul II when he visited St. Louis and offered this critique: "A sign of hope is the increasing recognition that the dignity of human life must never be taken away, even in the case of someone who has done great evil."
The state of Missouri regularly used the death penalty, but backed off from the execution of convicted triple murderer Darrell Mease, which had been scheduled for the day of the papal visit, but got postponed by the state Supreme Court until the next month. Later, in response to the pope's in-person plea, then-Gov. Mel Carnahan commuted the sentence to life in prison.
But even after revisions of the Catechism of the Catholic Church following John Paul's 1995 encyclical "Evangelium Vitae," or "The Gospel of Life," it allowed the death penalty in limited circumstances: "Assuming that the guilty party's identity and responsibility have been fully determined, the traditional teaching of the Church does not exclude recourse to the death penalty if this is the only possible way of effectively defending human lives against the unjust aggressor."
To me, prison was always an adequate alternative, and "assuming" that a condemned person has been justly convicted is risky. Writing about criminal justice, I've covered two men sent to death row whose convictions were later overturned, and they walked free. And the Equal Justice Initiative, based in Alabama and led by Bryan Stevenson, continues to exonerate condemned prisoners.
The year before John Paul died, the Vatican's chief doctrinal officer, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (later Pope Benedict XVI), gave this less-than-definitive comment on how Catholics should form their conscience on the death penalty: "There may be a legitimate diversity of opinion even among Catholics about waging war and applying the death penalty, but not however with regard to abortion and euthanasia."
Now Francis has left no wiggle room. The new catechism language notes "an increasing awareness that the dignity of the person is not lost even after the commission of very serious crimes" and the development of "more effective systems of detention." Citing a 2017 speech by Francis, it says: "Consequently, the Church teaches, in the light of the Gospel, that 'the death penalty is inadmissible because it is an attack on the inviolability and dignity of the person,' and she works with determination for its abolition worldwide."
Of course, it depends on how you define church. The hierarchy now teaches definitively that the death penalty is "inadmissible." But the hierarchy also teaches that contraception, banned 50 years ago by the encyclical "Humanae Vitae," or "On Human Life," is a moral evil. North of 80 percent of Catholics reject that teaching. Similarly, many Catholics still believe in the death penalty and make a sharp distinction between innocent life in the womb and likely guilty life on death row.
So, it won't be easy for Francis and the bishops to get this teaching across to the people in the pews—especially when the allegations against now-former Cardinal Theodore McCarrick have added to the sexual abuse scandal's erosion of the hierarchy's credibility. But Francis has taken a laudable, overdue step toward making the church's teaching on life more consistent and coherent.
Francis should let women preach;
The pope could enlist unordained Catholics who are skilled at speaking.
Newsday, January 28, 2018
The Donald Trump playbook is not bedside reading for Pope Francis. Even before the 2016 election, the pope and the candidate disagreed. But this is a moment for Francis to imitate two classic Trump techniques: distraction and playing to the base.
On his flight back to Rome on Jan. 21, Francis had a chance to mitigate the damage he did on his trip to Chile and Peru, where he defended his appointment of a Chilean bishop, Juan Barros Madrid. Advocates for sexual abuse survivors say the bishop protected an abusing priest, and they criticized the pope for labeling accusations against Barros "calumny." Francis apologized, but he doubled down, insisting: "I am convinced he is innocent."
This raises a question not often heard: WWDD, What Would Donald Do?
Here's what: When he causes a major outrage, the "very stable genius" makes us forget it by causing a fresh outrage. That new outrage plays to his base.
So, who's in the pope's base? Well, not the traditionalists, including cardinals, who hope the next conclave will produce a pope rooted in the period before the Second Vatican Council. Generally, this pope's base includes progressive Catholics who embrace his emphasis on mercy and forgiveness, on care for the poor, on curbing clericalism.
What could Francis do now that would excite that base? Here's a thought: The pope, not exactly speedy in overcoming the church's marginalization of women, could act fast to make it possible for women to preach the homily at Mass.
So far, the pope has made a gentle bow in the direction of women: appointing a papal commission to study whether they can be ordained deacons. As the commission moves at a geological pace, conservative Catholics fear that, once women can be ordained deacons, they'll clamor to be ordained priests.
If he embraces his inner Trump, Francis could elevate women without even stepping on the third rail of women's ordination, by letting them preach the homily at Mass. The obstacle is Canon 767, which says this is the most important form of preaching, and it's "reserved to a priest or to a deacon." That, of course, rules out women—and men who have not been ordained.
Sadly, the gift of preaching does not always come with ordination. Many Catholics suffer through poorly prepared, woefully delivered sermons by ordained men—sometimes when gifted women well-educated in theology sit in the pews. We know the skills that pastors don't always have, such as leading people and running budgets. The more enlightened pastors seek out laypeople with skills to make up for the ones pastors lack. So, why not reach out to men and women who have preaching skills, but have not been ordained?
The pope could change Canon 767, taking out the words about reserving the homily at Mass to priests and deacons. In its place, he could add language that imposes on pastors the duty to put preachers in the pulpit who will proclaim the Gospel skillfully and compellingly.
In September, Francis demonstrated he can make words in canon law disappear: He modified two clauses in Canon 838, making clear that the Vatican's role is not to impose liturgical translations, but to "recognize" translations approved by national bishops' conferences. This came as hopeful news to Catholics weary of praying with such wooden language as the jarringly Latinate word "consubstantial" in their creed.
If Francis can amend canon law on liturgical translations, he can change it to allow women—and unordained men—to preach the homily at Mass. He could do it now, to change the subject and excite his base, like Trump.
If not now, he should do it soon, just because it's right.
The Donald Trump playbook is not bedside reading for Pope Francis. Even before the 2016 election, the pope and the candidate disagreed. But this is a moment for Francis to imitate two classic Trump techniques: distraction and playing to the base.
On his flight back to Rome on Jan. 21, Francis had a chance to mitigate the damage he did on his trip to Chile and Peru, where he defended his appointment of a Chilean bishop, Juan Barros Madrid. Advocates for sexual abuse survivors say the bishop protected an abusing priest, and they criticized the pope for labeling accusations against Barros "calumny." Francis apologized, but he doubled down, insisting: "I am convinced he is innocent."
This raises a question not often heard: WWDD, What Would Donald Do?
Here's what: When he causes a major outrage, the "very stable genius" makes us forget it by causing a fresh outrage. That new outrage plays to his base.
So, who's in the pope's base? Well, not the traditionalists, including cardinals, who hope the next conclave will produce a pope rooted in the period before the Second Vatican Council. Generally, this pope's base includes progressive Catholics who embrace his emphasis on mercy and forgiveness, on care for the poor, on curbing clericalism.
What could Francis do now that would excite that base? Here's a thought: The pope, not exactly speedy in overcoming the church's marginalization of women, could act fast to make it possible for women to preach the homily at Mass.
So far, the pope has made a gentle bow in the direction of women: appointing a papal commission to study whether they can be ordained deacons. As the commission moves at a geological pace, conservative Catholics fear that, once women can be ordained deacons, they'll clamor to be ordained priests.
If he embraces his inner Trump, Francis could elevate women without even stepping on the third rail of women's ordination, by letting them preach the homily at Mass. The obstacle is Canon 767, which says this is the most important form of preaching, and it's "reserved to a priest or to a deacon." That, of course, rules out women—and men who have not been ordained.
Sadly, the gift of preaching does not always come with ordination. Many Catholics suffer through poorly prepared, woefully delivered sermons by ordained men—sometimes when gifted women well-educated in theology sit in the pews. We know the skills that pastors don't always have, such as leading people and running budgets. The more enlightened pastors seek out laypeople with skills to make up for the ones pastors lack. So, why not reach out to men and women who have preaching skills, but have not been ordained?
The pope could change Canon 767, taking out the words about reserving the homily at Mass to priests and deacons. In its place, he could add language that imposes on pastors the duty to put preachers in the pulpit who will proclaim the Gospel skillfully and compellingly.
In September, Francis demonstrated he can make words in canon law disappear: He modified two clauses in Canon 838, making clear that the Vatican's role is not to impose liturgical translations, but to "recognize" translations approved by national bishops' conferences. This came as hopeful news to Catholics weary of praying with such wooden language as the jarringly Latinate word "consubstantial" in their creed.
If Francis can amend canon law on liturgical translations, he can change it to allow women—and unordained men—to preach the homily at Mass. He could do it now, to change the subject and excite his base, like Trump.
If not now, he should do it soon, just because it's right.
Politics and the pastor;
As bishop, William Murphy shied away from controversy when a prophetic voice was needed.
Newsday, May 9, 2014
As a priest, in private moments with the ill or the grieving, Bishop William F. Murphy has been admirably pastoral and compassionate.
As a bishop, he's too often been autocratic, with a knack for committing unforced errors, marring his 15-plus years leading the Diocese of Rockville Centre.
Unfortunately, it was not Murphy the gentle pastor, but Murphy the high-handed, controversial master, who shaped his image.
Less than a week after his installation in 2001, terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center, killing nearly 3,000. In that tragic time, Murphy was at his best, reaching out quietly to comfort bereaved families.
Then, at the start of 2002, The Boston Globe began its Pulitzer Prize-winning series about sexual abuse by priests and negligence by bishops in the Archdiocese of Boston, where Murphy had been Cardinal Bernard Law's top aide. Though no one has accused Murphy of a crime, that series started a cascade of image-staining news.
The headlines are familiar: his testimony before a Massachusetts grand jury, the same week that a Suffolk County grand jury issued a scathing report about sexual abuse here before Murphy arrived; his refusal to let Voice of the Faithful, a lay group arising from the crisis, meet on church property; his decision to commandeer a space that was to have ho-used six nuns; his taste for pricey appliances and a wine cooler that led then-Newsday columnist Jimmy Breslin to brand him "Mansion Murphy."
Despite the damage he caused himself by what he did in public, Murphy's legacy could have been far more positive if he had made different decisions about what he chose not to do in public.
Take Farmingville. An influx of day laborers had led to the rise of local anti-immigrant forces, reinforced by national groups. Violence flared: a 2000 attack on two laborers, then a 2003 firebombing of a house close to the Church of the Resurrection.
For Connie Hornick, Resurrection's social ministries coordinator, those were tough times. Though her faith led her to feed and clothe the laborers, public opinion on the men was divided, even among her volunteers. But the bishop and the diocese didn't publicly weigh in. "There was a sense that, if we could keep the church out of it, it would be nice," she said.
Murphy did reach out to Hornick, to contact and comfort the firebombed family. But he didn't publicly put the church on the side of the immigrants. "He sort of did it in the dark, at night, and didn't want any publicity," said Charles Funk, then active in Brookhaven Citizens for Peaceful Solutions, formed in 2000 to ease tensions. If Murphy had spoken out, Funk said, "it would have set a different tone."
The same was true in 2008, when seven teens killed Marcelo Lucero in Patchogue. Though Lucero was Catholic, his brother, Joselo (my colleague at the Hagedorn Foundation, where I'm a consultant), got this sense from people in the church: "We should not be doing anything for the family, or for him, because it's too political, and there's too much media."
Though the diocese told Catholic clergy in Patchogue to stay away from the politics, Murphy argued in 2012, "As a church, we were very much present." Still, the funeral took place not at St. Francis de Sales, where Lucero had attended Mass, but at the Congregational Church of Patchogue. Its pastor, the Rev. Dwight Wolter, said, "Murphy wouldn't touch that funeral with a 10-foot pole."
Murphy's failure in both cases to speak prophetically for justice was striking. He served in Rome at the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, and he knows the church's compassionate teaching on immigrants.
"We're not here primarily to be social tinkerers," Murphy said in 2012. "We're not the primary agents of social change." In fact, Richard Koubek, a former Catholic Charities employee, said that Murphy de-emphasized the part of the agency's mission that calls for "addressing the causes of injustice . . ."
"He has crippled Catholic Charities in its ability to carry out its full mission," Koubek said. "He's cut their funding. Parish social ministry has been reduced to a skeleton."
As much as Murphy avoided "politics" in Farmingville and Patchogue, politics bookended his tenure. Weeks after arriving, he led a protest at a Planned Parenthood clinic. And last year, he ordered pastors to read his pre-election letter, which mentioned no names but clearly leaned Republican. In some parishes, it drew applause. In at least one, people walked out when it was read. In others, pastors declined to read it.
Now, Murphy's tenure is over. But in February, he said that he planned to remain here, moving from the "mansion" to the rectory next door - before he could have known the identity of his successor, Bishop John O. Barres, or asked his permission. Contradictorily, in March, Murphy told priests, "I am not giving . . . permission" to any retiring pastor to live in the parish he had just served.
In Newsday, Barres has described his philosophy as a point guard at Princeton: "radical unselfishness," passing the basketball to others. In contrast, Murphy is a ball hog: I'll shoot. You just watch. I'm the decider.
Barres shouldn't listen to any autocratic whisperings from his predecessor-in-residence - and he should bring his basketball past to his church present, exercising true servant leadership, Pope Francis-style.
As a priest, in private moments with the ill or the grieving, Bishop William F. Murphy has been admirably pastoral and compassionate.
As a bishop, he's too often been autocratic, with a knack for committing unforced errors, marring his 15-plus years leading the Diocese of Rockville Centre.
Unfortunately, it was not Murphy the gentle pastor, but Murphy the high-handed, controversial master, who shaped his image.
Less than a week after his installation in 2001, terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center, killing nearly 3,000. In that tragic time, Murphy was at his best, reaching out quietly to comfort bereaved families.
Then, at the start of 2002, The Boston Globe began its Pulitzer Prize-winning series about sexual abuse by priests and negligence by bishops in the Archdiocese of Boston, where Murphy had been Cardinal Bernard Law's top aide. Though no one has accused Murphy of a crime, that series started a cascade of image-staining news.
The headlines are familiar: his testimony before a Massachusetts grand jury, the same week that a Suffolk County grand jury issued a scathing report about sexual abuse here before Murphy arrived; his refusal to let Voice of the Faithful, a lay group arising from the crisis, meet on church property; his decision to commandeer a space that was to have ho-used six nuns; his taste for pricey appliances and a wine cooler that led then-Newsday columnist Jimmy Breslin to brand him "Mansion Murphy."
Despite the damage he caused himself by what he did in public, Murphy's legacy could have been far more positive if he had made different decisions about what he chose not to do in public.
Take Farmingville. An influx of day laborers had led to the rise of local anti-immigrant forces, reinforced by national groups. Violence flared: a 2000 attack on two laborers, then a 2003 firebombing of a house close to the Church of the Resurrection.
For Connie Hornick, Resurrection's social ministries coordinator, those were tough times. Though her faith led her to feed and clothe the laborers, public opinion on the men was divided, even among her volunteers. But the bishop and the diocese didn't publicly weigh in. "There was a sense that, if we could keep the church out of it, it would be nice," she said.
Murphy did reach out to Hornick, to contact and comfort the firebombed family. But he didn't publicly put the church on the side of the immigrants. "He sort of did it in the dark, at night, and didn't want any publicity," said Charles Funk, then active in Brookhaven Citizens for Peaceful Solutions, formed in 2000 to ease tensions. If Murphy had spoken out, Funk said, "it would have set a different tone."
The same was true in 2008, when seven teens killed Marcelo Lucero in Patchogue. Though Lucero was Catholic, his brother, Joselo (my colleague at the Hagedorn Foundation, where I'm a consultant), got this sense from people in the church: "We should not be doing anything for the family, or for him, because it's too political, and there's too much media."
Though the diocese told Catholic clergy in Patchogue to stay away from the politics, Murphy argued in 2012, "As a church, we were very much present." Still, the funeral took place not at St. Francis de Sales, where Lucero had attended Mass, but at the Congregational Church of Patchogue. Its pastor, the Rev. Dwight Wolter, said, "Murphy wouldn't touch that funeral with a 10-foot pole."
Murphy's failure in both cases to speak prophetically for justice was striking. He served in Rome at the Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, and he knows the church's compassionate teaching on immigrants.
"We're not here primarily to be social tinkerers," Murphy said in 2012. "We're not the primary agents of social change." In fact, Richard Koubek, a former Catholic Charities employee, said that Murphy de-emphasized the part of the agency's mission that calls for "addressing the causes of injustice . . ."
"He has crippled Catholic Charities in its ability to carry out its full mission," Koubek said. "He's cut their funding. Parish social ministry has been reduced to a skeleton."
As much as Murphy avoided "politics" in Farmingville and Patchogue, politics bookended his tenure. Weeks after arriving, he led a protest at a Planned Parenthood clinic. And last year, he ordered pastors to read his pre-election letter, which mentioned no names but clearly leaned Republican. In some parishes, it drew applause. In at least one, people walked out when it was read. In others, pastors declined to read it.
Now, Murphy's tenure is over. But in February, he said that he planned to remain here, moving from the "mansion" to the rectory next door - before he could have known the identity of his successor, Bishop John O. Barres, or asked his permission. Contradictorily, in March, Murphy told priests, "I am not giving . . . permission" to any retiring pastor to live in the parish he had just served.
In Newsday, Barres has described his philosophy as a point guard at Princeton: "radical unselfishness," passing the basketball to others. In contrast, Murphy is a ball hog: I'll shoot. You just watch. I'm the decider.
Barres shouldn't listen to any autocratic whisperings from his predecessor-in-residence - and he should bring his basketball past to his church present, exercising true servant leadership, Pope Francis-style.
A new bishop for Long Island
Newsday, May 9, 2014
It's not too soon to think about a successor to the fourth bishop of the Diocese of Rockville Centre, William F. Murphy.
That's the reality behind a letter, signed by 23 priests of the diocese, sent to Pope Francis—with a copy to Murphy. They chose to mail it on May 14, Murphy's birthday, exactly a year before he reaches the retirement age of 75 and submits his retirement letter to the pope.
In mild, polite tones, the priests asked the pope for some "concrete guidance about how we and others here can meaningfully participate" in choosing Murphy's successor. They want the church "not only to ask the faithful for prayers and obedience, but also to restore significant popular input into the selection process itself."
If the pope does lead the way to broadening the process for the 1.5 million Catholics of America's sixth-largest diocese, it would underline his consistent preaching on inclusiveness and set a powerful example for leaders of other faiths as well.
The letter does not discuss Murphy's stewardship as bishop since 2001, or offer prescriptions. It seeks information. "We're looking to understand how the process works and how, not just us priests, how other groups in the diocese, like sisters and lay people, can insert themselves in the process," said the Rev. Ron Richardson, who signed the letter.
Here's how it works: The apostolic nuncio, the pope's representative, sends a terna, a list of three names of potential bishops for a diocese, to the Vatican's Congregation for Bishops. They deliberate, then report to the pope. But where does the nuncio get the names?
"One of the groups he would probably be looking at is people who are already auxiliary bishops," said the Rev. Thomas Reese, a Jesuit scholar and columnist who wrote about the bishops in two of his books. The nuncio could also get names from Murphy and from Cardinal Timothy Dolan, leader of the ecclesiastical province of New York, which includes Rockville Centre.
But where do lay people fit in? Or priests? Well, the retiring bishop can draw up a report on the state of the diocese, with lay participation, and submit it to the nuncio, to be sent to Rome. "He can also have a public discussion of the type of person who is needed for the diocese," Reese said. But he added: "It hasn't been encouraged by nuncios in recent times."
This letter, and an earlier call by a national priests' group for more of a role for priests and laity in bishop selection, are directed to a pope who has made it clear he wants a grittier kind of bishop. Francis wants priests who stay close to the poor, "shepherds living with the smell of the sheep."
For Long Island Catholics who want to follow the pope's lead, the identity of Murphy's successor is important. There's no guarantee that Francis will accept Murphy's retirement immediately. But for a 77-year-old pope with impaired lungs, a limited life span and a desire to appoint a new breed of bishops, it's hard to imagine that he'd wait very long to name one for a diocese this significant.
It would be wonderful if Murphy himself were to give a parting gift to the diocese by leading an open process—consulting with priests and lay people, including nuns. Whether he does or not, every Long Island Catholic has the right to send suggestions to the nuncio, Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò, at 3339 Massachusetts Ave. NW, Washington, D.C. 20008.
If you want a bishop who smells like his sheep, a letter to Viganò would be an excellent investment of time and postage. And don't worry about bothering him. "Pester your priests," Pope Francis said recently. "Bother them, all of us priests."
So pester the nuncio about your next bishop. The pope won't mind.
It's not too soon to think about a successor to the fourth bishop of the Diocese of Rockville Centre, William F. Murphy.
That's the reality behind a letter, signed by 23 priests of the diocese, sent to Pope Francis—with a copy to Murphy. They chose to mail it on May 14, Murphy's birthday, exactly a year before he reaches the retirement age of 75 and submits his retirement letter to the pope.
In mild, polite tones, the priests asked the pope for some "concrete guidance about how we and others here can meaningfully participate" in choosing Murphy's successor. They want the church "not only to ask the faithful for prayers and obedience, but also to restore significant popular input into the selection process itself."
If the pope does lead the way to broadening the process for the 1.5 million Catholics of America's sixth-largest diocese, it would underline his consistent preaching on inclusiveness and set a powerful example for leaders of other faiths as well.
The letter does not discuss Murphy's stewardship as bishop since 2001, or offer prescriptions. It seeks information. "We're looking to understand how the process works and how, not just us priests, how other groups in the diocese, like sisters and lay people, can insert themselves in the process," said the Rev. Ron Richardson, who signed the letter.
Here's how it works: The apostolic nuncio, the pope's representative, sends a terna, a list of three names of potential bishops for a diocese, to the Vatican's Congregation for Bishops. They deliberate, then report to the pope. But where does the nuncio get the names?
"One of the groups he would probably be looking at is people who are already auxiliary bishops," said the Rev. Thomas Reese, a Jesuit scholar and columnist who wrote about the bishops in two of his books. The nuncio could also get names from Murphy and from Cardinal Timothy Dolan, leader of the ecclesiastical province of New York, which includes Rockville Centre.
But where do lay people fit in? Or priests? Well, the retiring bishop can draw up a report on the state of the diocese, with lay participation, and submit it to the nuncio, to be sent to Rome. "He can also have a public discussion of the type of person who is needed for the diocese," Reese said. But he added: "It hasn't been encouraged by nuncios in recent times."
This letter, and an earlier call by a national priests' group for more of a role for priests and laity in bishop selection, are directed to a pope who has made it clear he wants a grittier kind of bishop. Francis wants priests who stay close to the poor, "shepherds living with the smell of the sheep."
For Long Island Catholics who want to follow the pope's lead, the identity of Murphy's successor is important. There's no guarantee that Francis will accept Murphy's retirement immediately. But for a 77-year-old pope with impaired lungs, a limited life span and a desire to appoint a new breed of bishops, it's hard to imagine that he'd wait very long to name one for a diocese this significant.
It would be wonderful if Murphy himself were to give a parting gift to the diocese by leading an open process—consulting with priests and lay people, including nuns. Whether he does or not, every Long Island Catholic has the right to send suggestions to the nuncio, Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò, at 3339 Massachusetts Ave. NW, Washington, D.C. 20008.
If you want a bishop who smells like his sheep, a letter to Viganò would be an excellent investment of time and postage. And don't worry about bothering him. "Pester your priests," Pope Francis said recently. "Bother them, all of us priests."
So pester the nuncio about your next bishop. The pope won't mind.
Pope Francis, after a year
Newsday, March 13, 2014
Don't be distracted by the glossy magazine devoted entirely to the doings of one 77-year-old man, all dressed in white. Beneath the soaring hope and the celebrity superpope hype surrounding Pope Francis in the first year of his papacy, there's a gritty reality: Rebuilding a church of 1.2 billion souls—even if he were two decades younger, with two fully functioning lungs—is a staggeringly difficult task.
In that first year, the former Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio has brought his humble Argentine lifestyle to Rome. The world knows he carries his own bags, pays his own bills, makes his own phone calls to people around the globe, stands patiently in line to get coffee, and washes the feet of prisoners, including Muslims and—gasp!—women. It's common knowledge that Francis wants a church that is poor, that walks among the poor, rolls up its sleeves and comes to their aid. And he wants bishops who don't aspire to live like princes, but like servant leaders.
But he faces daunting obstacles. You don't have to prowl the Vatican to observe what Francis is up against. Just drive to New Jersey. There, Archbishop John J. Myers of Newark has been putting a new $500,000 addition on his already grandiose weekend/retirement home. This contrasts sharply with the poverty in his archdiocese, and Myers took a richly deserved drubbing in the media. Yet the archbishop, who wants to be called by the formal "your grace," appears not to have noticed a steep fall from grace by another big-spending prelate.
Last fall, stories appeared about Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst, the bishop of Limburg, Germany. At the same time as Pope Francis was living modestly in the Casa Santa Marta, a Vatican guesthouse—not in the gilded isolation of the Vatican's papal apartments—the bishop of Limburg was spending $43 million on his residence. So the pope summoned him to Rome for a chat. The result: The "bishop of bling," as he became known, is now living in a Bavarian monastery—his future uncertain.
Both big spenders became bishops under Pope John Paul II, who will be canonized next month. John Paul's personal holiness is unquestionable, but many Catholics believe that he appointed too many bishops who are more princely than pastoral. You won't hear Pope Francis criticizing his predecessor, but the kind of bishop he wants is very different from many of those John Paul chose.
As a start toward getting the pastoral bishops he wants, Francis has added new members and not reappointed some hard-line incumbents of the Vatican's Congregation of Bishops, which makes recommendations to the pope on appointment of bishops. But fixing the congregation alone won't change the global profile of bishops very soon. Unless he's willing to remove current bishops ahead of the normal retirement at age 75, he'll have to wait for vacancies. The calendar is not on his side. He was elected pope at age 76, and he's missing part of one lung, the result of illness decades ago. So he's not going to have nearly as much time as John Paul did—more than a quarter century.
Then there's the Vatican Bank, where news hasn't been good. For example, Msgr. Nunzio Scarano, an influential Vatican official, was accused of plotting to smuggle millions of dollars from Switzerland to Italy to help wealthy friends evade taxes— and of using his accounts in the Vatican Bank to launder money. Oddly, in the Gospels, Jesus gave no details as to how to run the Vatican Bank. So that has been left to mere mortals, who have been all too grubbily human.
So, last month the pope appointed the tough, autocratic Australian Cardinal George Pell head of a new Vatican fiscal secretariat. Pell will look closely at the Vatican Bank and help Francis decide what to do with it. The pope has listed closing it as an option. That's probably too much to hope for, but Pell seems unlikely to tread softly in fixing the secretive bank, established in 1942 to aid the church's charitable work.
For those of us who root fiercely for Francis to enjoy good health and a pontificate long enough to rebuild the church—as his namesake in Assisi worked to do—the potential reaction to his feather-ruffling is worrisome. Now that he's going hard after the Vatican Bank, who knows what nefarious characters have used it for sleazy purposes, and might now see Francis as a mortal threat to their schemes?
Other problems facing Francis include, of course, the clergy sexual abuse scandal. As wildly popular as he is, victim advocates criticize him for not doing enough. In fact, he's had to work at tamping down expectations in general. Women want a greater role in the church, for example, but he has taken no bold action. Some had hoped he'd name a woman cardinal (cardinals don't have to be priests), but his first group of new cardinals is like all those in the past—all male.
Despite some unhappiness from both right and left, the pope's legend continues to grow: Time magazine's 2013 person of the year, the cover of Rolling Stone, and a new Italian publication called Il Mio Papa (My Pope). As hard as he has tried to downsize the papacy and be small and humble, his very humility has made him such a celebrity that Francis has called this superman image "offensive."
In other words, it's not going to be easy for Pope Francis. Let's just pray that there will be a 10th anniversary of his papacy, and we'll look back and be stunned by how much this humble superstar has changed the church he loves.
Don't be distracted by the glossy magazine devoted entirely to the doings of one 77-year-old man, all dressed in white. Beneath the soaring hope and the celebrity superpope hype surrounding Pope Francis in the first year of his papacy, there's a gritty reality: Rebuilding a church of 1.2 billion souls—even if he were two decades younger, with two fully functioning lungs—is a staggeringly difficult task.
In that first year, the former Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio has brought his humble Argentine lifestyle to Rome. The world knows he carries his own bags, pays his own bills, makes his own phone calls to people around the globe, stands patiently in line to get coffee, and washes the feet of prisoners, including Muslims and—gasp!—women. It's common knowledge that Francis wants a church that is poor, that walks among the poor, rolls up its sleeves and comes to their aid. And he wants bishops who don't aspire to live like princes, but like servant leaders.
But he faces daunting obstacles. You don't have to prowl the Vatican to observe what Francis is up against. Just drive to New Jersey. There, Archbishop John J. Myers of Newark has been putting a new $500,000 addition on his already grandiose weekend/retirement home. This contrasts sharply with the poverty in his archdiocese, and Myers took a richly deserved drubbing in the media. Yet the archbishop, who wants to be called by the formal "your grace," appears not to have noticed a steep fall from grace by another big-spending prelate.
Last fall, stories appeared about Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst, the bishop of Limburg, Germany. At the same time as Pope Francis was living modestly in the Casa Santa Marta, a Vatican guesthouse—not in the gilded isolation of the Vatican's papal apartments—the bishop of Limburg was spending $43 million on his residence. So the pope summoned him to Rome for a chat. The result: The "bishop of bling," as he became known, is now living in a Bavarian monastery—his future uncertain.
Both big spenders became bishops under Pope John Paul II, who will be canonized next month. John Paul's personal holiness is unquestionable, but many Catholics believe that he appointed too many bishops who are more princely than pastoral. You won't hear Pope Francis criticizing his predecessor, but the kind of bishop he wants is very different from many of those John Paul chose.
As a start toward getting the pastoral bishops he wants, Francis has added new members and not reappointed some hard-line incumbents of the Vatican's Congregation of Bishops, which makes recommendations to the pope on appointment of bishops. But fixing the congregation alone won't change the global profile of bishops very soon. Unless he's willing to remove current bishops ahead of the normal retirement at age 75, he'll have to wait for vacancies. The calendar is not on his side. He was elected pope at age 76, and he's missing part of one lung, the result of illness decades ago. So he's not going to have nearly as much time as John Paul did—more than a quarter century.
Then there's the Vatican Bank, where news hasn't been good. For example, Msgr. Nunzio Scarano, an influential Vatican official, was accused of plotting to smuggle millions of dollars from Switzerland to Italy to help wealthy friends evade taxes— and of using his accounts in the Vatican Bank to launder money. Oddly, in the Gospels, Jesus gave no details as to how to run the Vatican Bank. So that has been left to mere mortals, who have been all too grubbily human.
So, last month the pope appointed the tough, autocratic Australian Cardinal George Pell head of a new Vatican fiscal secretariat. Pell will look closely at the Vatican Bank and help Francis decide what to do with it. The pope has listed closing it as an option. That's probably too much to hope for, but Pell seems unlikely to tread softly in fixing the secretive bank, established in 1942 to aid the church's charitable work.
For those of us who root fiercely for Francis to enjoy good health and a pontificate long enough to rebuild the church—as his namesake in Assisi worked to do—the potential reaction to his feather-ruffling is worrisome. Now that he's going hard after the Vatican Bank, who knows what nefarious characters have used it for sleazy purposes, and might now see Francis as a mortal threat to their schemes?
Other problems facing Francis include, of course, the clergy sexual abuse scandal. As wildly popular as he is, victim advocates criticize him for not doing enough. In fact, he's had to work at tamping down expectations in general. Women want a greater role in the church, for example, but he has taken no bold action. Some had hoped he'd name a woman cardinal (cardinals don't have to be priests), but his first group of new cardinals is like all those in the past—all male.
Despite some unhappiness from both right and left, the pope's legend continues to grow: Time magazine's 2013 person of the year, the cover of Rolling Stone, and a new Italian publication called Il Mio Papa (My Pope). As hard as he has tried to downsize the papacy and be small and humble, his very humility has made him such a celebrity that Francis has called this superman image "offensive."
In other words, it's not going to be easy for Pope Francis. Let's just pray that there will be a 10th anniversary of his papacy, and we'll look back and be stunned by how much this humble superstar has changed the church he loves.
The new pope should call himself Francis
Newsday, March 11, 2013
If it's impossible for any one man to govern a church of more than a billion souls, as the now-resigned Pope Benedict XVI deeply understood, it's time for a serious rethinking of what must be done in Rome, and what can be better left to bishops, priests and laypeople around the world.
Can that radical a change in the Vatican emerge from 115 men chosen by the Vatican, accustomed to looking to the Vatican for guidance, and voting in secret inside the Vatican? That's a lot to ask. But why aim low? Around the world, as the conclave begins tomorrow and reliable information remains scarce, the expectation level is almost comically high.
What the electors are really looking for is "Jesus Christ with an MBA," said the Rev. Thomas Reese, a former editor of America, the Jesuit magazine. A great papal job description. But good luck finding that skill set anywhere, let alone in a room of 115 men in scarlet.
In Commonweal, a lay-run journal of opinion, its former editor Peter Steinfels called for the new pope to administer "shock therapy" to the church. That would mean, for example, limiting papal terms to 12 years or age 82. It would mean expanding the College of Cardinals by appointing "cardinal electors," whose only official role in the church would be choosing a pope. At least half of them would be—gulp!—women.
In a Los Angeles Times op-ed, Michael D'Antonio, a former religion writer for Newsday and author of a new book on the sexual abuse crisis, "Mortal Sins," suggests that the cardinals reach outside their own ranks and elect Archbishop Diarmuid Martin of Dublin. Among all the bishops in Ireland, he stood tallest in response to the horrific revelations of sexual abuse there.
But let's be realistic. None of that is likely to happen. Serious change is hard for an institution so rooted in Tradition. Still, you never know.
Given some of the scurrilous popes we've had over the centuries, it would be blasphemous to blame the Holy Spirit for the outcome of every papal election. But we Catholics still believe that the Spirit is guiding the church over the long sweep of history. So, can this conclave produce a pope ready to shake up the church, to help it emerge from the sexual abuse scandal and the management style of Benedict XVI and his predecessor, Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, who became Pope John Paul II? Neither had any stomach for reining in the Vatican bureaucracy.
"I'm not very hopeful," said the Rev. John O'Malley, author of "A History of the Popes" and an eminent church historian at Georgetown University. "The only thing is, there have been these surprises." The surprise I think of is Pope John XXIII, an "interim" pope who turned the church upside-down.
One change O'Malley—and a lot of Catholics—would love to see is the Vatican letting bishops arise organically from the people they are called to lead. Instead, for centuries, they've been chosen from afar by the Vatican. "Since Wojtyla, the one qualification has been: Do you agree with me?" O'Malley said. "That's a disaster." The result has been too many charismatically challenged yes-men. But Rome didn't always pick the bishops. "Bishops were from the city, chosen by the city and for the city," O'Malley said. Why not try that again?
And why not make the Vatican smaller and more manageable, by devolving many of its functions to the dioceses or national conferences of bishops? The election of bishops is just one example. Another is the translation of liturgical texts. This kind of shift would honor a core element of Catholic social teaching, the principle of subsidiarity: Wherever possible, let the smallest, most local authority govern.
Finally, wouldn't it be inspiring if the new pope looked at today's church and realized that it is as much in need of restoration as it was in the time of St. Francis of Assisi, who heard Jesus tell him: "Repair my church." The new leader of a billion Catholics could even signal a roll-up-the-sleeves attitude by naming himself Pope Francis I. When the Spirit breathes, you never know.
If it's impossible for any one man to govern a church of more than a billion souls, as the now-resigned Pope Benedict XVI deeply understood, it's time for a serious rethinking of what must be done in Rome, and what can be better left to bishops, priests and laypeople around the world.
Can that radical a change in the Vatican emerge from 115 men chosen by the Vatican, accustomed to looking to the Vatican for guidance, and voting in secret inside the Vatican? That's a lot to ask. But why aim low? Around the world, as the conclave begins tomorrow and reliable information remains scarce, the expectation level is almost comically high.
What the electors are really looking for is "Jesus Christ with an MBA," said the Rev. Thomas Reese, a former editor of America, the Jesuit magazine. A great papal job description. But good luck finding that skill set anywhere, let alone in a room of 115 men in scarlet.
In Commonweal, a lay-run journal of opinion, its former editor Peter Steinfels called for the new pope to administer "shock therapy" to the church. That would mean, for example, limiting papal terms to 12 years or age 82. It would mean expanding the College of Cardinals by appointing "cardinal electors," whose only official role in the church would be choosing a pope. At least half of them would be—gulp!—women.
In a Los Angeles Times op-ed, Michael D'Antonio, a former religion writer for Newsday and author of a new book on the sexual abuse crisis, "Mortal Sins," suggests that the cardinals reach outside their own ranks and elect Archbishop Diarmuid Martin of Dublin. Among all the bishops in Ireland, he stood tallest in response to the horrific revelations of sexual abuse there.
But let's be realistic. None of that is likely to happen. Serious change is hard for an institution so rooted in Tradition. Still, you never know.
Given some of the scurrilous popes we've had over the centuries, it would be blasphemous to blame the Holy Spirit for the outcome of every papal election. But we Catholics still believe that the Spirit is guiding the church over the long sweep of history. So, can this conclave produce a pope ready to shake up the church, to help it emerge from the sexual abuse scandal and the management style of Benedict XVI and his predecessor, Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, who became Pope John Paul II? Neither had any stomach for reining in the Vatican bureaucracy.
"I'm not very hopeful," said the Rev. John O'Malley, author of "A History of the Popes" and an eminent church historian at Georgetown University. "The only thing is, there have been these surprises." The surprise I think of is Pope John XXIII, an "interim" pope who turned the church upside-down.
One change O'Malley—and a lot of Catholics—would love to see is the Vatican letting bishops arise organically from the people they are called to lead. Instead, for centuries, they've been chosen from afar by the Vatican. "Since Wojtyla, the one qualification has been: Do you agree with me?" O'Malley said. "That's a disaster." The result has been too many charismatically challenged yes-men. But Rome didn't always pick the bishops. "Bishops were from the city, chosen by the city and for the city," O'Malley said. Why not try that again?
And why not make the Vatican smaller and more manageable, by devolving many of its functions to the dioceses or national conferences of bishops? The election of bishops is just one example. Another is the translation of liturgical texts. This kind of shift would honor a core element of Catholic social teaching, the principle of subsidiarity: Wherever possible, let the smallest, most local authority govern.
Finally, wouldn't it be inspiring if the new pope looked at today's church and realized that it is as much in need of restoration as it was in the time of St. Francis of Assisi, who heard Jesus tell him: "Repair my church." The new leader of a billion Catholics could even signal a roll-up-the-sleeves attitude by naming himself Pope Francis I. When the Spirit breathes, you never know.
Benedict did the right thing in resigning
Newsday, February 12, 2013
As much as the election of Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger as Pope Benedict XVI in 2005 filled me—and many Catholics—with a sense of dread, his letter announcing his resignation from the papacy yesterday was deeply touching. Here was a man of strong German stock, but declining health, making a supremely difficult decision to step aside as supreme pontiff, for the good of the church.
Before his papacy, as head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the church's chief doctrinal office, Ratzinger worked closely with Karol Wojtyla, Pope John Paul II. He watched that incredibly vigorous and athletic person morph before the eyes of the world into a stooped, shuffling, very ill old man. It's tough to imagine that those painful memories of John Paul didn't play a role in Benedict's decision.
Whatever his internal calculus, he has made the right choice—and he is to be admired for it. It takes courage to relinquish voluntarily the most powerful religious office on the planet, and any fair assessment of Benedict should reflect that.
But in important ways, he was a man driven by fear.
At the Second Vatican Council from 1962 to 1965, he was one of the bright, young progressive theologians. But not too long after the council closed, the young Ratzinger joined the faculty at Tübingen University in West Germany. It was there, as John Allen chronicles at length in his "Pope Benedict XVI: A Biography of Joseph Ratzinger," that the young theologian's reaction to student unrest and protests played a key role in turning him from a progressive into a strong conservative. Fear—of rapid change, of modernity, of galloping secularism—played a key role in that transformation and in his papacy.
Whenever I attended a liturgy that was a little creative and unorthodox during the years when Ratzinger was at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, I used to joke that he would explode if he could see this.
Then, when John Paul died and Ratzinger masterfully managed the interim period, entered the conclave a clear favorite, and emerged as pope, it was a depressing day for those Catholics who had hoped for something different—a pope from the developing world, for example.
It was a tough day, too, because the two men were so different. You had to love Wojtyla for his biography, for his actor's feel for how to work an audience, for his sense of humor. He had a difficult life, studied in a secret seminary in defiance of the Nazis, and even got run over by a Nazi truck. Suddenly, we had gone from a pope run over by a Nazi truck to one who could actually have driven one: During World War II, Ratzinger was on the fringes of the German military as a youth, and a photo of him in that uniform began circulating within minutes of his election.
To be fair, Ratzinger did desert the anti-aircraft corps. No one ever accused him of being a Nazi sympathizer, and he was a full partner with John Paul in his historic opening to the Jewish people. And the two shared a common conservative agenda. Still, the contrast between the lovable Wojtyla and the more distant Ratzinger was jarring.
Benedict started slowly. The joke was that rigid conservatives in the church had thought they were getting Ronald Reagan, a tough guy who would make heads roll, but ended up with Jimmy Carter. But that didn't last long. Under Benedict, the Vatican has taken a series of actions that reflect fear of change. It was John Paul who wrote "Ordinatio Sacerdotalis," the document that said the church had no power to ordain women. But it was Ratzinger who enforced it. Most recently, the Vatican expelled from the Maryknoll order and the priesthood a great peacemaker and friend of mine, the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, because of his open and unflinching expression of what many Catholics believe: The Wojtyla-Ratzinger prohibition against even discussing women's ordination is just wrong—scripturally and theologically indefensible.
Then there's the matter of Vatican investigations of congregations of nuns and of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, an organization that represents more than 80 percent of American nuns. And the new, wooden, Latinate translation of the Roman Missal, which Catholics are still struggling to take to heart at Mass. And, fairly or not, Benedict's papacy will be tarnished by the continued unraveling of the lies and cover-up of the sexual abuse scandal.
It has been a short papacy—not quite eight years—compared with John Paul's tenure of more than 26. But it has been long enough for Benedict to continue shaping the College of Cardinals in his own image to fit his theological outlook. So, it's difficult to imagine the coming conclave producing a very different pope. But you never know. The Spirit is in charge, over the long haul.
One thing seems likely: Though we are a long way from seeing an American pope, Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York, much favored in Vatican circles these days, seems likely to be a grand elector—one of the movers and shakers in the conclave.
For Benedict, we can all join in wishing him peaceful years ahead to continue to do what he does best—write theology.
For the church, we can hope for at least a new face for the papacy: an Asian or Latin American or African face to reflect where the church is growing, rather than a European face, to remind us of where it is sadly shrinking.
Benedict has been, for too many of us, a difficult pope to love. But his closing act is one we should all admire.
As much as the election of Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger as Pope Benedict XVI in 2005 filled me—and many Catholics—with a sense of dread, his letter announcing his resignation from the papacy yesterday was deeply touching. Here was a man of strong German stock, but declining health, making a supremely difficult decision to step aside as supreme pontiff, for the good of the church.
Before his papacy, as head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the church's chief doctrinal office, Ratzinger worked closely with Karol Wojtyla, Pope John Paul II. He watched that incredibly vigorous and athletic person morph before the eyes of the world into a stooped, shuffling, very ill old man. It's tough to imagine that those painful memories of John Paul didn't play a role in Benedict's decision.
Whatever his internal calculus, he has made the right choice—and he is to be admired for it. It takes courage to relinquish voluntarily the most powerful religious office on the planet, and any fair assessment of Benedict should reflect that.
But in important ways, he was a man driven by fear.
At the Second Vatican Council from 1962 to 1965, he was one of the bright, young progressive theologians. But not too long after the council closed, the young Ratzinger joined the faculty at Tübingen University in West Germany. It was there, as John Allen chronicles at length in his "Pope Benedict XVI: A Biography of Joseph Ratzinger," that the young theologian's reaction to student unrest and protests played a key role in turning him from a progressive into a strong conservative. Fear—of rapid change, of modernity, of galloping secularism—played a key role in that transformation and in his papacy.
Whenever I attended a liturgy that was a little creative and unorthodox during the years when Ratzinger was at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, I used to joke that he would explode if he could see this.
Then, when John Paul died and Ratzinger masterfully managed the interim period, entered the conclave a clear favorite, and emerged as pope, it was a depressing day for those Catholics who had hoped for something different—a pope from the developing world, for example.
It was a tough day, too, because the two men were so different. You had to love Wojtyla for his biography, for his actor's feel for how to work an audience, for his sense of humor. He had a difficult life, studied in a secret seminary in defiance of the Nazis, and even got run over by a Nazi truck. Suddenly, we had gone from a pope run over by a Nazi truck to one who could actually have driven one: During World War II, Ratzinger was on the fringes of the German military as a youth, and a photo of him in that uniform began circulating within minutes of his election.
To be fair, Ratzinger did desert the anti-aircraft corps. No one ever accused him of being a Nazi sympathizer, and he was a full partner with John Paul in his historic opening to the Jewish people. And the two shared a common conservative agenda. Still, the contrast between the lovable Wojtyla and the more distant Ratzinger was jarring.
Benedict started slowly. The joke was that rigid conservatives in the church had thought they were getting Ronald Reagan, a tough guy who would make heads roll, but ended up with Jimmy Carter. But that didn't last long. Under Benedict, the Vatican has taken a series of actions that reflect fear of change. It was John Paul who wrote "Ordinatio Sacerdotalis," the document that said the church had no power to ordain women. But it was Ratzinger who enforced it. Most recently, the Vatican expelled from the Maryknoll order and the priesthood a great peacemaker and friend of mine, the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, because of his open and unflinching expression of what many Catholics believe: The Wojtyla-Ratzinger prohibition against even discussing women's ordination is just wrong—scripturally and theologically indefensible.
Then there's the matter of Vatican investigations of congregations of nuns and of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, an organization that represents more than 80 percent of American nuns. And the new, wooden, Latinate translation of the Roman Missal, which Catholics are still struggling to take to heart at Mass. And, fairly or not, Benedict's papacy will be tarnished by the continued unraveling of the lies and cover-up of the sexual abuse scandal.
It has been a short papacy—not quite eight years—compared with John Paul's tenure of more than 26. But it has been long enough for Benedict to continue shaping the College of Cardinals in his own image to fit his theological outlook. So, it's difficult to imagine the coming conclave producing a very different pope. But you never know. The Spirit is in charge, over the long haul.
One thing seems likely: Though we are a long way from seeing an American pope, Cardinal Timothy Dolan of New York, much favored in Vatican circles these days, seems likely to be a grand elector—one of the movers and shakers in the conclave.
For Benedict, we can all join in wishing him peaceful years ahead to continue to do what he does best—write theology.
For the church, we can hope for at least a new face for the papacy: an Asian or Latin American or African face to reflect where the church is growing, rather than a European face, to remind us of where it is sadly shrinking.
Benedict has been, for too many of us, a difficult pope to love. But his closing act is one we should all admire.
The Holy Ghost writer
Newsday, November 26, 2012
There is the average ghostwriter, and then there is Patty Buchenberger. Call her the Holy Ghost Writer.
For two decades, from her husband Tom's 1981 ordination as a permanent deacon in the Catholic Church until vocal cord cancer put an end to his ability to preach, Patty was the poetry to his prose.
"It was an absolute team effort," Patty said. First, he would study the Scripture readings in the lectionary for the coming Sunday, make notes, and set the general tone of what he wanted to say. "Then he just kind of handed it off to me and said, 'Why don't you make that interesting?'"
Apparently, she succeeded. The soaring sentences by Patty, delivered from the pulpit by her husband—a former high school seminarian, Marine and minor-league pitcher—frequently moved the congregation. After Mass at St. William the Abbot Parish in Seaford, parishioners would often compliment him on the homily. She tactfully stayed away from those conversations, letting him reap the praise. Sometimes, people would send him letters or call him to thank him for another fine homily.
In addition to Sunday Mass, he presided at the baptisms of their grandchildren, nieces and nephews, the weddings of both their children, and countless other weddings and baptisms.
One couple he married loved the film "The Princess Bride," which has a hysterically funny scene with The Impressive Clergyman pronouncing the sacrament as "mawwage" and speaking of "twue wove," So, egged on by Patty, Tom began the homily in that voice.
This husband-wife preaching team first came to my attention in June, when I wrote a column saying women should be allowed to preach in the Catholic Church. That set off a stream of emails inviting me to join some other church if I wanted to hear women preach. (Sorry, not leaving.) It also drew a friendly email from Patty, describing their preaching, and one from Tom, confirming her role: "I am Patty's husband, and, yes, she is the wind beneath my wings."
His email added: "The end result always caused me to be so deeply moved and enriched by her awesome talent as a writer, and I rehearsed often to adequately convey her words with passion and sincerity at the Sunday liturgy."
As a team, they brought to the pulpit a rich reality. "The experience of holding a family together and working together as parents and a married couple, and bringing that to a community who are also struggling with the same issues, we always believed was something that, when we did it right, touched people," Patty said.
But only Tom can stand in that pulpit and preach at Mass. Not Patty. Under canon law, only the ordained, including priests and deacons, can do that, and the church says it cannot ordain women as priests. Just this past week, the news broke that the Vatican had bounced the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, a much loved peace activist, from the Maryknoll order for his support of women priests. A truly sad time.
"I yearn to see a woman on the altar in the Catholic Church: sensitive, insightful to the intricacies of what it is to be a mother, to be a daughter, to be a spouse—things that a priest can't do," Tom said in an interview. "I think, pure and simple, not having a woman priest in the church is pure discrimination."
That's a long way off, but Bishop Emil Wcela, a retired auxiliary bishop of the Diocese of Rockville Centre and a fine Scripture scholar, wrote a strong argument in the Oct. 1 issue of America magazine for ordaining female deacons.
Why not? Maybe one day not too far off, Patty the ghost can be Patty the deacon and Patty the preacher. She's already shown she can do it, many times over. Just ask Tom.
There is the average ghostwriter, and then there is Patty Buchenberger. Call her the Holy Ghost Writer.
For two decades, from her husband Tom's 1981 ordination as a permanent deacon in the Catholic Church until vocal cord cancer put an end to his ability to preach, Patty was the poetry to his prose.
"It was an absolute team effort," Patty said. First, he would study the Scripture readings in the lectionary for the coming Sunday, make notes, and set the general tone of what he wanted to say. "Then he just kind of handed it off to me and said, 'Why don't you make that interesting?'"
Apparently, she succeeded. The soaring sentences by Patty, delivered from the pulpit by her husband—a former high school seminarian, Marine and minor-league pitcher—frequently moved the congregation. After Mass at St. William the Abbot Parish in Seaford, parishioners would often compliment him on the homily. She tactfully stayed away from those conversations, letting him reap the praise. Sometimes, people would send him letters or call him to thank him for another fine homily.
In addition to Sunday Mass, he presided at the baptisms of their grandchildren, nieces and nephews, the weddings of both their children, and countless other weddings and baptisms.
One couple he married loved the film "The Princess Bride," which has a hysterically funny scene with The Impressive Clergyman pronouncing the sacrament as "mawwage" and speaking of "twue wove," So, egged on by Patty, Tom began the homily in that voice.
This husband-wife preaching team first came to my attention in June, when I wrote a column saying women should be allowed to preach in the Catholic Church. That set off a stream of emails inviting me to join some other church if I wanted to hear women preach. (Sorry, not leaving.) It also drew a friendly email from Patty, describing their preaching, and one from Tom, confirming her role: "I am Patty's husband, and, yes, she is the wind beneath my wings."
His email added: "The end result always caused me to be so deeply moved and enriched by her awesome talent as a writer, and I rehearsed often to adequately convey her words with passion and sincerity at the Sunday liturgy."
As a team, they brought to the pulpit a rich reality. "The experience of holding a family together and working together as parents and a married couple, and bringing that to a community who are also struggling with the same issues, we always believed was something that, when we did it right, touched people," Patty said.
But only Tom can stand in that pulpit and preach at Mass. Not Patty. Under canon law, only the ordained, including priests and deacons, can do that, and the church says it cannot ordain women as priests. Just this past week, the news broke that the Vatican had bounced the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, a much loved peace activist, from the Maryknoll order for his support of women priests. A truly sad time.
"I yearn to see a woman on the altar in the Catholic Church: sensitive, insightful to the intricacies of what it is to be a mother, to be a daughter, to be a spouse—things that a priest can't do," Tom said in an interview. "I think, pure and simple, not having a woman priest in the church is pure discrimination."
That's a long way off, but Bishop Emil Wcela, a retired auxiliary bishop of the Diocese of Rockville Centre and a fine Scripture scholar, wrote a strong argument in the Oct. 1 issue of America magazine for ordaining female deacons.
Why not? Maybe one day not too far off, Patty the ghost can be Patty the deacon and Patty the preacher. She's already shown she can do it, many times over. Just ask Tom.
Erase 10 dopey words and let women preach
Newsday, June 5, 2012
Mathematical certainty is elusive, but here's a number that I can cite with absolute confidence: So far, 100 percent of the truly bad homilies I have ever heard at Mass have come from the male half of our species.
Could women give bad homilies at Mass? Theoretically, of course. It just takes lack of preparation and a dearth of talent, and presto: a homily that puts the faithful to sleep or makes them want to run from the church, screaming. In fact, a lot of Catholics have already quietly run from the church. Surveys of lapsed Catholics—numerous enough to qualify as the second largest denomination in America, after the church itself—show bad preaching as one strong reason for their exit. And the perpetrators? All men.
In future surveys of lapsed Catholics, here's another factor that may help explain the exodus: The Vatican is investigating nuns; American bishops have launched an inquiry into the Girl Scouts organization. To many women, this looks a lot like sexism and feels like the last straw.
So, here's a grand unified theory for easing the preaching problem, slowing the disappearance of people from the pews, and making a bit of peace between the hierarchy and the women who keep the church running: Let women preach the homily at Mass.
Yes, in small settings apart from the Mass, women may preach. But at the Mass itself—the marquee moment when the vast majority of us Catholics get our only exposure to preaching—the homily is reserved for the ordained.
This is a strange restriction, given the obvious truth that the gift of preaching does not automatically descend on a man at the moment of ordination. Too often, in fact, it never arrives. Like a priest I dubbed "Father So," who started every homily with "So," and then completely made it up as he went along. Zero preparation, content-free.
One way around the prohibition against women preaching the homily is to let women preach it, but call it something else. I've seen it. The priest gives a really brief one, like: "God is good," then introduces the woman who is really intended to give the homily and says that she will be delivering a "reflection." This, of course, puts a wink and a nod—some would say a lie—at the heart of the Mass. It also runs the risk that someone in the congregation will report the conspiring priest to the hierarchy. So it doesn't happen that often.
The more honest solution is this: Change Canon 767 in the church's Code of Canon Law. It says that the homily, as part of the liturgy, is the most important form of preaching "and is reserved to a priest or to a deacon." All you have to do is lop off those 10 words and add this: "It is the pastor's responsibility to see to it that the most gifted and theologically well educated persons preach it."
This would honor the attitude of Jesus, who listened to women more than men of his time did. It would not put heretics in the pulpit, but laypeople, both men and women, who have the training and the skill to read the signs of the times through the lens of the Scriptures. It's not that easy. It requires a deep grasp of both the world and the Scriptures, and it doesn't hurt if the homilist has a touch of the poet in her.
Some people just can't do it. So, why not let more people who do have the gift, regardless of sex, step into the pulpit?
Unless there's a sudden rush of men into the priesthood (I have a grand unified theory for that problem, too), pastors will be getting ever busier, serving more than one parish. They'll have much less time for homily preparation. So: More bad homilies, more lapsed Catholics.
At a time when the hierarchy looks as if it doesn't much care what women think, and it isn't ready to utter those two little words—"I'm sorry"—erasing 10 wrongheaded words from Canon 767 makes sense.
Mathematical certainty is elusive, but here's a number that I can cite with absolute confidence: So far, 100 percent of the truly bad homilies I have ever heard at Mass have come from the male half of our species.
Could women give bad homilies at Mass? Theoretically, of course. It just takes lack of preparation and a dearth of talent, and presto: a homily that puts the faithful to sleep or makes them want to run from the church, screaming. In fact, a lot of Catholics have already quietly run from the church. Surveys of lapsed Catholics—numerous enough to qualify as the second largest denomination in America, after the church itself—show bad preaching as one strong reason for their exit. And the perpetrators? All men.
In future surveys of lapsed Catholics, here's another factor that may help explain the exodus: The Vatican is investigating nuns; American bishops have launched an inquiry into the Girl Scouts organization. To many women, this looks a lot like sexism and feels like the last straw.
So, here's a grand unified theory for easing the preaching problem, slowing the disappearance of people from the pews, and making a bit of peace between the hierarchy and the women who keep the church running: Let women preach the homily at Mass.
Yes, in small settings apart from the Mass, women may preach. But at the Mass itself—the marquee moment when the vast majority of us Catholics get our only exposure to preaching—the homily is reserved for the ordained.
This is a strange restriction, given the obvious truth that the gift of preaching does not automatically descend on a man at the moment of ordination. Too often, in fact, it never arrives. Like a priest I dubbed "Father So," who started every homily with "So," and then completely made it up as he went along. Zero preparation, content-free.
One way around the prohibition against women preaching the homily is to let women preach it, but call it something else. I've seen it. The priest gives a really brief one, like: "God is good," then introduces the woman who is really intended to give the homily and says that she will be delivering a "reflection." This, of course, puts a wink and a nod—some would say a lie—at the heart of the Mass. It also runs the risk that someone in the congregation will report the conspiring priest to the hierarchy. So it doesn't happen that often.
The more honest solution is this: Change Canon 767 in the church's Code of Canon Law. It says that the homily, as part of the liturgy, is the most important form of preaching "and is reserved to a priest or to a deacon." All you have to do is lop off those 10 words and add this: "It is the pastor's responsibility to see to it that the most gifted and theologically well educated persons preach it."
This would honor the attitude of Jesus, who listened to women more than men of his time did. It would not put heretics in the pulpit, but laypeople, both men and women, who have the training and the skill to read the signs of the times through the lens of the Scriptures. It's not that easy. It requires a deep grasp of both the world and the Scriptures, and it doesn't hurt if the homilist has a touch of the poet in her.
Some people just can't do it. So, why not let more people who do have the gift, regardless of sex, step into the pulpit?
Unless there's a sudden rush of men into the priesthood (I have a grand unified theory for that problem, too), pastors will be getting ever busier, serving more than one parish. They'll have much less time for homily preparation. So: More bad homilies, more lapsed Catholics.
At a time when the hierarchy looks as if it doesn't much care what women think, and it isn't ready to utter those two little words—"I'm sorry"—erasing 10 wrongheaded words from Canon 767 makes sense.
My prediction: Nuns 48, Vatican 0
Newsday, May 4, 2012
The love of nuns runs deep in Marion Boden's family. Her great-grandmother, orphaned as a child, was rescued by the Sisters of Mercy. And several generations, down to her two granddaughters, have gotten their educations in schools staffed by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Brentwood.
So a thunderclap from the Vatican, aimed at an organization that represents the vast majority of American nuns, jolted her. Still, she decided not to throw rhetorical bricks. It was best, she felt, to let the sisters sort it out for themselves.
But she did do two things:
She read two documents, the one from the Vatican aimed at restructuring the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, and a 2007 speech to the conference by a Dominican sister, the only person the Vatican accused by name.
And she acted. "I thought the best thing we could do is to show them our love," said Boden, of Hampton Bays. "I bought flowers for some of the nuns that I knew. I liked the idea of bumper stickers. I put out the word to a few people to come up with something pithy." The slogan they chose was not anti-Vatican, but simply "I [HEART] nuns."
This is what the Vatican seems not to have picked up: People love nuns. But there won't be any bumper stickers sending out love to far-off bureaucracies in Rome who have been more than a bit suspicious lately of American nuns.
The congregation that deals with religious orders launched a "visitation" of some orders in this country. That raised more than a few hackles.
Now, a different bureaucracy, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith—the Vatican's orthodoxy watchdog—has issued its "doctrinal assessment" of the conference. The CDF decided in 2008 to undertake this evaluation. This is the verdict: It doesn't like the "corporate dissent" from the church's teaching on women's ordination and homosexuality. It doesn't like some of the speeches given during the leadership conference's assemblies. And it cites fears of radical feminism gripping the nuns.
But the document doesn't define radical feminism. "For all I know," Boden said, "it could mean pierced ears." In fact, she found the Vatican document "kind of condescending. This is not the way one speaks to mature, educated adults."
The tone of the speech Boden read, Sister Laurie Brink's 2007 talk to the conference, was different—human, warm, witty, rooted in Scripture, examining the realities that many nuns face today: declining numbers of new vocations, aging sisters, indecision about facing the future.
"She was being provocative," said Sister Simone Campbell, executive director of Network, a national Catholic social justice lobby. "Some people agreed with her. Some people disagreed with her. But we had a fabulous discussion."
For years, I've supported Network, a lobbying group I truly trust. Yet it's a target, too. The "doctrinal assessment" listed reviewing conference-affiliated organizations, such as Network, as one of the tasks for three bishops who will be revising the conference's statutes and vetting its programs and meetings.
Brilliant. For years, the church has dealt badly with a sexual abuse scandal about priests, and what does the Vatican decide to fix? Nuns.
The document cites "a serious source of scandal" in Brink's talk, which few Catholics had either seen or heard. Here's what most Catholics have heard: The Vatican is targeting an organization that represents nuns. What people know about nuns is this: They live the Gospel; they provide cheap labor to run Catholic institutions like schools and hospitals, and they're getting fewer (about a third of the 180,000 in the United States in 1965) and frailer, like my much loved first-grade teacher, Sister Marnette Bamberger.
In fact, it is the Vatican that has created a scandal that millions of Catholics have heard about—and really don't like.
There are only 250 copies of Boden's bumper stickers, but bet on this: There will be far more expressions of support for nuns in other ways. If you see the sticker, honk. If you see a cardinal, use discretion.
The love of nuns runs deep in Marion Boden's family. Her great-grandmother, orphaned as a child, was rescued by the Sisters of Mercy. And several generations, down to her two granddaughters, have gotten their educations in schools staffed by the Sisters of St. Joseph of Brentwood.
So a thunderclap from the Vatican, aimed at an organization that represents the vast majority of American nuns, jolted her. Still, she decided not to throw rhetorical bricks. It was best, she felt, to let the sisters sort it out for themselves.
But she did do two things:
She read two documents, the one from the Vatican aimed at restructuring the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, and a 2007 speech to the conference by a Dominican sister, the only person the Vatican accused by name.
And she acted. "I thought the best thing we could do is to show them our love," said Boden, of Hampton Bays. "I bought flowers for some of the nuns that I knew. I liked the idea of bumper stickers. I put out the word to a few people to come up with something pithy." The slogan they chose was not anti-Vatican, but simply "I [HEART] nuns."
This is what the Vatican seems not to have picked up: People love nuns. But there won't be any bumper stickers sending out love to far-off bureaucracies in Rome who have been more than a bit suspicious lately of American nuns.
The congregation that deals with religious orders launched a "visitation" of some orders in this country. That raised more than a few hackles.
Now, a different bureaucracy, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith—the Vatican's orthodoxy watchdog—has issued its "doctrinal assessment" of the conference. The CDF decided in 2008 to undertake this evaluation. This is the verdict: It doesn't like the "corporate dissent" from the church's teaching on women's ordination and homosexuality. It doesn't like some of the speeches given during the leadership conference's assemblies. And it cites fears of radical feminism gripping the nuns.
But the document doesn't define radical feminism. "For all I know," Boden said, "it could mean pierced ears." In fact, she found the Vatican document "kind of condescending. This is not the way one speaks to mature, educated adults."
The tone of the speech Boden read, Sister Laurie Brink's 2007 talk to the conference, was different—human, warm, witty, rooted in Scripture, examining the realities that many nuns face today: declining numbers of new vocations, aging sisters, indecision about facing the future.
"She was being provocative," said Sister Simone Campbell, executive director of Network, a national Catholic social justice lobby. "Some people agreed with her. Some people disagreed with her. But we had a fabulous discussion."
For years, I've supported Network, a lobbying group I truly trust. Yet it's a target, too. The "doctrinal assessment" listed reviewing conference-affiliated organizations, such as Network, as one of the tasks for three bishops who will be revising the conference's statutes and vetting its programs and meetings.
Brilliant. For years, the church has dealt badly with a sexual abuse scandal about priests, and what does the Vatican decide to fix? Nuns.
The document cites "a serious source of scandal" in Brink's talk, which few Catholics had either seen or heard. Here's what most Catholics have heard: The Vatican is targeting an organization that represents nuns. What people know about nuns is this: They live the Gospel; they provide cheap labor to run Catholic institutions like schools and hospitals, and they're getting fewer (about a third of the 180,000 in the United States in 1965) and frailer, like my much loved first-grade teacher, Sister Marnette Bamberger.
In fact, it is the Vatican that has created a scandal that millions of Catholics have heard about—and really don't like.
There are only 250 copies of Boden's bumper stickers, but bet on this: There will be far more expressions of support for nuns in other ways. If you see the sticker, honk. If you see a cardinal, use discretion.
Listen to the Vatican on nukes
Newsday, August 16, 2011
At times in recent weeks, the Vatican has looked a bit like a hapless victim, taking pie after rhetorical pie in the face. But at least on one day, a key Vatican official came across as a thundering prophet, proclaiming a truth we can't hear often enough: Nuclear weapons are a scourge, and they have to go.
The pie-face moments, as so often in recent years, involved the church's handling of the clergy sexual abuse scandal. Last month, there was a new report on allegations of sexual abuse in the Diocese of Cloyne, in Ireland's County Cork. The report said that diocesan officials had failed to report many abuse allegations to police, even recently. And it sharply criticized the Vatican.
Soon afterward, the Vatican had to endure a blunt, no-minced-words statement by the Irish prime minister, Enda Kenny. In a speech in the Irish parliament, he said that the report "exposes an attempt by the Holy See to frustrate an inquiry in a sovereign, democratic republic as little as three years ago. And in doing so, the Cloyne Report excavates the dysfunction, disconnection, elitism and the narcissism that dominate the culture of the Vatican to this day."
Those are fighting words. Not at all the sort of deferential language that government leaders in any country—let alone a predominantly Catholic one like Ireland—typically employ about the Holy See. But Kenny reaped widespread approval.
Sadly, the Vatican's ongoing ham-handedness on the abuse crisis can overshadow what it has to say on other issues. The mainstream media had little to say about a speech a couple of weeks earlier by the Vatican's representative to the United Nations, Archbishop Francis Chullikatt.
"Viewed from a legal, political, security and most of all moral perspective, there is no justification today for the continued maintenance of nuclear weapons," Chullikatt said. "For this reason, preparatory work should begin as soon as possible on a convention or framework agreement leading to the phased elimination of nuclear weapons."
For those who follow the Vatican's war-and-peace attitudes, the speech was not new. "It's a significant statement," said David Cortright, director of policy studies at the University of Notre Dame's Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies. "It's a restatement, but a very elaborate and formal statement of all the Vatican's positions on disarmament. It's a very radical statement for disarmament."
Almost as important as what the archbishop said was the venue where he said it: Kansas City, Mo. That's where Catholic peace activists have been protesting construction of a new facility to manufacture some parts of nuclear weapons.
"It cannot be considered morally sufficient to draw down the stocks of superfluous nuclear weapons while modernizing nuclear arsenals and investing vast sums to ensure their future production and maintenance," Chullikatt said.
Though he didn't aim his speech at any specific aspect of U.S. nuclear policy, his point was hard to miss, because that's exactly what our nation is doing: modernizing and investing in nukes.
Last year, to get Republican votes for Senate ratification of a new Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty with Russia, President Barack Obama committed $85 billion over 10 years to modernizing the nation's nuclear weapons complex. The treaty was necessary, but the multibillion-dollar nuclear extortion was a shame.
So Chullikatt's powerful speech was a morale boost for that faithful group of Catholics that much prefers the Vatican thundering prophetically on war and peace, not blundering pathetically on sexual abuse.
At times in recent weeks, the Vatican has looked a bit like a hapless victim, taking pie after rhetorical pie in the face. But at least on one day, a key Vatican official came across as a thundering prophet, proclaiming a truth we can't hear often enough: Nuclear weapons are a scourge, and they have to go.
The pie-face moments, as so often in recent years, involved the church's handling of the clergy sexual abuse scandal. Last month, there was a new report on allegations of sexual abuse in the Diocese of Cloyne, in Ireland's County Cork. The report said that diocesan officials had failed to report many abuse allegations to police, even recently. And it sharply criticized the Vatican.
Soon afterward, the Vatican had to endure a blunt, no-minced-words statement by the Irish prime minister, Enda Kenny. In a speech in the Irish parliament, he said that the report "exposes an attempt by the Holy See to frustrate an inquiry in a sovereign, democratic republic as little as three years ago. And in doing so, the Cloyne Report excavates the dysfunction, disconnection, elitism and the narcissism that dominate the culture of the Vatican to this day."
Those are fighting words. Not at all the sort of deferential language that government leaders in any country—let alone a predominantly Catholic one like Ireland—typically employ about the Holy See. But Kenny reaped widespread approval.
Sadly, the Vatican's ongoing ham-handedness on the abuse crisis can overshadow what it has to say on other issues. The mainstream media had little to say about a speech a couple of weeks earlier by the Vatican's representative to the United Nations, Archbishop Francis Chullikatt.
"Viewed from a legal, political, security and most of all moral perspective, there is no justification today for the continued maintenance of nuclear weapons," Chullikatt said. "For this reason, preparatory work should begin as soon as possible on a convention or framework agreement leading to the phased elimination of nuclear weapons."
For those who follow the Vatican's war-and-peace attitudes, the speech was not new. "It's a significant statement," said David Cortright, director of policy studies at the University of Notre Dame's Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies. "It's a restatement, but a very elaborate and formal statement of all the Vatican's positions on disarmament. It's a very radical statement for disarmament."
Almost as important as what the archbishop said was the venue where he said it: Kansas City, Mo. That's where Catholic peace activists have been protesting construction of a new facility to manufacture some parts of nuclear weapons.
"It cannot be considered morally sufficient to draw down the stocks of superfluous nuclear weapons while modernizing nuclear arsenals and investing vast sums to ensure their future production and maintenance," Chullikatt said.
Though he didn't aim his speech at any specific aspect of U.S. nuclear policy, his point was hard to miss, because that's exactly what our nation is doing: modernizing and investing in nukes.
Last year, to get Republican votes for Senate ratification of a new Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty with Russia, President Barack Obama committed $85 billion over 10 years to modernizing the nation's nuclear weapons complex. The treaty was necessary, but the multibillion-dollar nuclear extortion was a shame.
So Chullikatt's powerful speech was a morale boost for that faithful group of Catholics that much prefers the Vatican thundering prophetically on war and peace, not blundering pathetically on sexual abuse.
We'll always call him Father Roy
Newsday, July 7, 2011
One fine day, the Catholic Church will get around to ordaining women. It won't happen in my lifetime. But my two young granddaughters will probably witness it.
Right now, though, it seems very far off. Pope Benedict XVI has just removed an Australian bishop who, facing a priest shortage, suggested that the church might someday have to think about ordaining women. And one of the best loved priests in the Maryknoll order, the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, will likely be expelled soon from Maryknoll and stripped of his priesthood. To protest that and support him, seven peace activists did informational picketing last week outside a Mass for Maryknoll's 100th anniversary.
His crime? In 2008, he preached at what the church views as the invalid ordination of a woman as a Catholic priest—and he has refused to recant.
Father Roy, as he's known affectionately in the peace movement, is a prophetic figure. He's a Vietnam veteran who has spent months in prison for protesting at the U.S. Army School of the Americas in Georgia, which trains Latin American soldiers— many of them later implicated in atrocities in their own countries.
"Wherever I speak on the School of the Americas, this injustice closer to home in my church always comes up," he told me. "I reached a point where, in conscience, I could not be silent on this issue of injustice in my church."
Even in his own family, his decision not to back down caused strain—until his father pronounced that he supported his decision to follow his conscience. And he's humbled and encouraged by letters from Maryknollers supporting his act of conscience.
Primacy of conscience has a long history in the church. But the hierarchy always adds this asterisk: For Catholics, a right conscience has to be an informed one, and that means listening to church teaching.
Not ordaining women also goes way back. But in 1976, the Vatican's Pontifical Biblical Commission said there was no scriptural bar to it. In this country, a task force of the Catholic Biblical Association said the same in 1979, despite the Vatican's rejection of the 1976 report.
In 1994, Pope John Paul II issued an apostolic letter, "Ordinatio Sacerdotalis," or "Priestly Ordination," proclaiming "the church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women." His orthodoxy enforcer, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (now Benedict XVI), declared this to be infallible teaching. Some saw that finding as overreaching, an example of "creeping infallibility." To me, it looks like patriarchy and sexism dressed up as doctrine.
John Paul's point was this: Jesus chose only men as his apostles. So the church has no authority to choose women. This reading of Scripture discounts the way Jesus broke the taboos of the day and treated women with dignity—not to mention the pivotal role women played among his followers and in the early church.
In conscience, Roy Bourgeois looks at all this and differs from John Paul and Benedict. He's about to pay for that by losing his priesthood. He stands accused of scandalizing the faithful. But by making Father Roy into Mr. Roy, the church will scandalize the thousands of young people energized over the years by his work for peace and justice.
Someday—when the church decides that providing enough priests to bring the Eucharist to the faithful is more important than maintaining an all-male priesthood—he'll be seen to have been right.
"Good will come from all this," he said. "I'm not just this lone voice out there, crying in the wilderness. The majority of Catholics do support and would give their blessing to women priests in our church. ... This movement is not going away."
One fine day, the Catholic Church will get around to ordaining women. It won't happen in my lifetime. But my two young granddaughters will probably witness it.
Right now, though, it seems very far off. Pope Benedict XVI has just removed an Australian bishop who, facing a priest shortage, suggested that the church might someday have to think about ordaining women. And one of the best loved priests in the Maryknoll order, the Rev. Roy Bourgeois, will likely be expelled soon from Maryknoll and stripped of his priesthood. To protest that and support him, seven peace activists did informational picketing last week outside a Mass for Maryknoll's 100th anniversary.
His crime? In 2008, he preached at what the church views as the invalid ordination of a woman as a Catholic priest—and he has refused to recant.
Father Roy, as he's known affectionately in the peace movement, is a prophetic figure. He's a Vietnam veteran who has spent months in prison for protesting at the U.S. Army School of the Americas in Georgia, which trains Latin American soldiers— many of them later implicated in atrocities in their own countries.
"Wherever I speak on the School of the Americas, this injustice closer to home in my church always comes up," he told me. "I reached a point where, in conscience, I could not be silent on this issue of injustice in my church."
Even in his own family, his decision not to back down caused strain—until his father pronounced that he supported his decision to follow his conscience. And he's humbled and encouraged by letters from Maryknollers supporting his act of conscience.
Primacy of conscience has a long history in the church. But the hierarchy always adds this asterisk: For Catholics, a right conscience has to be an informed one, and that means listening to church teaching.
Not ordaining women also goes way back. But in 1976, the Vatican's Pontifical Biblical Commission said there was no scriptural bar to it. In this country, a task force of the Catholic Biblical Association said the same in 1979, despite the Vatican's rejection of the 1976 report.
In 1994, Pope John Paul II issued an apostolic letter, "Ordinatio Sacerdotalis," or "Priestly Ordination," proclaiming "the church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women." His orthodoxy enforcer, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (now Benedict XVI), declared this to be infallible teaching. Some saw that finding as overreaching, an example of "creeping infallibility." To me, it looks like patriarchy and sexism dressed up as doctrine.
John Paul's point was this: Jesus chose only men as his apostles. So the church has no authority to choose women. This reading of Scripture discounts the way Jesus broke the taboos of the day and treated women with dignity—not to mention the pivotal role women played among his followers and in the early church.
In conscience, Roy Bourgeois looks at all this and differs from John Paul and Benedict. He's about to pay for that by losing his priesthood. He stands accused of scandalizing the faithful. But by making Father Roy into Mr. Roy, the church will scandalize the thousands of young people energized over the years by his work for peace and justice.
Someday—when the church decides that providing enough priests to bring the Eucharist to the faithful is more important than maintaining an all-male priesthood—he'll be seen to have been right.
"Good will come from all this," he said. "I'm not just this lone voice out there, crying in the wilderness. The majority of Catholics do support and would give their blessing to women priests in our church. ... This movement is not going away."
Let Pius XII wait in line
Newsday, December 2, 2010
The world knows Pope Benedict XVI as a quiet and careful theologian. But he also knows how to kick up a fuss now and then, like the buzz for his new book.
No, the pope himself didn't set up a publicity campaign around two newsy quotes from the book, a long interview with German journalist Peter Seewald. But those were the bits the news cycle gave us, and they sure got our attention.
The biggest flap was over condoms. The hot issue now is their use in preventing AIDS. But four decades ago, it was about preventing pregnancy.
In the 1968 encyclical "Humanae Vitae," about "the transmission of human life," Pope Paul VI affirmed the church's opposition to contraception—even though the 1966 majority report of a papal commission recommended easing the ban.
So, what did Benedict just say? "There may be a basis in the case of some individuals, as perhaps when a male prostitute uses a condom, where this can be a first step in the direction of a moralization."
That odd example triggered much debate over how much Benedict intended to signal. Bottom line: It may make it easier for some bishops to accept condom use against the spread of AIDS, but the basic directive to families is unchanged.
"If you were going to change the fundamental teaching, no pope is going to do it in a book," said the Rev. Charles Curran, a moral theologian at Southern Methodist University, who lost his right to teach as a Catholic theologian over "errors" in his work on sexuality. Benedict, then Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was his inquisitor.
In his other buzz-maker, Benedict said we must acknowledge that Pope Pius XII "was one of the great righteous men and that he saved more Jews than anyone else." The result: pained statements from the Anti-Defamation League and other key Jewish groups.
It's a fight we need to avoid.
This issue didn't heat up until a 1963 play, "The Deputy," demonized Pius as silent in the face of the Holocaust. Then in 1967, a book by Israeli journalist Pinchas Lapide offered a counter view, saying Pius had saved 800,000 Jewish lives.
Those are the issue's broad boundaries. But we won't know the whole story until all of the Vatican's World War II-era archives are made available.
A group of Catholic and Jewish scholars seeking a more definitive answer to Pius' role in the Holocaust studied the 11 volumes that had been released so far and in the year 2000 raised 47 questions. Answering them would have required more documents. But the Vatican said it wouldn't release the other documents soon, partly for lack of archival staff. So the scholars suspended work in 2001.
Last year, it heated up again, when Benedict recognized the "heroic virtues" of Pius and John Paul, putting both on the path to canonization. On Pius, Jewish leaders said, "Whoa!"
And they're right. We made too much real progress on Catholic-Jewish relations under John Paul—with Ratzinger's collaboration—to damage it now.
And what's the big rush? "My plea to the 'canonize him now' people is to show some patience, admit he made mistakes and wait for the material to be analyzed professionally," said Paul O'Shea, an Australian historian who wrote a book on Pius, "A Cross Too Heavy."
Whatever the final verdict—probably a lot softer than "The Deputy"—moving Pius' sainthood too fast is unnecessary and insensitive to our elder brothers in the faith, to use John Paul's lovely phrase.
Instead, let's move fast on candidates who evoke more fervid devotion: Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, and the four church women martyred in El Salvador 30 years ago today. And let's tone down the Pius rhetoric, on both sides.
The world knows Pope Benedict XVI as a quiet and careful theologian. But he also knows how to kick up a fuss now and then, like the buzz for his new book.
No, the pope himself didn't set up a publicity campaign around two newsy quotes from the book, a long interview with German journalist Peter Seewald. But those were the bits the news cycle gave us, and they sure got our attention.
The biggest flap was over condoms. The hot issue now is their use in preventing AIDS. But four decades ago, it was about preventing pregnancy.
In the 1968 encyclical "Humanae Vitae," about "the transmission of human life," Pope Paul VI affirmed the church's opposition to contraception—even though the 1966 majority report of a papal commission recommended easing the ban.
So, what did Benedict just say? "There may be a basis in the case of some individuals, as perhaps when a male prostitute uses a condom, where this can be a first step in the direction of a moralization."
That odd example triggered much debate over how much Benedict intended to signal. Bottom line: It may make it easier for some bishops to accept condom use against the spread of AIDS, but the basic directive to families is unchanged.
"If you were going to change the fundamental teaching, no pope is going to do it in a book," said the Rev. Charles Curran, a moral theologian at Southern Methodist University, who lost his right to teach as a Catholic theologian over "errors" in his work on sexuality. Benedict, then Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was his inquisitor.
In his other buzz-maker, Benedict said we must acknowledge that Pope Pius XII "was one of the great righteous men and that he saved more Jews than anyone else." The result: pained statements from the Anti-Defamation League and other key Jewish groups.
It's a fight we need to avoid.
This issue didn't heat up until a 1963 play, "The Deputy," demonized Pius as silent in the face of the Holocaust. Then in 1967, a book by Israeli journalist Pinchas Lapide offered a counter view, saying Pius had saved 800,000 Jewish lives.
Those are the issue's broad boundaries. But we won't know the whole story until all of the Vatican's World War II-era archives are made available.
A group of Catholic and Jewish scholars seeking a more definitive answer to Pius' role in the Holocaust studied the 11 volumes that had been released so far and in the year 2000 raised 47 questions. Answering them would have required more documents. But the Vatican said it wouldn't release the other documents soon, partly for lack of archival staff. So the scholars suspended work in 2001.
Last year, it heated up again, when Benedict recognized the "heroic virtues" of Pius and John Paul, putting both on the path to canonization. On Pius, Jewish leaders said, "Whoa!"
And they're right. We made too much real progress on Catholic-Jewish relations under John Paul—with Ratzinger's collaboration—to damage it now.
And what's the big rush? "My plea to the 'canonize him now' people is to show some patience, admit he made mistakes and wait for the material to be analyzed professionally," said Paul O'Shea, an Australian historian who wrote a book on Pius, "A Cross Too Heavy."
Whatever the final verdict—probably a lot softer than "The Deputy"—moving Pius' sainthood too fast is unnecessary and insensitive to our elder brothers in the faith, to use John Paul's lovely phrase.
Instead, let's move fast on candidates who evoke more fervid devotion: Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, and the four church women martyred in El Salvador 30 years ago today. And let's tone down the Pius rhetoric, on both sides.