Franciscan at Home

Last week, I changed the lives of 36 engaged couples (most of whom are already sexually active) in seven hours. More accurately, God and I changed their lives through Pope St.

Last week, I changed the lives of 36 engaged couples (most of whom are already sexually active) in seven hours. More accurately, God and I changed their lives through Pope St. John Paul II’s theology of the body (TOB).[1]

What is it about TOB that reaches others, whether young or old, parent or student, married or single? I’d like to unpack that for those of you whose mission is “boots-on-the-ground”: parents, catechists, classroom teachers, diocesan officials, and anyone else who may need it. As a former Confirmation leader, RCIA director, and educator for over 25 years—and as a single woman with no children—I approach the theology of the body very differently from others. With this background and over 27 years of studying TOB, allow me to outline three very concrete, practical phrases that can help us teach the truth of the body in a pastorally loving way.

The Body Matters

Start teaching everybody by using this phrase: “the body matters.” For instance, let’s say you are teaching children in a catechetical setting, and they ask, “Why do we have to go to Mass?” or “Why do I have to eat well?” or “Why did God become human?” The answer: because the body matters!

• Mass is important because the body matters—your body, everybody’s body, and most importantly, Jesus’ Body matters! If we want to be close to God spiritually, we can start by being close to God physically. Jesus’ Eucharistic Body is received into your body; that’s why it is called Holy Communion: you are now intimately connected with God in Christ.
• Eating well is important since the body matters. Without healthy food, it is harder to function in life, and so it is harder to love others.
• The Son of God became human because the body matters. He knew humans are embodied persons, and since he wanted to save us, he too became embodied.

As St. John Paul II says, “Through the fact that the Word of God became flesh, the body entered theology . . . through the main door” (TOB 23:4). In other words, the body matters.

Christian writings between the apostolic age and the third century are extremely rare. At the turn of the first century AD, both Pope Clement of Rome and St. Ignatius of Antioch underscore the jurisdiction possessed by bishops over the forgiveness of sins. For most in those early years of Christianity, sin and repentance were simply accepted as a normal part of the average life of every Christian and needed no formulas or procedures to deal with it.

However, in the third and fourth centuries, the rise of certain heresies provoked a greater development and precision on doctrinal matters and practice. This certainly was the case in relation to sin and forgiveness. Approaching Confession became a definitively rigorous and public act. Led by the bishop, the entire Christian community would be involved as all prayed for the penitent.[1]

In the early Middle Ages, Irish missionary monks who came to the mainland brought with them a different form of the sacrament: private confession—that is, confession strictly between the penitent and God’s representative, the priest. Although the monks were certainly not lenient in the handing out of severe penances, they did effectively mollify the more terrifying features connected with public confessions.[2] In short, confessions were beginning to be practiced in generally the same way as they are today. However, though they had undergone significant changes in attitude and procedure, in essence the official canonical features of Confession remained: the honest recounting of one’s sins, the Church sitting in judgment in the person of the priest, the penalty administered, and final reconciliation.

This is not to be marveled at since the Church is as living and dynamic as is Christ himself. She is, after all, the extension of the risen, glorified Christ in space and time. Consequently, the Church has always been able to adapt herself to the special needs of the people of God at a particular time and circumstance. She has therefore periodically changed her approach to Confession—and can possibly change it again in the future.

As catechists, we owe it to those being catechized to be the best communicators of the content of the faith as possible. But to whom are we to look for the best example of how to achieve this end?

As catechists, we owe it to those being catechized to be the best communicators of the content of the faith as possible. But to whom are we to look for the best example of how to achieve this end? Memories of our favorite teacher might help; perhaps, one of the myriad books on teaching techniques might aid us; but, given the importance of what we teach—the salvation of each member of mankind—should we not look just a little bit higher? Maybe even to the author of the material we are to impart?

To many who are hearing this for the first time, it could sound very presumptions. But really, what has God done throughout Revelation other than show us all the ways in which he teaches us through the three persons of the Trinity? Does this not become the “source and model of the pedagogy of faith” and of God?[1] While each of the three persons of the Trinity have their own methods to impart, perhaps the most relatable of the three, for pedagogical purposes, is the one who took human form: the Son.

A brief survey of the Gospels shows many varied teaching techniques and methods. With the apostles, Jesus was “their only teacher,” a “patient and faithful friend,” someone who consistently taught them the truth throughout his whole life.[2] “He provoked them with questions”; he told them more than he told the masses; “he introduced them to prayer”; he sent them forth on missions with others; and “he promised them the Holy Spirit” (DC 160). Additionally, Christ “evoked and elicited a personal response” in all who heard him (DC 161). And though this response of obedience and faith was deep-seated, because of sin, it required “ongoing conversion,” which Christ provided (DC 161). Unfortunately, we oftentimes read right past Christ’s pedagogical methods and don’t learn how to teach from the divine teacher himself. There are five examples (out of many) I would like to propose that illustrate Christ’s teaching methods in Scripture that will be helpful for catechists.

Near the end of the 19th century, scientist and co-founder of the New York University School of Medicine John William Draper penned an influential polemic entitled History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science. In the book, Draper argued that “the history of science is not a mere record of isolated discoveries; it is a narrative of the conflict of two contending powers, the expansive force of human intellect on one side, and the compression arising from traditionary faith and human interests on the other.”[1] Among the various “traditionary faiths” mentioned specifically in the book, it was Catholicism that most attracted Draper’s ire, as he viewed Catholicism, with its hierarchical structure and doctrinal pronouncements, as particularly antithetical to scientific progress. Draper’s book was wildly popular in the United States and was translated into at least ten different languages. The problem with the book, as modern historians of science have adequately demonstrated, was that it was inaccurate in almost every respect.

Setting the Record Straight

As the historian of science Ronald Numbers pointed out in a lecture, Draper’s book “was in fact less of a dispassionate history, which it wasn’t, than a screed against Roman Catholics and what they had [apparently] done to inhibit scientific progress.”[2] Despite the book’s factual problems, it gave birth to the myth that the Church has been diametrically opposed to science—a myth that has remained somewhat prevalent in the culture down to the present time. Certainly, one can find examples of conflict when one searches through the two millennia of interactions between the Church and science (the Galileo episode is one obvious example). However, the reality is that conflict does not dominate this history. In fact, while one can point to churchmen throughout history who have had issues with different scientific discoveries and theories, one is hard-pressed to find any other example besides the Galileo case in which the Church condemned a specific scientific theory.

Not only has this history not been dominated by conflict, but any cursory examination of the actual historical record reveals the sheer magnitude of support and encouragement offered by the Church to those engaged in scientific discovery. In fact, the Church was the primary patron of scientific research from the Middle Ages up through the 17th century. According to theologian Richard DeClue, “The Church and her high-ranking officials were primary patrons of budding scientists, promoting and financially supporting their work of advancing scientific knowledge” during this period.[3] As the historian of science John Heilbron put it, “The Roman Catholic Church gave more financial and social support to the study of astronomy for over six centuries . . . than any other, and probably all, other institutions.”[4] And it was not only astronomy that the Church funded; nearly every branch of science benefitted from the Church’s largesse.

Despite this reality, the popular story of the history of science in the West is that science lay dormant during the Middle Ages because the Church dominated the culture with her backward, superstitious thinking. In this telling of the tale, it wasn’t until the Renaissance fueled the intellectual rebirth of classical humanist thinking that the chains of Church dogma were loosened, and science could finally flourish. The truth, though, is quite the opposite. In fact, one can see that in the Middle Ages the foundations were being established for the rise of modern science, in large part through the efforts of the Catholic Church.

Most catechetical texts and digital materials used in parishes and schools throughout the United States today are the product of thoughtful collaboration between the publishers who create them and the bishops who certify their theological and pastoral integrity.

Most catechetical texts and digital materials used in parishes and schools throughout the United States today are the product of thoughtful collaboration between the publishers who create them and the bishops who certify their theological and pastoral integrity. This collaboration yields catechetical materials that are not only doctrinally sound but also are effective tools for what is known as an evangelizing catechesis. The history and significance of this collaboration is the subject of this article.

An Immigrant Church

Desiring a common language of faith for the children of the many immigrants to their country in the 19th century, the bishops of the United States published the first edition of the Baltimore Catechism in 1885. That catechism was based upon Doctrina Christiana (1598), the catechism of St. Robert Bellarmine  published in the wake of the Council of Trent. The Baltimore Catechism would later be divided into three volumes, each volume corresponding to a particular age group. Although over one hundred other catechetical texts for children and youth would be published and used in Catholic schools and parishes, the Baltimore Catechism remained the most widely used catechetical text in the United States until the late 1960s. A four-volume set of the Baltimore Catechism remains in print (the fourth volume is a manual for teachers and catechists).

The Age of the Second Vatican Council

Unlike many previous ecumenical councils, the Second Vatican Council was not convened to address particular matters of faith or morals. Nevertheless, the council that was proclaimed to be pastoral rather than doctrinal in nature gave rise to sweeping changes in the life of the Church, especially in her sacred liturgy and practices of piety and devotion.

For most Catholics, the Second Vatican Council is seen as the council that replaced Latin with the vernacular at Mass, reoriented sanctuaries, introduced modern architectural forms into the building of new churches, and curtailed the requirements for fasting and abstinence. Pope Benedict XVI would note that these and other changes in the life of the Church led many to view the Second Vatican Council only through a particular lens, where one saw the council as a call to discontinuity and rupture from “former” doctrines and practices. As a remedy, Pope Benedict emphasized a hermeneutic of continuity, a lens through which the Second Vatican Council would properly be understood only within the context of the wider and longer Tradition, rather than the converse.

Catechetical texts of this era were not immune to the hermeneutic of rupture and discontinuity, nor from a contemporary culture that heralded the benefits of “new and improved” over “tried and true.”[1] Pedagogy of that era generally eschewed the rote memorization that was a staple in earlier times; religious educators attuned to these trends desired catechetical materials of a pedagogy far different from that used by the Baltimore Catechism. Some religious educators expressed a praiseworthy desire for catechetical materials that would place greater emphasis upon Sacred Scripture and offer the rationale for the tenets of Catholic faith and morals. Other religious educators, caught up in the spirit of that age, preferred catechetical materials that ultimately reflected a tendency to relativize Catholic teaching and minimize the gravity of Catholic moral teaching. An influential parish priest once grumbled to me, “The Baltimore Catechism provides great answers to questions that nobody asks.” That same priest would repeatedly express his admiration for the 87 theologians (mostly priests) who publicly expressed their strong dissent from the teachings on the grave evil of contraception in the 1968 papal encyclical Humanae Vitae within hours of its promulgation.

One of the hallmarks of a Jubilee Year is a pilgrimage to the tombs of Saints Peter and Paul in Rome. But what is a pilgrimage? It is harder to define than one might think. Throughout history, men, women, and children have traveled for a variety of reasons, often for motivations other than simple relocation or practical needs. We can see a type of intentional, spiritual travel in the history of the Greeks, the Egyptians, and the Romans.

The term “pilgrim” comes from the Latin peregrinus, meaning “traveler” or “one from abroad.” Americans might initially think of the Mayflower before they think of Santiago de Compostela in Spain or Chartres in France. A pilgrim, however, is not just any traveler. A pilgrim is one seeking God. Pilgrimages are spiritual journeys: tangible, outward signs of an inward desire to move towards conversion and growth in holiness. All major religions have an understanding of this interior need to physically move toward a sacred location.

History of Pilgrimage

Our Christian pilgrimages have deep Jewish roots. Three times a year, Jewish males were commanded to go to the temple in Jerusalem to celebrate the great pilgrimage feasts of Passover, Pentecost, and Sukkot (see Dt 16:16). They would travel from wherever they had settled to be near the holy place where God dwelt with his people. Soon after the time of Christ, Christians began traveling to Jerusalem to walk in the footsteps of Christ and to pray where he died and rose again. Some, like St. Jerome and St. Paula, went on pilgrimage and never returned home, settling in the Holy Land to be close to these places.

When the Holy Land later became too dangerous for travel, Christians began making pilgrimages closer to home, walking to the tomb of St. James in Spain or even constructing small shrines to the events of the Passion in their gardens and churches. The practice of the Stations of the Cross came from a desire to make pilgrimage even when it was impossible to travel to the Holy Land.

In a sense, pilgrimages to Rome began right after the death of Peter. Local Christians cared for his grave, building a small shrine over it, touching belongings to it, and asking his intercession. Even if these people only came from across town, they were pilgrims—a pilgrimage depends not on distance but on disposition. After Constantine constructed his magnificent basilicas over the tomb of Peter on Vatican Hill and the tomb of Paul on the Via Ostiensis, Christians throughout the empire could flock to these sacred places in safety.

It was a predictably hot August day. We stood, tightly packed and shoulder-to-shoulder, in the blazing afternoon sun in the square outside the Basilica of St. Peter in Vatican City. It was the Great Jubilee year 2000, and I had helped lead a group of young people to World Youth Day. It was the largest gathering ever in St. Peter’s Square, which meant that we had to arrive many hours before Pope St. John Paul II was to arrive. The sun beat down mercilessly.

Several hours before the pope was to arrive, from our position far to the back, we could detect something happening up front. Vatican planners had anticipated the heat and its effects, and, to wild cheers, they were setting up what appeared to be a firehose. They began shooting the water high up into the air so that it would rain down cool relief on the crowd. They moved the hose closer and closer to the front, and the contrived rainstorm got closer and closer to our group. When we were finally in range, we reached forward with arms outstretched to the sky as deliciously refreshing water rained down upon us. I surprised myself when I noticed tears had come to my eyes. I wasn’t only grateful for the reprieve from the heat—I was moved by the compelling imagery of several hundred thousand young people, deeply conscious of their need for God, receiving the gift of water (seemingly from the heavens) right there in the heart of Christendom. It was a moment of the Jubilee that I have never forgotten. Water from the heavens. Relief and consolation. The presence of Jesus. The joy and exuberance of the young crowd.

The joy and youthfulness of the Catholic priesthood never fade. The passing years only increase a sense of wonder at the grace and power of the priesthood, not least in the daily offering of the Mass and in a life dedicated to the service of countless souls in the light of the Eucharist. A priest needs look no further for the source of his life and joy. On the 40th anniversary of my ordination, I traveled as a pilgrim to Lourdes on February 11th which  celebrates a moment when “the Mother of Christ made her presence felt and her voice heard.”[1]

I came to Lourdes to give thanks to God for Our Lady’s accompaniment throughout my priestly life. The pilgrimage led me to recognize anew the place of her Rosary in this life and mission. I saw how the Rosary formed an unbroken chain through every scene of my life, linking every moment with Gospel contemplation, intercession, reparation, praise, and thanksgiving to the Holy Trinity. As Pope St. John Paul II once reflected, “The Rosary has accompanied me in moments of joy and moments of difficulty. To it I have entrusted any number of concerns; in it I have always found comfort” (RVM, no. 2).

In his apostolic exhortation Evangelii Gaudium (“The Joy of the Gospel”), Pope Francis urged the Church to practice the “art of accompaniment.”[1] But what does this mean, and how do we do it? As others have noted, we have a model of accompaniment in our Lord’s appearance on the road to Emmaus (Lk 24:13–35).[2] When the two disciples were walking away from Jerusalem, their hopes dashed at the foot of the Cross, Jesus accompanied them on the way: he listened to them, he asked questions, and, eventually, he challenged them and shared the Gospel with them.

What does this mean for us catechists, priests, and teachers who sometimes meet people who are disillusioned and moving “away from Jerusalem”—away from Christian life? How can we help them? Where do we start? Like Christ on the road to Emmaus, we accompany them: we meet them where they are, we enter their lives, we listen to them, and we ask them questions. But also, like Christ, we accompany them toward a destination, so that, with minds enlightened and hearts set aflame by the Gospel, they may “return to Jerusalem” and live in the power of Christ’s Resurrection. Thus, Christian accompaniment requires a clear sense of our “destination,” and, in particular, a clear understanding of the nature of Christian faith.

In what follows, I briefly outline the nature of Christian faith (as distinguished from “natural faith”), describe its grandeur and demands, and offer some consequences for our ministry.