Old Roman Catholic Church in North America -- New Perspectives, Issue 1

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And now, from the Most Reverend Raphael J. Adams,

The Last Word

When I was a child, I was an avid - even a desperate - reader. I devoured books. I absorbed their information almost by osmosis through my hands as I held them, through my fingertips as I turned the pages, and through my eyes - which they opened ever wider in wonder at what I learned and experienced vicariously. Books were my comfort. My childhood was not always a happy one. Sometimes it was horrific. Sometimes it hurt. A lot. And the hurting was done by someone who loved me; by someone I hated, by someone I loved. I suspect I did much of my reading to escape the hurt, to take me to a different place and time. Nevertheless, I did not seek refuge in the safety of fantasy and illusion - not even as a child. Biography was my passion, at least, what there was of it available to one so young. My peers were preoccupied with cowboys like Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, the Lone Ranger and Roy Rogers - and with pioneers and adventurers like Daniel Boone, Jim Bowie and Davey Crockett. They were always victorious. They were always right. They were always highly fictionalized. For some reason beyond my adult comprehension of my childhood inclinations, I became disenchanted with these moral giants (with the exception, of course, of Roy and Dale). I saw the weakness behind their facades. Why, I wondered, did Tonto tolerate such patronage from someone so grandiose and so ego-defficient that he could not leave without staging a grand exit. Willie Nelson's heroes have always been cowboy, but not mine. I found my heroes on the other side of pioneer stories, and books introduced us. I found Tecumseh more inspiring than Boone, the Creek people of the Red Stick wars more admirable than Crockett. They were the real heroes - not the ones who overcame adversity, but who nonetheless remained constant despite it, even in opposition to overwhelming odds and inevitable defeat. I understood them. I understood their powerlessness and their resignation, their tenacity. I soon came to have other heroes as well - the Saints. Like every parochial school child, I was introduced to them as soon as I could read about them. I quickly identified my favorites: Francis and Clare, Anthony of Padua, the great Teresa of Avila and John of the cross. These saints spoke to me, touched something in my psyche. They were my role models. They were not martyrs (at least, not in the technical, physical sense). They were more than martyrs. Their lives were martyrdom. They endured. They persevered. They survived what could and should have killed them. And they were (and still are) often misunderstood Other saints, or persons "on the way to becoming saints" (to borrow a term from Father Guido Sarducci) were introduced to me by the good sisters. I made their superficial acquaintance, and politely read about them, but felt little inclination to cultivate their friendship. One of my teachers was enamored of the "great and holy popes." Her favorites were Pope Saint Pius X, and his predecessor, Pop Pius IX (whom she hoped would some day be canonized). not understanding the nature of Roman numerals, I understood their names to Pius Icks and Pius Ecks. I was moderately impressed by them, but I felt no warmth, no tenderness emanating from them. They were credited with being caring, loving souls; but they seemed to be wearing their virtue like a cassock, put on crisp and clean in the morning and hung up smudged and wrinkled on the rack at night. I passed quickly from their acquaintance in favor of a deeper familiarity with Saints of less authoritarian variety - those on the other side. As an adult, I was reintroduced to Pius Icks and Pius Ecks. I came to know them better - much better. One could hope that the more one comes to know someone, the more he can understand and appreciated him. That was partially true of my experience of the Piuses. The more I came to know about them, the more I came to understand them - and to feel a definite ambivalence toward them (especially Pius Icks).

in the aftermath of all the scandals that heave recently shaken the Roman communion, critics, commentators and other vigilantes have been combing the countryside looking for someone to lynch. Everyone has been blaming someone (else). As though the blaming epidemic were not sufficiently widespread already, I have identified a culprit of my own. Like the comic relief character in the old western series of my childhood, I feel compelled to jump in front of the metaphoric posse, point my finger back in the direction from which they just came, and shout, "he went that a' way!""He," in this case is Pius Icks. I blame him for all the muck and mayhem. Pius Ecks picked up the ball where Icks dropped it and ran with it. I certainly agree that Ecks outdistanced his predecessor in his attempts to bully Christendom; and that his regime has aptly been labeled a "reign of terror" characterized by Vatican vigilantism. However, Pius Icks made Pius Ecks (and much of what has subsequently happened) possible. I find it somewhat prophetic (and pathetic) that Pius IX was beatified by Pope John Paul II shortly before the outbreak of the scandal. Should Pius IX be canonized, he might well be named the patron saint of abreactive and authoritarian leaders (as Pius X might serve as patron saint for corporate micromanagers). Now, I understand that it seems preposterous to blame a long-dead pope for everything hat has currently gone awry. And it it. Yet to make such an assertion is no more simplistic and naive than asserting any single-agent causal model as an explanation for this mess; and there is certainly enough of that going on. No single factor, taken in isolation, can adequately explain the phenomenon. Undoubtedly, a good number of commissions and omissions by a number of persons have converged over a long period of time to create a catastrophe of this magnitude. Self-appointed analysts have wagged the finger of blame at a diverse array of alleged persons, situations, and contexts as being the cause of all the trouble. I have come across an interesting list in the churchy media: Modernism, liberalism, homosexuality, the sexual revolution, celibacy, the seminary system (especially the "minor" seminary), episcopal chauvinism, clerical old boyism and so on. What struck me about many of these assignations of guilt was their lack of originality and their complete predictability. I was not surprised, for instance, by one author's identification of "Modernism" as the culprit. Well, of course it would be. For him, Modernism is always the culprit. It has always been, and it always will be, per omnia saecula saeculorum. In fairness, the same must be said about much of the verbiage from the opposite camp - contorted "I told you so's" pulled piecemeal from the wreckage and identified as the weak or broken part which brought the whole structure crashing down. Yet none of these factors - in isolation, and glibly defined - can be blamed. However, all of these factors (and more), in greater complexity than assumed - interacting in concert - are to blame.

We do seek a simple solution, however. This one of the great cognitive glitches of our human hardwiring. We want someone or some solitary thing to be accountable. The single agent causal assumption is paradigmatic. A character in one of William Kienzle's novels (I have forgotten which one) provided a wonderful illustrative anecdote. In Kienzle's story (as well as I can recall it), a bishop visiting a monastery noticed that one of the monks - usually an affable and happy man - seemed dejected and out of sorts. The bishop shared this observation with the abbot, who concurred in his assessment and encouraged the bishop to approach with his concern. The bishop tried to help the forlorn brother identify the cause of his depression. His Excellency inquired as to whether the cause might be the discipline, the deprivation of life's luxuries, the long hours of silence, time spent in prayer and meditation, the simple diet, the absence of a family life, the yoke of obedience and so on. The monk responded in the negative to each of the bishops questions. Finally, the bishop exhausted his repertoire of possible causes. He told the brother that he was sorry that he could not have been more helpful to him. The latter replied that the bishops questioning had been very helpful, and that he now understood the reason for his despondency. It was not any one factor in itself: "It's the whole damn thing!" The moral? Operating from assumptions of single factor causation as an explanation for all that has gone very wrong is problematic and dangerous for several reasons. Such thinking, harnessed with the blinders of preconception, perpetuates stereotypical thinking. This further fragments Catholicism. It blinds us to the realization that what has gotten us into this trouble is not this person, or this situation, or this or that attitude or philosophy. "It's the whole damn thing."

My blaming Pius Icks is not intended to be another causal agent accusation against him as an individual. Tracing a causal chain through a century long series of events from then to now and from him to the recent scandal would be tenuous and tedious. I do, however, maintain that he had a role to play; and that without him (or someone acting in loco eius), the "whole damn thing" would never have happened. Even now, he continues to influence the response. The attitude fostered by Pius IX in the Syllabus of Errors still characterizes Vatican polity and policy. It was that attitude which contributed to the clerical culture that protected abusers. To me, Pius Icks was representative of that culture. Symbolically, he serves as its archetype; and the Syllabus as its vehicle.

For the record, Pope Pius IX died in February 1878, at 86 years of age, after a reign of 32 years - the longest reign in papal history. At least, that's the official story. However, like John Brown whose body also lies a moulderin' in the grave, his spirit goes marchin' on. Like the little mechanical rabbit, he just won't stop. Pius IX promulgated the Syllabus of Errors in 1864. Its purpose was to condemn a whole laundry list of propositions that threatened to lead Catholics astray. Some of the propositions anathematized basic philosophical assumptions of political democracies (like the United States). A number of propositions occupied a "gray area" in the evolving jurisdictional tug-of-war between Church and State. The common denominator seems to have been innovation. If it was new or different, it was bad. Pius considered the identified propositions to be novel, or "modern" in nature: new fangled ideas which threatened to undermine (further) the church's position in the world. During Pius IX's reign the papacy had been deprived of its secular and military power; and its real estate holdings (and income) had been substantially reduced. The world was changing rapidly and Pius was not terribly open to new ideas. By way of example, he did not consider slavery an inherently immoral institution and he disapproved of democracy as a form of government. The Syllabus of Errors was the keynote address of a new, defensive model papacy, one long in the making. It put the church and the world on notice that - in response to a changing world - ultramontanism had solidified itself into papalism. The dangerous liberalism Pius IX was condemning manifested itself in liberal schools of thought and the development of systems perceived as inimical to the church, its faith, and its interests. Some of these schools of thought were clearly theological or philosophical. Others were purely political or governmental. Pius had difficulty separating the two from one another. In the Syllabus, Pius IX condemned such propositions as separation of church and state, freedom of religion, freedom of worship, and freedom of speech. He found these ideas offensive, even heretical. A perusal of the Syllabus gives the impression that the only legitimate form of government was monarchy, and the only legitimate monarchy was one subject to the pope.

So what does the Syllabus have to do with the recent scandal? The distrust of civil government characteristic of purview of Pius Icks, and of his successor, Pius Ecks served to create a clerical culture, which resented the incursion of government (including the police and the criminal courts) into the internal affairs of the hierarchy. The church (i.e., the pope and curia) had been forced to surrender its temporal power and its advantage over secular societies. Nevertheless, it believed that these externally imposed limitations were abridgments of its divinely appointed role. It did not surrender its belief that it had an entitlement to that power and advantage. If it could no longer influence the course of world polity, it would at least strive to maintain its exemption from the mandate of secular governments. The tone of the Syllabus (and other statements and declarations of Pius IX) suggests that the relationship between the church and secular governments was a characteristically adversarial one, and implies that the church had no obligation to cooperate with such institutions.

In relation to recent events, the argument can certainly be made that bishops covered up the inappropriate behavior of some priests in order to avoid scandal. "Avoiding scandal" was accomplished in many cases by simply moving a perpetrator from one parish to another time after time. In some cases, this was done after allegedly providing assurances (sotto voce) that offending priests would be removed from active duty or prevented further access to juveniles. Such activity suggests that "avoiding scandal," meant maintaining the appearance of propriety, without sufficient consideration of the substance of it. What is also apparent is that the ecclesiastical vocabulary did not include such words as "crime" or "criminal." One might question why the language of propriety and decorum superseded the language of crime and criminality. I blame that aspect on Pius Icks The tone set by the Syllabus had infused the attitude of adversarial relatedness to secular society into ecclesiastical culture. "The world,"defined as secular governments and societies became the enemy. For Catholics in democratic countries, this created cognitive dissonance. They were put in the position of affirming both their Catholicity and their patriotism. When they defend the latter with great conviction, their position was easily undermined. Detractors had only to cite Pius IX by way of objective documentary evidence. For the hierarchy, there was no question about allegiance to the syllabus. After all that was how they became the hierarchy. Two subcultures evolved in the Catholicism of our secular democracy - the lay and the clerical. But Catholicism was also a caste system, with top down organization, top down communication, and bottom up accountability for obedience. The triangular diagram of the church was presented to us in catechism class in the 50's. The pope was at the pinnacle of the triangle. Below him were the bishops, then priests, then religious, and finally the broad base of the laity ( a "trickle down" model of the economy of grace). Dividing lines in the diagram were sharp and clearly evident. It was classical sociological definition of a caste system.

One might posit by way of objection that all this changed in the 60's with Vatican II. I disagree. I suggest that Vatican II brought about changes - not change. Attitudes are much more culturally entrenched than ideas, and continue to operate long after they have been legislated away. I suspect that for many in the hierarchy, the old way of doing things remained operative. It continued automatically, as it always had for them. The old paradigm survived. Perhaps the underlying assumption that it was necessary to protect priests and religious from the hostile intrusion of secular governments (and to protect the ecclesiastical prerogative over and against the civil) was never questioned. Perhaps the value placed on the church's image remained, unconsciously,, a primary concern. Were these the old assumptions of the clerical culture, of the episcopal caste - the old paradigm that did not change, but survived the changes? If this was the case, one is hard pressed to point the finger at specific bishops as responsible individuals (at least in isolation from other factors). One cannot blame them for doing the best they could under the circumstances. I blame Pius Icks for the circumstances.

When media coverage was in full noxious flower, I perused an article in a popular magazine that compared abusers to the priests of old days. The author seemed to believe that The Bells of Saint Mary's and Going My Way were documentaries, and the priests portrayed by Bing Crosby and Barry Fitzgerald were priestly archetypes of some sort. He wondered what made such a drastic change possible. Many people have voiced similar observations. It is time for a reality check. Consider an alternative explanation for the apparent discrepancy. Perhaps the incidence of abuse has not changed, but has remained rather constant. Many of the allegations go back three decades or more: the pattern of abuse is not a new phenomenon. The phenomenon is the public awareness of the pattern of abuse. Perhaps this is a long established pattern. This was certainly the allegation of former priest Emmet McLoughin in the 1960s. McLoughlin's expose was explained (away?) as the calumny of an apostate priest. Was it? I suspect not. So perhaps some other variable is operating. Perhaps the reporting of abuse has increased. Perhaps the language of crime and criminality has finally gained the ascendancy over the language of propriety and decorum. This would suggest a change in lay Catholic subculture and a blurring of the sharp lines between the castes - a shift in the paradigm. At Vatican II, the bishops repudiated specific items contained in the Syllabus of Errors. Perhaps the outrage of lay Catholics (and a number of bishops and priests) reflects an attitudinal shift in American Catholicism - a repudiation of tone and toner of the Syllabus. This would constitute a rejection of the old paradigm, its underlying assumptions and its automatic process. If this is the case, it represents a developmental milestone in the history of the Roman Catholic Church in the united States.

When the whole business erupted, a Roman Catholic friend voiced his confusion and disappointment. He questioned his ability to maintain any loyalty to the church. He questioned his faith. I felt compelled to remind him that the abusers are not the church, that no priest or bishop is the church. The church is not made up of priests and bishops, but of the people of God (some of whom are priests and bishops). I reminded him that, though bishops and priests have the responsibility of guiding the church, it is really the Holy spirit who does so. Should bishops and priests fail, the Holy Spirit Who does so. Should bishops and priests fail to utter the word of the Spirit, other prophets will proclaim it (to their instruction and admonition). God has always "raised up" prophets from among His people. Therefore, the guidance of the church will not fail. I encouraged him to remain strong and convinced in his own vocation. I reassured him that "for those who love God, and are called according to His purpose all things work together unto good." "What good could come out of this?" he asked.

What good could come out of this? Could it be the beginning of the end of Curialism; of the closed, clerical caste system; of the triangular model of the church; of the old paradigm, the old attitude? when pope john Paul II recently beatified Pius Icks, I took this action to be symbolic, an affirmation by John Paul of that which Ikcs represented. Then the scandal erupted. In the light of the former even, I have interpreted the latter to be symbolic as well, a repudiation of that ecclesiastical culture operated both overtly and covertly, and is still trying to do so. While press releases give the impression of openness and dialogue, it is apparent that the real decisions have often already been made behind closed doors, and discussions conducted and concluded sub rosa before "open discussion" of a predetermined outcome ensues. The "Petrus Dixit" principle still trumps opposition and quashes discussion. Despite the appearance of open communication and top down accountability, the hierarchical caste structure remains stubbornly established. Even thought the church's policy regarding the whole issue of child sexual abuse by the clergy was deliberated publicly (during scheduled, televised sessions), only bishops participated actively in the discussions. In a New York times article, Laurie Goodstein recently noted, "If bishops and priest could be parents or women, they would have pilloried priest they knew were molesting children, not reassigned hem to parishes where they could access more victims." I do not expect the curial church to admit parents or women to the priesthood or the episcopacy. This would be too great a leap. However, I do wonder why parents and women are excluded from the desicion-making and policy formulating process, and from the very beginning - that the issue was first addressed in diocesan forums, in which lay Catholics voiced their opinions and concerns. They would point to commissions and committees with lay membership or exclusively lay constituency. All of this is true, yet their role has remained essentially consultative and collateral. They have not been active participants in definitive discussion or decision making. The American bishops themselves were not definitive decision makers in the formulation of a comprehensive policy. Their proposed policy was subjected to Vatican scrutiny (veto, reconstruction) and "given back" for further discussion by the bishops. Despite the media coverage and the language of inclusion, when the fluff is pulled away the whole process remains bottom-up in accountability, top-down in decision making and action. It is still a caste system, albeit a superficially kinder and gentler one. I fear that perhaps the motives and assumptions of the old paradigm endure as well.

I suspect that some readers, having read this last paragraph, are sputtering, turning red, and muttering through clenched teeth that the church is not a democracy! I do not blame them for their reaction. Like I said, I blame Pius Icks for their reaction. I agree that the church is not a democracy (in the sense in which the government of the USA is "a democracy"), but neither is it inherently a medieval monarchy (though it functions as one). To agree that the church is not "a democracy," is not to say that it cannot operate more democratically; or that its organizational structure and operation cannot continue to evolve and change over time, as they have in the past. Indeed, that evolutionary process was the means by which the Roman Catholic church became a medieval monarchy. There is nothing in scripture or tradition to establish the monarchical model of church as sacrosanct; indeed, there is much to call it into question. Such questioning on the part of Catholic theologians and historians moved Pius Icks to construct his Syllabus in the first place. Even within our own ecclesial family, I have been accused of undermining the authority of bishops - and even the order of the episcopacy - by suggesting that the church be more "democratic" in its operation. This charge is justified only if one assumes that authoritarianism is essential to the episcopal character!

I challenge the assumption that the exercise of authority by the pope or bishops is essentially authoritarian in nature (any more than it is laissez-faire). Bishops certainly have the primary responsibility for guiding the church, but is "guiding" synonymous with "ruling"? In this regard, I have to take issue with the common translation of the word episcopos (bishop). Please forgive this tangential, semantic excursion, but I believe it has some illustrative relevance to the discussion. There is a tendency to translate "episcopos" into English as "overseer". Now, I grant the literal accuracy of this translation, but I have to confess that the term overseer makes me cringe (am I the only one who saw Roots, or read The Confessions of Nat Turner?). As a recalcitrant and rebellious child of the confederacy, I cannot help having negative connotations evoked by the very use of the word in any context. Apart from its literal meaning, the term "overseer" implies an authoritarian attitude. It evokes a characteristic operating context: a master-slave relationship, a caste system, a hierarchical paradigm. I do not believe that this is the affective, attitudinal meaning the term "episcopos" was intended to convey. I don't feel this attitude operating when I read scripture or the fathers. Consequently, I propose alternate translations such as: one who watches over, one who takes care of. I believe this term captures both the literal meaning as well. Bishops are primarily shepherds, not Machiavellian princes accommodating themselves to the role of corporate executives. "Oversight" in scripture is characterized by an attitude of caring and concern. the shepherd metaphor represents watchfulness (in the sense of attentiveness), protection, and compassion. It even implies identifications of the shepherd with his sheep. He knows them. They know him. The shepherds experiences whatever happens to them as though it had happened to him personally. The essential dynamic of episcopacy is the authoritative exercise of karis, of gratia, of grace by those who are called to emulate the One Who came not to be served, but to serve. I recall an old bishop who once felt compelled to remind a younger bishop that the crozier he carried as a sign of his authority was symbolic of a shepherds staff - not a big stick.

The Syllabus was a big papal stick, and its big stick mentality officially guided the Vatican policy for a century. Vatican II tried to kill (at least, its noxious components) but it's hard to put the skids on something with that much momentum. Though the letter of the Syllabus was undone, the argument can be made that it spirit has survived in many minds and hearts. Perhaps the recent scandal will ultimately bring about the exorcism of its lurking ghost.

Pius Icks received a great sendoff when he died in 1878. He was, after all, the last medieval papal prince and a reigning monarch. However, not everyone wanted such grand obsequies. I have heard that when his funeral was being planned, some disgruntled folks suggested that they just "throw the old pig in the Tiber." I harbor no such resentment toward Pius Icks. While confessing my ambivalence toward him, I reiterate that my attitude is genuinely ambivalent. My reaction is both positive and negative. I do see good in the old man (at least the will and desire to do good). While finding myself in fundamental disagreement with much that he said and did. Perhaps he felt threatened; and perhaps he felt betrayed. Perhaps he felt hurt; and perhaps he was afraid. Maybe His Late holiness suffered from a kind of papal stress disorder, having been chased from pillar to post and reduced to comparative penury by a revolutionary government. Such a state of mind can make one hyper vigilant. Potential threats might be perceived to be immanent dangers; and the unfamiliar, unpredictable or disagreeable situations or ideas viewed as potential threats. When one's experience of the world has shown it to be unsafe and everything is chaotic and out of control, one might be driven by the need for psychological safety and security to protect oneself. One might try to impose control - to make it safe. Fear is not the best basis for decision-making or action; and it can certainly cloud one's judgment. I think that when the whole world changed, and all his great expectations failed, and Pius felt himself to be a virtual prisoner in the Vatican confines, he became fearful rather than emboldened.

I understand fear: I understand what it can do. Fears, and the response to it, are central themes in the gospels. Peter and the other apostles were often afraid, often confused or immobilized by fear. They frequently failed to accept the inevitability of change, to realize that - given the reality of the situation - certain things "had to be accomplished." Yet, the essence of their apostolic witness was that they were moved by the power of the Resurrection and the action of the Holy Spirit to overcome their fear; to see the hand of God at work in the changes, which threatened them; to change themselves and to allow themselves to be changed; and to become change-agents in their interaction with others. Consequently, they developed the capacity to bring forth from the storehouse of grace and wisdom the old as well as the new. They ambassadors of the One Who "makes all things new."

I think the Syllabus was born of fear. So perhaps it's long past time (the time of Pius IX) to take some bold steps toward really encountering the world (toward encountering the real world?). Maybe a certain courage of mind and heart - the courage to accept the inevitability of change, and even the courage to change. Perhaps that change might begin by opening the deliberative and decision-making process to parents and women, to allow the free flow of information, to erase the lines of caste distinction in the old diagram, to invert the triangle, flatten it, or at least knock it on its side. Perhaps it is long past time to challenge the old paradigm and its assumptions and ways of conducting business as usual. Perhaps that would be the good that could still come out of all of this - the reevaluation and even reconstruction of the whole damn thing. After all, the idea that parents and women can be inspired by the holy spirit to leadership together with bishops and priests, and have an active role in the church is not some innovative, modernist perversion of tradition.

Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day's journey away; and when they had entered, they went up to the upper room, where they were staying, Peter and John and James and Andrew, Phillip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James the son of Alphaeus and Simon the Zealot and Judas the son of James. All these with one accord devoted to prayer, together with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with his brothers...

When the day of Pentecost ad come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly a sound came from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind, and it filled all the houses where they were sitting. And there appeared to them tongues as of fire, distributed and resting on each one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit gave them utterance. (Acts 1:12-24; 2:1-4)