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Summer 2003

And now…The Last Word from…
The Most Reverend Raphael J. Adams, MS

As a child, I was taught that the bishops are the "successors of the apostles." I was given the impression that the apostles directly laid hands on their first "successors," ordaining them to the order of bishop. These bishops in turn ordained those who followed them, thus establishing an "unbroken line" of "apostolic succession" down to the present day. This system of transmission of apostolic authority and power by means of tactile conveyance--so I was taught--was instituted directly by Christ as the sacrament of Holy Orders. Many people, I am sure, still believe this. Many theologians and historians, including Roman Catholics, do not. In the words of Hans Kung, "it is not as simple as that. A careful investigation of New Testament sources in the last hundred years has shown that this church constitution, centered on the bishop, is by no means directly willed by God or even by Christ, but is the result of a long and problematical historical development. It is human work and therefore in principle can be changed" (2003. p.19). Kung further asserts, "it cannot be verified that the bishops are the successors of the apostles in the direct and exclusive sense. It is historically impossible to find in the initial phase of Christianity an unbroken chain of lying on of hands from the apostles to the present-day bishops" (2003. p21). Now I realize that some readers may find Kung a bit to the "left" of the theological spectrum. The late Raymond Brown, S.S. was certainly more circumspect than Kung, and might be viewed as considerably more to the "right." While Kung remarks that the "presbyteral-episcopal constitution of the church" is "human work" subject to change, and that the "succession of bishops is functional rather than historical" (p.23), Brown stressed the importance of the episcopacy as "intimately related to apostolicity" (1970 p.82). Brown did, however, concede that "the episcopate is seen as a structure that gradually developed in the church rather than as something that was within the expressed directions of Jesus," (1970 p.82) and acknowledged "the probability that not all the presbyter-bishops of the years 80-110 could trace their position back to appointment or ordination by an apostle" (1970 p.83). For the benefit of those who may feel that even Raymond Brown is not far enough to the right on this matter, we might consider the reflections of Joseph Ratzinger regarding the origin of the episcopate (yes, brothers and sisters, that Joseph Ratzinger). Ratzinger has emphasized that "successio and traditio, as first used, meant practically the same thing, and indeed were expressed by the same word" (p.46). According to Ratzinger, " 'succession' is not a taking over of official powers, which then are at the disposal of their possessor, but is rather a dedication to the word, an office of bearing witness to the treasure with which one has been entrusted" (p.47). Ratzinger's explanation of the origin of the episcopate during the second century was drawn from the work of the German Protestant theologian von Campenhausen. According to this schema, certain communities were known to have received letters from apostles, or apostles were known to have been directly associated with them. This apostolic connection gave these churches a certain claim to authenticity. "In these communities the line of succession could be traced back, as it were, to the lips of an apostle [Italics added]. The men who were now their leaders could trace their spiritual lineage back to the apostles...We see here very clearly how in fact succession equals tradition. Succession means cleaving to the apostolic word, just as tradition means the continuance of authorized witnesses." (pp.47-48)

All of this commentary by recent or current theologians (and this is a very small sample) presents a much messier notion of apostolic succession in the early church than what many of us were given as children (and may continue to believe as adults). Most historians and theologians agree that the episcopate evolved in the early church, rather than being established by divine direction or even apostolic mandate. Theologians tend to disagree to a great extent about exactly how this evolution occurred and what this means--about implications for church structure and organization, about the role of the episcopate, about the very meaning of the idea of "apostolic succession" and related notions of "validity." It is not my intention to provide a synthesis of this information, or to defend or refute one position or another. I would, however, like to focus on one aspect of the ongoing discussion: the idea that a key characteristic of apostolicity (though not its sole characteristic) is fidelity to the apostolic tradition--to the teaching of the apostles. I would like to explore this idea of fidelity to apostolic teaching in terms of its spiritual, rather than its dogmatic or theological implications. I would like to posit the question, "What does it mean to be a 'spiritual' successor to the apostles?" Can one suggest the characteristics of an "apostolic spirituality"? Can one find a scriptural basis for such spirituality? Though bishops and apostles differ qualitatively in role and function from one another (Brown, 1970), in what sense might bishops maintain that they share the spiritual vision of the apostles, and can therefore rightly claim to be their "successors" in some personal, dynamic (rather than juridical, or even sacramental) sense? I certainly cannot now undertake any such exploration to its completion. However, I would like to begin the task, to propose a few ideas for reflection, simply to share a few reflections of my own, and to ask others to engage in similar reflection.

Scholars note differences in the Lucan and Pauline perceptions of the role, function and identity of the "apostle" (Brown, 1970. pp.47-81) (Verbrugge, 2000. pp158-163), and have differing ideas about the degree of compatibility of these traditions. For my own purposes, I am going to limit my present reflection to the Pauline tradition, since "the Pauline letters are the oldest source of information about the technical use of apostolos" (Verbrugge, 2000. p.159), and the available citations are substantive enough to provide us with material with which to work. According to Brown, "there can be detected at least three essential elements in Paul's concept of his apostleship: (a) he saw the risen Christ and was called by him; (b) he was sent on a mission to the Gentiles; (c) in his own life he imitated the death and resurrection of the Lord." (1970. p.59). Verbrugge (2000) suggests additional elements to the Pauline perception of apostleship. These include acting as Christ's "ambassador," special insight into the mystery of Christ, an emphasis on preaching rather than baptizing, and a sense of wonder and divine empowerment associated with apostolic ministry.

Outside these considerations--but inextricably related to them-- lies another domain that I feel we all too often fail to explore or to sufficiently credit. This is the very real realm of human emotion, human valuation, and human processes whereby one finds and affirms meaning. If one is to "construct a spirituality" based on a Pauline perception of apostleship, one must consider this experiential realm as integral to such an endeavor. One cannot explore the Pauline perception of apostleship apart from the human experience of Paul. All that we know about his apostleship is derived from Paul's narration of his experience of being an apostle, and his understanding of what being an apostle meant to him. This fundamental assumption establishes the necessary point of departure.

I am always moved by Paul's letters, especially those portions that open a window into his mind and heart--not just those that are the obvious product of his reflection; but those passages, which flow spontaneously from his introspection, or from his reactivity. I mean those truly soulful self-revelations--so filled with passionate outbursts, with emotional pain, with socially inappropriate rejoinders and politically incorrect recriminations (Even if I thought some people of my acquaintance should go castrate themselves, I doubt that I would put it print!). Then there are the honest confessions of weakness and inadequacy, of confusion and conflict and ambivalence--not perceived as shameful shortcomings, but as opportunities for trusting the One whom Paul has believed. (Examples of such statements include: 1Cor 4:9-13, 1Cor 9:1, 1Cor 15:30,31a, 2Cor 4:8-11, 2Cor 11:22-29, 2Cor 12:1-10, Gal 1:15-17, Gal 2:8, Gal 2:11,14b, Gal 2:19b-20, Gal 6:14, 17, Philippians 3:8-11, Rom 7:15,16; 18b-25, Rom 11:13).

When one separates out these autobiographical and self-revelatory passages from the bulk of the textual material, one relates more intimately to Paul the man. Yet Paul the man is also Paul the apostle. His personal identity is melded with his identity as apostle. This is an expression of the true meaning of vocation. Paul believes he is an apostle because he has seen the Lord, the risen Christ. This is not a metaphor. He really has seen Him in a dynamic, personal, interactive and experiential sense. Paul believes that the gospel he preaches has been directly revealed to him by the living Christ. Paul's Christ is alive. He is immanent. He is cogently contingent to Paul's experience of living. Moreover, Paul did not simply see Him in the past, at the moment of his conversion on the road to Damascus. Paul continues to see Him, to experience Him. Jesus continues to reveal Himself to Paul. Paul experiences Him, personally, in dynamic interrelatedness. This experience is so real, so palpable, so powerful that it once snatched him "up to the third heaven," completely immersing him in this interrelatedness. There was no consciousness of time, and whether in the flesh or out of it, he could not say. However, Paul's revelations continue throughout his ministry. This personal, real experience of the risen Christ is what makes Paul an Apostle--not the approval of the Jerusalem church nor the approbation of those who were apostles before him. For Paul, personal relatedness to the risen Christ--the vision of the risen Christ, the abiding awareness of the real presence in his life of the living Christ--is what qualifies Paul to name and represent himself as an apostle.

Paul's experience of the risen Christ is inseparable from the reality of the cross. Paul's love for Christ is a responsive love for the Christ who loved him first. Therefore, Paul sees the cross as both the vehicle and the proof of that love--the proof of all genuine love, the proof of Love itself. Resurrection and crucifixion are inseparable. Love triumphant achieves its triumph only by being Love crucified. That is what Christ's crucifixion was--is. When one looks on the image of Christ crucified, one sees an uncompromising love. One begins to understand that love -- uncompromising love -- can be a messy, scary thing. One sees that it is not the pallid ideal of florid romanticism. It can hurt. It is not always pretty; but it is beautiful. It is heroic. Christ's uncompromising love brought Him to the cross. Christ's cross was not merely the vehicle for inflicting physical pain. It possessed a social and cultural significance as well. Christ's crucifixion placed Him outside social acceptability. It stigmatized Him. It labeled Him accursed. His degradation was total: physical, psychological, social, even cultural and “religious". This is the comprehensiveness of love without compromise. Paul's responsive love brings Paul to share in Christ's heroism. Paul's love for Christ and for those he loves in Christ is unequivocal. Paul's conviction at times is ferocious, but it is not "fearless." Paul knows apprehension and anxiety. He has to contend with stress, aggravation, and personal turmoil. Sometimes he is placid in his acceptance of the inevitable. Sometimes he is restless, looking for an advantage. He is sometimes proactive, sometimes reactive. He is always committed. He never retreats. He never surrenders. Implicit in Paul's experience of his own "crucifixion" together with Christ are the qualities of undaunted perseverance and of resilience in the face of adversity. This is the dynamic aspect of sharing in the crucifixion of Christ.

Paul sees himself as a man on a mission. He has a clearly defined purpose (though he may occasionally be uncertain about whether he has gone about accomplishing it properly). Sometimes he is vocal in defense of his own actions; and sometimes he is his own harsh critic. He becomes irascible, acerbic, and even sarcastic in defining his role and clarifying his priorities for those who somehow failed to grasp it the first time. Sometimes he obsesses about his own mistakes and shortcomings (I find this comforting). Nevertheless, he remains committed to his cause. Though he is not the first apostle or the only apostle, he does not model his mission on the pattern set by others. His approach is uniquely his own. Paul is not an off-the-rack, generic apostle. He does things his way; and his way is so much a departure from the norm that his idiosyncratic approach gets him into trouble. Controversy is inevitable. He knows this and accepts it. His position causes conflicts with the conformity police spread throughout the churches and even within the apostolic college--especially the Jerusalem establishment. Yet Paul remains adamant in the pursuit of his personal apostleship. Paul cannot abandon his mission or accommodate himself to external pressure to modify his perceptions. Despite external opposition and internal ambivalence, Paul holds fast to his vocation because he believes that God gave it to him. He is certain of that. God gave it to him in particular. The mission is uniquely his own. He is certain of that, too. God chose him to do it before he was born, whether Paul knew it or not. God equipped him to do it. Sometimes he is not sure if he is doing it right or doing it well enough, or if he is up to the task. When these moments of anxiety about his own ability to do his work assail him, Paul seeks the counsel of the living Christ who is present and ever available to him. His Lord assures Paul that--despite Paul's self-doubts and sense of personal inadequacy--he already has everything he needs to succeed. The grace that has been given to him is sufficient. While Paul turns to others for validation of his work in order to make sure that he is not "running in vain;" Paul seeks advice from them about how he should pursue his mission (in their estimation), not whether he should pursue it.

Paul has little patience for those who put on airs. He tends to be direct and down to earth. He says it himself in so many words: what you see is what you get. Paul expects the same openness and directness from others. He cannot abide duplicity or even intellectual dishonesty. He expects his colleagues to say what they mean, and to mean what they say. He demands consistency. Any inconsistency between what they practice and what they preach is unacceptable to him. When I reflect on this image of Paul--this Pauline icon painted with the palate of Paul's self revelation--I form one perspective on what it means to stand in the "apostolic succession/tradition" (not simply as a bishop, but as a member of the one, holy, catholic and "apostolic" church). It means, first of all, that at some identifiable time we must each have had a vision, a real conversion, we must have "seen the Lord." We must have experienced the tangible awareness of the living presence of Jesus in a consciousness-changing, life-altering way--and not just as a one-shot deal. We need to continue to have that vision, that revelation, that ongoing dynamic interaction with Christ. I am not suggesting that we must, like Paul, be knocked down and struck blind for this to happen (at least not in a physical sense). This initial and ongoing interaction--this renewing conversation that continually alters and refines our perception--is prayer. This is not the "gimme please" prayer of petition or the rote repetition of patent soul-medicine formulae. It is the intimate pouring out of the fullness of the heart: hopes, frustrations, fears, anxieties, apprehensions, aggravations, irritations, self-accusations and recriminations; longings, confusions, ambivalences, regrets, aspirations, exhilarations, enthusiasms, second-guesses, gratitudes and complaints; would-haves, could-haves, should-haves, ought-to's, how the hecks, what-ifs and what-abouts. It is intimate conversation with one's closest Friend and Confidant. Because it is conversation, one listens as well as speaks. One does not pour out one's soul before the tabernacle, make a fluttery sign of the cross, and whip out the door. One does not think of prayer as cosmic garbage dumping. One stays, waits, and listens. One reflects. One consciously entrusts one's welfare into the keeping of the One who can be believed, and whose promise is sure. One opens one's heart to the grace that will come--to the reminder of the grace that is sufficient. One waits for the prompting of the Holy Spirit. One listens with the heart as well as the mind. One reaffirms the conviction that God will act. One recalls the promise of Jesus, that He will not turn away anyone who comes to Him. When done with genuine openness, this listening is neither self-deception nor hallucination. One believes that God will respond--either now or when the time is right. One simply expects an answer, rather than demanding or even requiring one. This type of prayer is confounded by clinging to a personal agenda. When done without an attitude of genuine openness, self-deception and self-approbation are inevitable. I suspect that there are people who lack the capacity for "active listening" as much in their prayer life as in ordinary conversation. Only God knows with certainty who is in possession of which disposition. To those who would call this "mysticism," I would respond that this is not mysticism, this is prayer. I suspect that the mystics differ from the rest of us only because they expend the time and effort to pray properly; and have developed a greater facility for "active listening" to the prompting of the Spirit.

We must also have the courage to embrace our own humanity and the humanity of others. This includes acceptance of our human inconsistencies and inadequacies; and sensitivity to our own vulnerabilities and those of others. We have to commit ourselves resolutely and irrevocably to the welfare of those entrusted to our care, without compromise and without equivocation about what that commitment means. The image of Christ crucified teaches us that divine love, active in the human arena, is a dirty, messy, painful enterprise conducted in situations that are uncomfortable with persons who can be quite unpleasant and unscrupulous. Given this social reality, our lives cannot become intertwined with those of others without sharing their experience--their thoughts and emotions. If we truly care about them, we experience their pain, their sorrow, their loss, their need, their social disenfranchisement, their stigma, their brokenness. When they suffer, we suffer. When they die--because we have come to love them--their absence leaves a void. We suffer with them through the exigencies of living and we suffer their loss. We are crucified by our openness to their humanness--to their frailties, their disappointments, all of their falling short of the mark. In embracing them, we embrace their crosses. When they are crucified by life, we are crucified with them. We are crucified to them--crucified to the world. With Christ, we are nailed to the cross.

If our commitment is genuine, it is constant. It does not change in the face of adversity. Our identification is total. When those we love and care for (which is how we should feel about those entrusted to our care) are threatened, we are threatened. In the face of threat and adversity, we do not pack up and run. We do not back down. We do not retreat. We do not hide. We do not slink away from the inevitable confrontation. And we never, never compromise their welfare.

We demand honesty from ourselves, and we expect it from others. We are instructed by Christ and bound by conscience to do the right thing, even if doing it jeopardizes our position with people who "matter." Should clergy or influential lay Christians yield to social pressure--especially when their example might affect the people of God--our ministry becomes one of confrontation. In such a circumstance, honest confrontation is the only means to reconciliation. We are also bound to intellectual honesty and integrity. Intellectual honesty requires us to be open (especially to Christ), to listen, to learn, to change, to be ready to change (hopefully, without having to be knocked to the ground before we are able to listen). Integrity requires us to maintain consistency between what we say and what we do--who and what we say we are to others and what we do in their absence.

We understand that apostleship is not a job; it is a vocation. There is (in ideal if not in practice) no such thing as a generic, off-the-rack Catholic Christian, whether bishop, priest or layperson. Each is equipped uniquely to do an essential once-only duty. I think this is why the idea of conformity as a virtue has always discomfited me. I have known a good many institutional personalities, people who have completely eclipsed their personal identities behind clerical stereotypes. Some have completely molded their true faces to fit the mask. Others use the mask to cover their own identities. When talking with them, it's like conversing with a churchy cardboard cutout, a life-sized holy card. They may offer criticism, automatically adopt a position of adversarial relatedness to any differing opinion, cite inane and archaic arguments, and huff and puff and threaten to blow the ecclesiastical house down. Their responses are ponderously predictable, scripted according to requisite propriety, and devoid of helpful creativity, insight, or innovation. They're always reading from someone else's prepared script. They can bring nothing new to the table, ever (and then they wonder why they're not invited). They are the epitome of the clerical stereotype, the modern equivalent of the "Judaizers" of Paul's day. I have noted that Paul was capable of biting sarcasm. These people were the object of his ire. They enraged him because of his long-standing antipathy toward them and theirs toward him. Their adversarial relatedness toward one another was the product of the Judaizers' rigidity and legalism, and their need to impose their narrow and antiquated view on others (and their glibness in condemning those who would not be bullied).

Fortunately, I have known as many clergy and lay Christian men and women who are truly inspired; who are gifted with unique vocations; who make singular contributions to the betterment of the lives of others. They are creative and insightful. They are compassionate, caring and concerned. They are open and honest and vulnerable. When problems arise, they bring themselves to the table. When they speak, people listen. Because their lives reflect the gospel of Jesus, their words breathe forth the Spirit. So, if we are to avoid being cookie-cutter Christians, how do we discover our "true selves"? How do we enter into the glorious freedom of the sons and daughters of God, without using our freedom as an excuse for irresponsibility? How do we abandon the broad, easy highway of conformity in favor of the steep, rocky path to salvation (i.e. "wholeness," "healing"). How do we work through our salvation day by day "in fear and trembling"? It is through Prayer--the type of ongoing, active, interactive, prayer life (prayerful living) that Paul exemplified and taught us.

Above all, one cherishes one's own mature hopes, talents and aspirations--one's own hard won, carefully thought through, tested, revised and refined, unique point of view--as a gift from God. These are the things, which, in God's providence, equip us to do the work God has set aside to be our own, personal contribution to the great endeavor. We do not hide them under the bushel basket of clerical conformity. We let them shine. In the back of my mind, I already hear the objections of the Judaizers: distorted definitions of self-abnegation and cadaverous notions of obedience, coupled with the suggestion that I am advocating a total breakdown of ecclesiastical obedience or the established social order. (Now, how hard was that to predict?) I am not saying that we do whatever we damn well please. I am saying that we recognize our real God-given talents, develop them, and use them unashamedly to do the work we're meant to do.

Because I've given it a lot of thought lately (beginning with the "Crisis" symposium), and the subject is on my mind as I write, I readily apply some of these Pauline associations and implications to the "formation process." A number of research endeavors have sought to identify the reasons for declining religious vocations. I know the explanations are legion; yet I suspect, in at least a few cases, that one reason is overlooked because those doing the looking are too close to see it. They're standing in it. I suspect that--at least in some quarters--there has been a tendency to confuse formation with cloning, with forcing conformity. I have known seminary faculty and masters of formation who seemed to think that their work was something akin to breaking a horse for the saddle, or canine obedience training. Formation is not conformation (or deformation). One does not "form" candidates in one's own image and likeness. To do this is to engage in self-idolatry. We do not even form them in the image of Christ. Christ does that. Our job is to help them to come to know Christ. We certainly have the responsibility to test the sincerity and genuineness of a candidate's perceived calling. This is because many people do the wrong thing for the right reason. More frequently, there are those who do the apparently right thing for a very wrong reason. However, beyond that initial assessment, our task is to be open to the special charism which each candidate, each novice, brings--his unique perceptions, his hopes, his talents, his aspirations. We cherish these unique qualities as gifts from God. Our responsibility is to teach them to cherish them as well. However, the same can be said, I think, of all Christians charged with the responsibility of nourishing and nurturing, of mentoring or supporting: bishops, pastors, teachers, parents, friends and spouses (because friends and spouses mutually nurture, support and even mentor one another).

My purpose, as stated, has been to propose and tentatively explore the idea of "apostolic spirituality," and to offer only a few reflections drawn from encountering Paul through his self-revelatory statements in his letters; and to encourage others to engage in the same process as a "spiritual exercise." If standing in the apostolic succession is inextricably interrelated to standing in the apostolic tradition, then reflection on the varied aspects of that tradition (and what it means to “stand in it”) is warranted. But I have to wonder what benefit anyone derives from standing in the apostolic tradition-succession in a mere technical or juridical sense, if one does not also stand in that tradition in a spiritual sense: in mental, emotional, attitudinal, experiential, behavioral solidarity with the "last-born" of the apostles--the one who left us the legacy of his example. Why should Providence have left us such an example without expectation--or at least hope--of emulation? He was, after all, the one whom tradition has called "The apostle." "Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us." (Philippians 3:17)