COMMENTARY: April 19 marks the 20th anniversary of the election as pope of one of the most consequential ecclesial figures of the last 75 years.
April 19 marks the 20th anniversary of the election of Benedict XVI.
And while his selection as pope following the death of John Paul II surprised very few within the Church, I would wager that nobody envisioned that his papacy would end in the first papal resignation in centuries. Unfortunately, for many casual observers with little knowledge of the full career of Joseph Ratzinger beyond media memes about the “Panzer Cardinal,” his resignation from the papacy appears as the single most memorable thing about him.
Therefore, it behooves those of us who cherish the entirety of his life’s work to make every effort to ensure his legacy is properly understood as one of the most consequential ecclesial figures of the past 75 years. And when I say “consequential,” I mean that in a positive sense.
Allow me to begin with a simple assertion regarding Ratzinger’s deepest and most characteristic virtue, which will serve as the leitmotif for these reflections. That virtue is his sense of obedience to the Lord in a spirit of profound humility. This essential aspect of understanding his legacy is often ignored in favor of analyses that focus on his theological constructions — as if his theology can be divorced from his life of Christian faith, which animated it. And make no mistake about it: Joseph Ratzinger was above all else, and in deeply defining ways, a believer: a believer in the centrality of Christ the Lord and in his Church as the sacramental mediator in time and space of her Lord.
As a young priest, Ratzinger wanted nothing more than to live the life of an academic who would use his intellect in the service of pastoring the souls in his care. Possessed of a gifted and capacious intellect, he wanted to use this gift in the service of the Church as a theologian. But soon he was called to the Second Vatican Council as a peritus (theological adviser), and later was made a bishop, and then a cardinal. He sought out none of these responsibilities but accepted them with obedient humility.
Pope John Paul II asked him repeatedly to serve as head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (CDF), and Ratzinger consistently turned this down since he viewed his role as a bishop in the theological hothouse of Germany as the more proximate pastoral need. He was also not certain that he was the best choice for such an administratively complex job in the fever swamp of curial intrigue and infighting among ambitious ecclesiastics. But John Paul persisted — some would say insisted — and Cardinal Ratzinger once again set aside his own desires out of a sense of obedience to the Church. And this obedience cost him dearly, since in his new role he was routinely attacked — often in vicious and manifestly unfair ways — and was portrayed by many in the academic guild as a villainous repressor of theological freedom in the Church.
Despite Ratzinger’s outward appearance of calm stoicism amid these attacks, they must have cut him deeply, since he was himself a man of letters who was deeply committed to the processes of academic dialogue and discourse. But he understood that the Church is not a university, nor an endless debating society where every truth of the Church’s doctrinal apparatus is open to constant relitigation. He understood the ecclesial nature of Catholic theology and, therefore, that the vocation of a Catholic theologian is one that must be humble and obedient before the truths of Revelation.
His tenure as head of the CDF must be remembered in this historical context. In the post-conciliar era, we see a Church of deep theological turmoil and confusion. Nor was this turmoil and confusion characterized only by the kind of old-fashioned debates between Jesuits, Dominicans and Franciscans on various issues, as in previous eras. Instead, it was a Church locked in a mortal struggle for its own deepest identity, with many of its central dogmas — e.g., the divinity of Christ and his necessity for salvation — being called into question if not outright denied.
But even here it is simply historically inaccurate to describe his tenure at the CDF as one marked by inquisitorial repression. As those of us in the theological guild can profess, it is absurd to claim that Catholic theologians of that era labored in conditions akin to an ecclesial gulag, with progressive theologians losing their careers and being forced to hide their views. The reality is the exact opposite; the theological academy continued on as the playpen of liberal theologians, with Communio theologians (such as me) or Thomists of the strict observance viewed as reactionaries of the worst kind.
Nevertheless, Ratzinger carried on with his task with a self-effacing dignity, reserving his strongest admonitions to only the most egregious examples of heterodoxy. And though he did put forward some mild criticisms of liberation theology, those criticisms were made with an eye toward purging such theologies of their Marxist class-struggle accounts of human social relations, without “silencing” or repressing the movement as a whole.
Ratzinger’s time as head of the CDF instead was indicative of his obedient humility. How easy it would have been for him, and how much grief he could have avoided, if he had simply adopted a posture of endless toleration of all views in the Church! If Ratzinger had been a prideful academic concerned with his “reputation,” he would have chosen the path of worldly praise for his “high-minded openness” to the latest theological fashions. But as a “humble servant in the Lord’s vineyard,” as he described himself after his election, he knew what his cross was to bear for the sake of the truth. It was the cross of being portrayed as an ignominious Churchman who was “fearful” of change and therefore “repressed” any point of view at variance with his own.
Finally, I do not think it is a big secret that Ratzinger never wanted to be pope. I am sure that at the death of Pope John Paul, and already himself an old man of advanced years, he wanted nothing more than to retire to a small Bavarian home filled with books, cats, schnitzel and pastries, there to write again without interruption.
But the Holy Spirit had other ideas, and Ratzinger once again humbly submitted in obedience to the service of the Church as Benedict XVI. His legacy as pope includes his creation of the ordinariates for former Anglicans and his attempt at liturgical renewal via Summorum Pontificum. It included beautiful encyclicals on faith, hope and charity, his reflections on the apostles, and his masterful retelling of the life of Christ in his volumes entitled Jesus of Nazareth. These works are in addition to the countless theological essays and books he had written before becoming pope.
And then came his resignation. To me, it came as an inward devastation, and I did not understand it. But in retrospect, it is a fitting example of the humility that characterized his entire life. It was not, as some have too hastily conjectured, his “running from the wolves” in fear. It was instead a deep act of charitable humility wherein he recognized that the good of the Church was best served by his stepping down. For there were, and are, “wolves” in the Church. And Benedict understood that to combat them required a younger and more vigorous pope at the peak of his abilities and gifts.
Perhaps he was wrong to resign. Perhaps on a strategic level of pure utilitarian calculations, it was not the best move. Perhaps it set a bad precedent. Reasonable people can disagree about those things, I think.
But what I hope and pray for is that we can at least all agree that his decision was the fruit of the same humble obedience to the Lord Jesus Christ that marked his entire life.
