Neuhas on Ratzinger

Born in Bavaria on Holy Saturday of 1927, Joseph Ratzinger’s life has been entirely within and for the Church, which, he is convinced, is the way of greatest service to the world. This and much else become evident in his remarkable account just published by Ignatius, Milestones: Memoirs 1927–1977 (300 pp., $14.95 paper), which takes the reader from his childhood to his appointment as Archbishop of Munich. The years in Rome as prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith will, one hopes, be the subject of another memoir. But there is a great deal in this first installment that casts light on the mind and soul of the man who, next to the Pope himself, has had the greatest intellectual influence in shaping the direction of the Catholic Church over these past twenty years.

Tolstoy was wrong, I believe, about happy families all being happy in the same way. It is unhappy families that exhibit a dreary sameness deserving of today’s dismal term "dysfunctional." There is a freshness and wonder in Ratzinger’s depiction of the happy family in which he was reared, under the shadow of the horror that was the Third Reich. Family and Church were, for him, inseparable, and he clearly saw Hitler as the enemy of both. Nazism was at its heart a religious movement that, by its own evil lights, had to attack a Church that championed a "foreign Jewish and Roman" faith. His father, a village policeman, saw this from the beginning. "With unfailing clairvoyance he saw that the victory of Hitler would not be a victory for Germany but a victory of the Antichrist which would surely usher in apocalyptic times for all believers, and not only for believers." Young Ratzinger had to spend some time in a military work brigade, always hoping for the victory of the allies, and being irritated by the way the Americans seemed to be taking their own sweet time in prosecuting the war. The chief lesson he draws from the war years, however, is a lesson about the Church. "Despite many human failings, the Church was the alternative to the destructive ideology of the Nazis. In the inferno that had swallowed up the powerful, she had stood firm with a force coming to her from eternity. It had been demonstrated: The gates of hell will not prevail against her."

From his childhood to the present, the Church is exemplified, above all, in her liturgy. This, his memoir suggests, is what has gone most seriously wrong since the Second Vatican Council. As a young boy, "It was a riveting adventure to move by degrees into the mysterious world of the liturgy which was being enacted before us and for us there on the altar. It was becoming more and more clear to me that here I was encountering a reality that no one had simply thought up, a reality that no official authority or great individual had created. This mysterious fabric of texts and actions had grown from the faith of the Church over the centuries. It bore the whole weight of history within itself and yet, at the same time, it was much more than the product of human history." As a seminarian and young priest he was a great proponent of the liturgical movement, and was later gratified to see its principles embodied in the Council’s constitution on the liturgy. "I was not able to foresee that the negative sides of the liturgical movement would later reemerge with redoubled strength, almost to the point of pushing the liturgy toward its own self–destruction." What happened is that the liturgy suddenly became something other than the lived experience of the Church through the centuries. The "new liturgy" of Paul VI was the product of liturgical experts imposed by official authority. Within half a year, the old Missal, which had its roots in "the sacramentaries of the ancient Church and had known continuous growth over the centuries," was almost totally prohibited. This "introduced a breach into the history of the liturgy whose consequences could only be tragic." The liturgy appeared "no longer as a living development but as the product of erudite work and juridical authority"; it became something "made," something within our own power of decision rather than something received as a gift. "I am convinced that the crisis in the Church that we are experiencing today largely derives from the disintegration of the liturgy. . . . This is why we need a new liturgical movement which will call to life the real heritage of the Council."

Milestones testifies to a young man’s spiritual and intellectual excitement in engaging theological, philosophical, and scientific movements that opened up new worlds. "Being young, we were questioners above all," he says. There were de Lubac and Danielou recovering the early fathers, Martin Buber and personalism, and in the sciences thinkers such as Planck and Heisenberg moving beyond the Enlightenment’s rationalist scientism and its hostility to religious thought. There was, above all, the encounter with Augustine, whom Ratzinger still calls "my great master." He cannot say the same of Thomas Aquinas, "whose crystal–clear logic seemed to me to be too closed in on itself, too impersonal and ready–made." He allows that this is probably because he was presented with "a rigid, neo–scholastic Thomism," but, in any event, he thought Thomas "simply too far afield from my own questions."

He was most deeply engaged by biblical scholarship and writes that "exegesis has always remained the center of my theological work." His academic career was almost derailed when his Habilitation (the degree beyond the doctorate and necessary for teaching) was not accepted the first time around. He wrote on the concept of revelation in the High Middle Ages, and especially in Bonaventure, and offended a teacher who thought himself to be the expert on such questions. Much Catholic theology, he says, had fallen into the habit of referring to Scripture—or to Scripture and tradition—as "the revelation," as though it were a thing. From Bonaventure he learned that revelation is always an act. "The word ‘revelation’ refers to the act in which God shows himself, and not to the objectified result of this act. Part and parcel of the concept of revelation is the receiving subject. Where there is no one to perceive revelation, no re–vel–ation has occurred because no veil has been removed. By definition, revelation requires a someone who apprehends it." Later, as a peritus (theological expert) at the Council, he would come to see the importance of recognizing the Church as the apprehending subject in revelation. Theologians at the Council began to speak of the "material completeness" of the Bible, and Ratzinger suggests that this "catchword" resulted in a curious and mischievous version of sola scriptura. "This new theory, in fact, meant that exegesis now had to become the highest authority in the Church," he observes. Everything was to be subjected to the judgment of biblical scholarship, and biblical scholarship was understood in "scientific" historical–critical terms. The consequence is that "faith had to recede into the region of the indeterminate and constantly changing that is the very nature of historical or would–be historical hypotheses." Although the idea of the Bible’s "material completeness" was rejected by the Council, the after–life of the phrase has distorted the way in which the Council has often been understood. "The drama of the post–Conciliar era," Ratzinger writes, "has been largely determined by this catchword and its logical consequences."

The crisis in biblical interpretation was the Cardinal’s subject when we invited him to give the Erasmus Lecture here in New York in 1988 (see Biblical Interpretation in Crisis: The Ratzinger Conference on the Bible, Eerdmans, 1989). In the present book he puts it this way: "Scripture is the essential witness of revelation, but revelation is something alive, something greater and more: proper to it is the fact that it happens and is perceived—otherwise it would not be revelation. Revelation is not a meteor fallen to earth that now lies around somewhere as a mass of rock from which you can take rock samples and submit them to analysis in a laboratory." The historical–critical method is the "analysis of rocks," while the life of the Church is the tradition that apprehends the truth, and that apprehending subject is essential to what is meant by revelation.

In discussing other theologians with whom he worked in the university, Ratzinger has nothing but generous things to say about Hans Küng, who would later become the most famous of theological dissidents. Early on he worked with Karl Rahner, perhaps the most influential academic theologian in the post–conciliar period, on a number of projects and came to realize that "Rahner and I lived on two different theological planets." Although they agreed on many things, including the above–mentioned question of Scripture and exegesis in the life of the Church, their approach to theology could not have been more different. Despite Rahner’s reading in the patristic literature, "His theology was totally conditioned by the tradition of Suarezian scholasticism and its new reception in the light of German idealism and Heidegger. His was a speculative and philosophical theology in which Scripture and the Fathers in the end played no important role and in which the historical dimension was really of little significance. For my part, my whole intellectual formation had been shaped by Scripture and the Fathers and by profoundly historical thinking." It was only a matter of time before his "parting of the ways" with Rahner became evident to all.

Ratzinger was gratified by the decisions of the Council, but how they were being perceived among theologians was another matter. "The impression grew steadily that nothing was now stable in the Church, that everything was open to revision. More and more the Council [was viewed] as a big church parliament that could change everything and reshape everything according to its own desires. Very clearly resentment was growing against Rome and against the Curia, which appeared to be the real enemy of everything new and progressive." The theologians at the Council were seen, and appeared to see themselves, as the real authorities in the Church, eclipsing the teaching office of the bishops. "In his time, Luther had exchanged his priestly robes for the scholar’s gown in order to show that the Scripture scholars in the Church were the ones who had to make the decisions." Something very similar was happening again.

Later, during the student turmoil of 1968, the entirety of the Christian tradition came under scathing attack from Marxist ideologists in the university. Ratzinger suggests that he was naive in assuming that the theology faculties would be a bastion of sanity: quite the opposite turned out to be the case. While his own lectures continued to be well attended and well received, many of his theological colleagues were all too eager to get on the good side of the putative revolution. At this point he began to discover what would later be called "the ecumenism of the trenches," as he made alliances with Evangelical (Lutheran) colleagues who appreciated what was at stake. "We saw that the confessional controversies we had engaged in up until now were small indeed in the face of the challenge we now confronted, which put us in a position of having to bear common witness to our common faith in the living God and in Christ, the incarnate Word." In the mid–1970s he was embarked on the ambitious project of writing a dogmatics when his academic life was disrupted by his surprise appointment as Archbishop of Munich (actually, Munich and Freising). His reflection on the way he was received as bishop echoes his earlier description of the response of the people when, as a young man, he had been ordained priest. "So many people were welcoming my unknown person with a heartfelt warmth and joy that could not possibly have to do with me personally, but that once again showed me what a sacrament is: I was being greeted as bishop, as bearer of the Mystery of Christ. . . . The joy of the day was something very different from the acceptance of a particular person, whose capacities had still to be demonstrated. It was joy over the fact that this office, this service, was again present in a person who does not act and live for himself but for Him and therefore for all."

He does not live for himself but for Him and therefore for all. That would seem to pretty well sum up the life of Joseph Ratzinger. Not long after his appointment to Munich, the Pope asked him to come to Rome as prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Augustine, his great master, had also chosen the life of a scholar but was called to be a bishop. Augustine wrote, "I am a draft animal for you, and it is in this way that I abide with you." Ratzinger concludes his memoir with this: "I have carried my load to Rome and have now been wandering the streets of the Eternal City for a long time. I do not know when I will be released, but one thing I do know: ‘I have become your donkey, and in just this way am I with you.’"

Milestones makes it poignantly evident that, if he had had his way, Joseph Ratzinger would have fulfilled his life’s work as an academic theologian. The choice was not between being an academic theologian or a church theologian, for his understanding of his work in the academy was always to serve the Church. It was a question of how he would serve the Church, and he believes that was a decision for the Church to make and for him to obey. Some of his critics no doubt wish he had remained in the academy. Many of his admirers think his appointment as prefect of CDF deprived the Church of the enormous contribution he would have made through writing and teaching. Yet others are immeasurably grateful that John Paul II called him to a universal classroom where, in a time of darkened confusion, he has encouraged students beyond number in rekindling the lights of theological inquiry in service to Christ and his Church, and therefore in service to the world.

This appeared in First Things back in 1999, on the publication of a volume of memoirs by Ratzinger, now the new Pope. It gives Richard John Neuhas' (editor of First Things) review of those memoirs and his assessment of Ratzinger at that time. I thought it would be of interest to those looking for information about the man and his views.

Another useful source is a book called Salt of the Earth, which is a set of interviews with Ratzinger by a German journalist, Peter Seewald. There is a review of it in a still earlier edition of First Things (in 1998). You can find the review here -

Salt of the Earth review

As for the books themselves, here are some Amazon links to them -

Milestones
Salt of the Earth

There are lots of others by Ratzinger himself, but these are biographical, for those looking for information about his background and life story etc.

My own assessment of him is that he seems to be a perfectly reasonable man, with a more historical traditionalist, and Augustinian-Platonist, understanding of things, than the philosophical, Husserlian-idealist, John Paul II. That is a simplication, of course. He has idealist background too and shared intellectual concerns with the previous Pope. (That appears e.g. in the second of the Neuhas article dealing with the subjective component of revelation - a phenomenologist's sort of point - and in the discussion of Buber and Kung). His comments on his preference for Augustine over Acquinas are striking. That and the bright line between his own traditional outlook and the existentialist informed one of Rahner, delineate his thinking. He is clearly a man with his own definite opinions.

It is also noteworthy that the media generated nonsense about his past is transparently lying about him. When his own words on Germany in the war years is that they were a proof that "the gates of hell will not prevail against her" (the church), it is clear he is being smeared.

I was curious and looked this stuff up in First Things, and thought others here would find it useful. FWIW.

It is a serious issue, more serious than the present clear case of academics pushing their own ideological lines makes it seem. Sure, there are academic theologians who just support PC trendiness as ideology, and do so even when it directly contradicts church teaching. If you look back to the first council, though, the academics were trying to get the need for dedication to truth rather than just pushing an opinion, understood. It wasn't ideological stands, it was questions of historical fact, where some of them were clearly just right. Yet the hierarchy resisted. (This was the fight Lord Acton was so concerned about, for example). So the tricky bit is not to let the facts of the immediate case, mess up the principle, or change it back and forth.

If the church just stakes out an opinion as an opinion and says, whoever agrees with this is a catholic and anybody that does just isn't one and can just leave, then it becomes an ideology in a marketplace of opinion. It claims to be more than that, to be an institution dedicated to truth rather than opinion. On its own terms, it can't lightly exclude people, because it considers the consequences of that rather important (unlike a typical ideology). People who are concretely wrong about some things have to be able to remain a part of the church.

That is one horn of the liberalist pattern dilemma. The other is, if an institution just leaves opinions to the private consciences of its members, it is a club but not a teaching institution. To teach, the church has to have opinions about some things, and sometimes those will be not only things it believes but things it thinks it knows. (They can in general be different - you can believe something but think it is a matter of faith rather than knowledge etc).

Instead of being one opinion offered among others, or a tent in which all opinions argue, the church clearly wants to be an institution dedicated to the truth, humble in some respects, sure of itself on other questions. Others will fail to agree with it on issues of both kinds, and the question becomes, what are the consequences of that.

If you look back to Acton's period and the first council, his teacher Dollinger was part of a movement of academic theologians and historians, that could clearly be seen as dedicated to the truth. They may have been wrong about this or that concrete question. But they were sincerely trying to arrive at historical truth, not trying to peddle an ideology or stay PC trendy. When they were slapped down by the first council, Dollinger became a protestant. He thought he had to leave the church because it insisted on an infallibility he did not see in it, and did not allow him (he thought) the space in which to think it concretely wrong, and remain a part of it. He thought he had to choose between continued membership in the church, and his dedication to truth - and that the latter had to come first.

Acton was his student in most respects, but did not follow him in this, and thought it tragic. He did not disagree with Dollinger on the substance and he thought the church was wrong in the first council, and was insisting on things that it should not have insisted on. But he believed he could stay within the church, while thinking it wrong. That the duty of people in such a state was to try to change the teaching of the church, not to leave it. With a continued higher allegiance to truth, yes, but without hostility to the church, and with a sincere desire to help it see the truth, eventually.

Many thought the second council a kind of vindication of Acton's position. On the substantive questions of historical scholarship (and relations with modern science, as well) the post-II church has been willing to learn from academics, has shown a commendable dedication to truth-seeking, which John Paul II stressed repeatedly in his letters etc. But a subordination to the truth is one thing, and a subordination to academics and their fads is something else.

Telling them apart means making a distinction between what some person happens to think, and what his conscience tells him a dedication to truth requires of him. Frankly, many people hold opinions much more frivilously than this, much more willfully. That is part of the point of Ratzinger's comment (in the Salt of the Earth review, linked above) that willfulness whether individual or collective debases people, that dignity turns on putting the truth above wills, individual or collective.

In relations with academics, that means in practice that the church needs to be humble on questions of fact where it is unsure of itself and wants advice. Without giving up being confident on moral questions where it is sure of itself, where it needs to teach academics rather than listen to faddish moral opinions. Hence Ratzinger's comments against democratic doctrine; the truth is not served by taking opinion polls, but by much more careful processes and independence on the part of informed experts.

Where the line falls between them is obviously an issue that can become arbitrarily contentious. Personally, it is clear to me that the church is simply right on the moral questions it insists on in contemporary ideological disputes (culture of life etc). It is also clear to me that the positions it took in the first council on matters of history, and the authority it pretended to in pronouncing on such matters, was clearly wrong. And needed to be corrected, and largely (but not entirely, leaving important principles "off" etc) was corrected by the second council.

What I am waiting to see is how the new Pope will navigate between the need to keep church teaching, church teaching not popular fads, and still to keep the humility it needs on matters of fact, to remain an institution that tries to put the truth first, as it is given light to see it. Personally, I think the church could be much clearer about what subjects it thinks matters of faith, and make its truth claims in forms that men of sensitive conscience in matters of truthfulness, can agree with. Yes there are PC simpletons who need rebuke. There are also other Dollingers out there who should not be driven away.

One man's opinions...

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