Two Jesuits, two Jesuses, two meals, and hope for the Church
Scott Fina
I worked in the development office of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia for one year in the late 1980s, a year in which Cardinal John Krol retired and Bishop Anthony Bevilacqua replaced him. I ended my employment at the Archdiocese because I became disenchanted with the Church hierarchy. A memory of one experience in particular has stuck with me these decades later, and is relevant for the current crisis of the American Catholic Church.
One day I joined the Chancellor (a monsignor) and his assistant (also a priest), along with a few lay administrators, for lunch in the cafeteria of the Archdiocesan office building behind the Cathedral on Logan Square. At table, the Chancellor (whose name I will withhold, even though he died a few years ago), expressed his anger over a story published in the Philadelphia Inquirer. The story was about the sentencing of one of the two diocesan priests who participated in the Epiphany Plowshares action on January 6, 1987 at the Willow Grove Naval Air Station. The two priests had joined with two lay people in breaking into the base, hammering on military jets, and pouring their own blood on them. It was an act of civil disobedience to protest American nuclear weaponry.
The Chancellor was not angry over the fact that the newspaper had published a prominent article about the matter. Rather, his anger was aimed at the conduct of the two priests, which he condemned.
More telling about his condemnation was that he had suspended the two priests from their ministries—with the support of Cardinal Krol—well ahead of their convictions, within two weeks of their arrests! And what a stark contrast this direct and quick action made to the slow and grossly insufficient response the Chancery was taking against known pedophile priests at the time. (The Chancellor would eventually be criticized in the 2005 Philadelphia Grand Jury report for his handling of pedophile priests.)
While I supported the participation of the two priests in the Willow Grove Plowshares action, it would be some time before I came to fully appreciate the value of civil disobedience conducted by Catholic clergy. The next step in my enlightenment came a decade later. I was on vacation on the coast of Maine in July of 1997. I happened to purchase the Boston Globe one Sunday, and was surprised to see the cover of the Globe’s magazine section. It depicted six imprisoned Plowshare activists—clustered in their orange prison garb. The activists were awaiting trial for their vandalism some months earlier, of a Navy destroyer at the Bath Iron Works shipyard--not far from where I was vacationing.
I recognized Phil Berrigan, the former priest, among the activists. But another activist also caught my attention: a 48-year-old Jesuit priest named Steve Kelly (the only clergy in the group). I was moved by the courage, purpose and sacrifice of the activists, but filed the story in the back of my mind, until 20 years later when I would meet Steve—as he walked through the doorway of my home in California.
As I write this article, Steve sits in a prison in Georgia awaiting trial for another Plowshares action. He joined 6 other activists in “trespassing” onto the Kings Bay Trident Submarine Base last April, and committing “vandalism” to government property in protest of nuclear weaponry. I imagine most people reading this article are already
familiar with Steve’s and his co-activists’ latest civil disobedience (who included Liz McAlister, Phil Berrigan’s wife), or at least have heard about Steve.
But I think the full scope of Steve’s activism is generally unknown—certainly outside activist circles. This coming January, Steve will turn 70. He will have served 100 months in prison for his peace work (more than 10% of his life)—surpassing even Phil Berrigan in this regard. Moreover, because Steve regularly continues his protest in prison, refusing to comply with the rules of what he sees as an unjust system, he has spent 50% of the 100 months of imprisonment in solitary confinement!
In getting to know Steve and more fully understand his life and ministry—and assess them in context of the modern clergy abuse and the Church hierarchy’s errant response to it--I have come to see two competing paradigms of Catholic faith practice.
I see a prophetic practice of Catholicism, and an institutional practice of Catholicism. And much too frequently, they are disconnected. The prophetic practice of Catholicism parallels a “Jesus of History” faith lens, while the institutional practice of Catholicism parallels a “Jesus of Faith” lens.
The Jesus of History, as presented through scholars, was born, raised, lived and died, as a Jew. He was an itinerant preacher and a social justice activist—a leader of liberation and equality movements: themes threaded throughout the Hebrew Scriptures.
Arguably, the Jesus of History was also a nonviolent revolutionary, using the power of love to encourage his people to stand-up against the oppressive and occupying Roman Empire—to defy it by maintaining their Jewish identity and inter-dependent community. The historical Jesus sought a counter and just culture, based on subservience to God and neighbor, instead of the Roman authorities. In this way, Jesus was a reformer of his church. His popularity and publicly critical positions (prophesizing) made him a nuisance and threat to Roman authorities, who arrested and executed him in the standard way they handled other revolutionaries.
The Jesus of Faith is believed to be God’s consubstantial son. The Jesus of Faith was born of a virgin Jewish woman (meaning he was Jewish only on his mother’s side!). In obedience to God, he intentionally sacrificed his life to save humanity from its sin for all time—to pay the only acceptable “ransom” to God for this sin. Moreover, the sacrifice of the Jesus of Faith was an ultimate human victory through the Resurrection, which became available to all people.
The Jesus of Faith established his own Church during his lifetime on Earth. He was rejected by the Jewish authorities, who feared that his popularity and teachings would anger the Romans and threaten the Jewish state. The Jewish authorities conspired with the Romans to suppress Jesus and his movement, and facilitated his execution.
Faith practice based on the Jesus of History—originally known as the “Way”—was, and I believe still is, a grassroots movement. It is a dynamic belief system grounded in the human experience that speaks to contemporary circumstances. It has an existential aspect—putting one’s own life on the line (as the earliest Christians certainly did), and risking what comes with selfless love of God, neighbor and community.
A faith practice based more on the Jesus of Faith seems directed from on high, static and dogmatic—a structured course that leads to personal salvation and focuses more on what comes after life (eschatological), rather than an unmapped journey steeped in concern for the human condition (existential).
Allow me to use ideas arising from discussion inspired by Steve Kelly to flesh out the distinction between the prophetic Church and institutional Church, and respectively, the Jesus of History and the Jesus of Faith. Steve coordinated this discussion in small gatherings (home Masses), and also through writings from prison we used in
his absence at our local gatherings (scripted in pencil on post cards and whatever scraps of paper he could get a hold of). I’ll use ideas on two meals described in Scripture to make my case.
The first is a treatment of “Jesus feeding the five-thousand, not counting the women and children” (Matthew 14:13-21; Mark 6:31-44; Luke 9:12-17; John 6:1-14). Employing a Jesus of Faith (and institutional Catholicism) perspective, one readily sees the miraculous element of the multiplication of loaves and fish. Jesus, as divine, shows his compassion and changes the forces of nature to feed his people: a forerunner of the Catholic sacrament of the Eucharist.
But reflecting on these Scripture passages from the perspective of the Jesus of History (and prophetic Catholicism), one could see non-miraculous aspects that the Gospel authors might have been attempting to convey. What would the Roman authorities think about a crowd of 5,000 men being organized outside the city of Jerusalem (a city, with at most, 100,000 people at the time)? Would this large, unauthorized gathering not be seen as defiant and threatening by the occupying Romans? And might not those gathered with Jesus be strengthened in their identity as a people, and encouraged by the potential power of their collectiveness?
Consider next the “Last Supper” passages in the Synoptic Gospels (Mt. 26:17–30, Mk. 14:12–26, Lk. 22:7–39). A commonly held perception is that the Last Supper was the institution of the sacrament of the Eucharist, where Jesus actually transformed bread and wine into his body and blood.
The sacrament of the Eucharist lies central to institutional Catholicism: the Eucharist can only be consecrated by clergy. Moreover, the Eucharist is a gate for institutional membership; it is denied to Non-Catholics and Catholics who have ex-communicated themselves through grievous sin (as defined by the Church hierarchy). In this way, the Eucharist is exclusive.
But the Last Supper passages look much different from a Jesus of History perspective (prophetic Catholicism). The last Supper is a Passover meal which the Gospel authors place strategically on the eve of Jesus’s execution. In doing so, they highlight the liberation and formation aspects of Passover: the Jewish people stepped out in faith to claim their freedom and end their oppression, and congealed as a people during their struggle in the desert (the Exodus experience).
Jesus is executed because of his commitment to liberation and justice. But his sacrifice and example will assure his movement continues beyond his death. In this perspective, the Last Supper could not be more inclusive; it’s the people and community that matter, and are served by faith: a gift from God.
So I believe that what ails the Church these days (and has ailed it at other times in its history), is an over-valuing of the Jesus of Faith (and institutional paradigm of faith practice), and undervaluing of the Jesus of History (and prophetic paradigm of faith practice). This imbalance leads to the institutional capture of Church leaders. And here I am compelled to connect Steve Kelly, a Jesuit who sits in a prison cell in Georgia, with another Jesuit, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, who sits in an office in the Vatican.
I had so much hope for the Church with the election of Pope Francis, a person of deep compassion, simplicity, mercy, and love for the poor, all of which he exhibited as an Archbishop. As Pope he has called for social and economic equality, the end of violence (and nuclear weapons), and the protection of the environment.
But Pope Francis has been less than prophetic in his response to abuse by clergy, most recently ordering the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops to delay its vote and adoption of stronger and more proactive policy concerning that abuse. The Pope has also done little to authentically empower women (long overdue), and not seriously considered their ordination as priests, nor the election of women to the College of Cardinals (which he could do within the existing Code of Canon Law). All this implies that the Pope may have his institutional boundaries. Or maybe the bombardment the Pope has suffered from the conservative elements of the Catholic Church because of his compassion, has taken its toll on him.
Yet, in the face of Church scandal and its resulting crisis, the Pope’s effort to protect the institution he has so much responsibility for, may be the very thing that will bring it down. Indeed, I think the Catholic Church has nothing to lose, and so much to gain, by the Pope taking it on an even greater populist, and less prescribed path. I wish the Pope could spend a week confined with his fellow Jesuit in the cell in Georgia, and get a renewed taste for a prophetic, faith practice of Catholicism.
Scott Fina, CPF West
December 2018
