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Each day this Lent we’re looking at major “turning points” in Christian history – moments or seasons in which the story of God’s people took an important and often unexpected turn.
What a difference a century makes.
In 1869, a pope called a special council in order to steer the Catholic church in a more conservative direction.
In 1962, another pope called another special council in the hope of majoring in mercy instead of judgment.
Well into the 21st century, Catholics are still having a vigorous discussion as to which of those councils most closely reflects the heart of God.
Italy was just a patchwork quilt of competing territories during the mid-1800s. Radicals hoped to forge the pieces into a single nation. What would become of the Vatican? After centuries of exercising some degree of political power, would there be anything left for Catholic officials to do?
Pope Pius IX decided to be proactive. Even as liberals within the church were expressing doubts concerning his ultimate authority, Pius issued a series of proclamations that made it clear he had no intention of retreating into the shadows.
In 1854, he declared the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception – the notion that the Virgin Mary herself had been conceived without sin. Catholics had entertained this idea for centuries, but now there was official endorsement that she was almost – almost – as special as her famous son.
Nine years later, Pius published the Syllabus of Errors – books that faithful Catholics must never read and ideas they must never embrace if they cherished any realistic hope of heaven. Those ideas included socialism, civil marriages, and tolerance of other religions.
Rome was declaring in no uncertain terms that Jesus was the only pathway to God. And the only pathway to that pathway was Catholicism.
The biggest step for Pius was the First Vatican Council, an international assembly of ecclesiastical officials and theologians, which he summoned in 1869.
Its most important declaration was the absolute supremacy of papal authority. As the Vicar (or earthly representative) of Christ, the pope was infallible when speaking ex cathedra (that is, “from the chair”). Pius and his successors might go astray in the course of ordinary conversations, but they were incapable of making mistakes whenever they spoke in their official capacity.
During the heyday of Christendom, medieval popes had had some degree of temporal authority. That was long gone in the 19th century. But the spiritual authority of the papacy was suddenly stronger than ever.
A century later – after two world wars and modernism’s relentless assault on the West’s most cherished values – fresh breezes began to blow through the Vatican.
They were embodied by Angelo Roncalli, the archbishop of Venice (seen in the image above), who became the pontifex maximus in 1958 and took the name Pope John XXIII.
As we noted in a reflection last year, he quickly became known for his warmth, social conscience, simplicity, and tongue-in-cheek Italian wisecracks.
A reporter once asked him how many people worked in the Vatican. “Oh, about half of them,” he sighed. When visiting a hospital ward, he asked a boy what he wanted to be when he grew up. The youngster said either a policeman or a pope. “I would choose to be a policeman if I were you,” said John. “Anyone can become a pope. Look at me!”
Concerning his peasant upbringing, he noted, “There are three ways to face ruin: women, gambling, and farming. My father chose the most boring one.”
He admitted, “It often happens that I wake up at night and begin to think about the serious problems afflicting the world and I tell myself, ‘I must talk to the pope about it.’ Then the next day when I wake up I remember that I am the pope.”
This happy, humble, seemingly naïve man became, against all expectations, one of the most transforming spiritual leaders of the 20th century.
Within three months of his election, John called the Second Vatican Council. When told it would be “absolutely impossible” to launch such a global gathering by 1963, he replied, “Fine, then we’ll open it in 1962.” Somehow he pulled it off.
The council’s express aim was aggiornamento, “bringing the church up to date.”
The church had long been dominated by the rigid spirit of the First Council.
John led with open hands and an open heart. When he addressed the more than 2,000 cardinals, bishops, and abbots in St. Peter’s Basilica, he declared that condemnation and withdrawal must not be what the world sees when it looks for the face of God. The church must “rule with the medicine of mercy rather than severity.” People everywhere, he insisted, were hungry for pastoral care.
What followed were three years of focused deliberations that transformed the Catholic Church.
The council declared that all people – not just priests, monks, and nuns – have been commissioned to carry out God’s work in the world. Harvesting cucumbers, working as a realtor, acting in a stage production, and taking care of preschoolers are divine callings that are just as valid as pursuing ordination.
The council’s document On Divine Revelation surprised observers with the assertion that while church tradition is important, Scripture is the primary way that God speaks to and through his children. All of a sudden, Catholics and Protestants were talking to each other from a similar starting point.
Furthermore, non-Catholics were no longer regarded as lost souls who would have to return to Rome in order to be saved. Those outside the Catholic flock were now “separated brethren” – different, to be sure, but still authentic followers of Jesus.
This was nothing less than a spiritual earthquake.
Start up a conversation with any Catholic who was alive in the 50s and 60s and their most powerful memory of Vatican II is likely to be what happened on Sunday mornings. Mass, which had been conducted exclusively in Latin for more than a thousand years, could finally be experienced in every one of the world’s languages.
In 2021, Pope Francis doubled down on that new direction, declaring that priests could not celebrate the “old rite” unless they received special permission. And parishes that do provide the traditional mass cannot advertise it in their bulletins.
When the dust settled, not everyone was celebrating. To this day, traditionalists still ache for the church of the past.
But one thing can’t be denied.
Younger generations of Catholics have been granted new eyes and new ears to sample the truth of God’s Good News – primarily because a pope with the soul of a pastor and a keen sense of wit opted for mercy instead of severity.
That should give all of us hope that 100 years from now, in every corner of Christ’s church, things might be better still.