What the synod wrought.

WHAT THE SYNOD WROUGHT

THERE WOULD seem to be no earthly reason why the seating arrangement of the French National Assembly in 1789, with its divisions between "left,' "right,' and "center,' should be mixed up in debates about the nature of the sacraments or the meaning of salvation. In fact, however, there is every too earthly reason why this is so. The "extraordinary synod' that Pope John Paul II convened in Rome from November 24 through December 8 addressed a church that had become thoroughly politicized.

Since the end of the Second Vatican Council twenty years earlier, the politics of the world and the life of the Roman Catholic Church had become deeply entangled. Most of the bishops at the synod seemed to think it was, to borrow a phrase from the U.S. Supreme Court, an excessive entanglement. Church opinion was politically polarized on almost every question-- from doctrine to liturgy to mission to lines of ecclesiastical authority. One camp was "progressive,' another "traditionalist,' and in between were Catholics, perhaps a majority, who called themselves "centrists' in the wan hope that the political quarrels would go away and the Church would once again attend to the business of being the Church. On the eve of the synod, bishops, curial cardinals, and the Pope himself did not hesitate to describe the situation as one of "crisis.' And the crisis, they all said, was precisely over what it means to be the Church. Or, in theological terms, it was a "crisis of ecclesiology.'

As we left St. Peter's after the synod's concluding Mass, a traditionalist leader remarked, "It was a clean sweep for us. Now we'll have to convince our people not to crow about it too much, or else we could end up being guilty of the partisan spirit that we accuse the opposition of promoting.' He was, in the view of this Lutheran observer, certainly right in his second remark and almost entirely right in his first. The synod was a victory for conservatives. It was a victory for conservatives. It was a victory for conservatives, that is, if Joseph Ratzinger is a conservative. According to his more fevered critics, Cardinal Ratzinger, the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (CDF), is not a conservative but a Neanderthal reactionary who would, if he could, "bury Vatican II' and "drag the Church back into the dark ages of inquisitorial oppression.' Such critics seldom miss an opportunity to point out that the Congregation headed by Ratzinger used to be called the Holy Office, a/k/a the Inquisition (although not, they admit, the particularly nasty Spanish one). The instruments of torture, we are invited to believe, are stored in the cellars of the Congregation and have been recently cleaned and polished. Late at night the cardinal visits them there. "Soon, my pretties,' says he, rubbing his hands in gleeful anticipation, "soon we will have work for you again.'

A Man of the Council

IN TRUTH, Cardinal Ratzinger seems personally unthreatening. At age 58, he is slight in build and gentle, even self-effacing, in manner. For many years a professor of theology, and then archbishop of Munich, he was the Pope's particular choice to become prefect of the CDF in 1982. Around the Vatican it is regularly said that Ratzinger is "the Pope's man.' Of course one might assume that that is true of everyone working in the Curia, but it is not said of everyone, indeed it is not said of anyone in the way it is said of Cardinal Ratzinger. Professor Ratzinger was a peritus (theological expert) in the deliberations of Vatican II and--like Karol Wojtyla, who became John Paul II--was recognized as "a man of the council.' He was thought to be a progressive, but by leading progressives he was more respected than acclaimed. Unlike, say, Hans Kung, and like Karol Wojtyla, he did not count it Catholic progress to abandon Catholic substance. In the view of his enemies (and the intensity of many of his critics does warrant the term enemies), Ratzinger has moved from being a moderate, perhaps timeorous, progressive to having become the Grand Inquisitor and scourge of open inquiry. One progressive American theologian told me, "His is a classic case of selling out.'

In his four years in office Cardinal Ratzinger has violated notoriously the much publicized secrecy of the Vatican. Through lectures, articles, and interviews he has tried to communicate with critics and supporters alike. Were the content of the communication other than it is, the style would be celebrated by those who call for an "open Church.' As it is, Ratzinger's unprecedented accessibility has gotten mixed reviews. In fact the champions of openness were noisily outraged when, in August 1984, the cardinal submitted to an interview extending over several days and expressed himself with remarkable, some thought astonishing, candor. The result is a 197-page book that appeared last fall in English and immediately became a best-seller (The Ratzinger Report, Ignatius Press).

Those who were distressed by the ideas set forth raised questions about whether Ratzinger had in fact said what he is reported to have said. If the book is not authentic, opined the liberal Commonweal, it is a "journalistic scandal'; if it is authentic, it is an "intellectual scandal.' Whether Ratzinger's views are deemed scandalous or bracing, there is now no doubt that he personally approved the book, and that the views are his. Nor is there much doubt that his views are shared by his friend John Paul II, whose chief aide Ratzinger is in giving theological guidance for the Roman Catholic Church. "Quite simply,' said a close associate of the cardinal, "it is the most important book for the Catholic Church since Vatican II.' By the end of the Extraordinary Synod it was evident that--as many had feared and many others had hoped--The Ratzinger Report had set the agenda.

"This is not a synod around a book, it is a synod around a council,' Godfired Cardinal Danneels, archbishop of Brussels and a spokesman for the synod, publicly protested in response to journalists' repeated questions about the influence of Cardinal Ratzinger. He protested necessarily, but he protested too much. Necessarily, because in a synod the voices of all the bishops are equal, even if some are more equal than others. And necessarily, because the Pope, not Cardinal Ratzinger, convoked the synod, and he convoked it to celebrate, clarify, and promote the teachings of Vatican II. Yet Cardinal Danneels's protest was not entirely convincing, since the key question at the synod was: What are, and what are not, the teachings of Vatican II? On that question the voice of Joseph Ratzinger--given the mix of personality, competence, energy, and office--is more equal than any, possibly excepting the Pope. Anyone who doubts that the synod was working off Cardinal Ratzinger's agenda has only to make a point-by-point comparison between The Ratzinger Report and the interventions and documents of the synod, the most important document being the Relatio Finalis (final report).

As did not happen with earlier synods that dealt with more limited questions, the Pope promptly lent his authority to the results of this synod (a synod is not a legislative body, but merely advisory to the Pope), accepting and praising the Relatio Finalis and ordering its immediate publication. There have been numerous and often conflicting interpretations of Vatican II, but in its overview of the council twenty years later the 1985 synod represents the most authoritative interpretation to date. Given the close fit between The Ratzinger Report and the Relatio Finalis, the former is an indispensable aid to understanding the latter.

Like the synod, and against the demands of some extreme (which is to say, very untraditional) traditionalists, Ratzinger's Report makes clear that there can be no possibility of "retracting' or "rolling back' Vatican II. As an ecumenical council, Vatican II can no more be revoked than can the nineteenth-century First Vatican Council, or the sixteenth-century Council of Trent, or, for that matter, the fifth-century Council of Chalcedon. In fact, it is among Ratzinger's major complaints that there has been a tendency to isolate Vatican II from the continuities of Church history. People speak of a "post-Vatican II Church' and a "pre-Vatican II Church' as though Vatican II inaugurated a new Church. The ironic result is that would-be champions of Vatican II make its authority suspect by abstracting it from the history within which and for which it is authoritative. Even worse, according to Ratzinger, such people speak incessantly about "the spirit' of Vatican II but evidence a cavalier indifference toward, if not ignorance of, "the texts' of Vatican II. (Playing off St. Paul, Eliot remarked that "the spirit killeth but the letter giveth life,' and, at least in this connection, Ratzinger would seem to agree.) It was frequently observed by synod fathers that two-thirds of today's Catholic bishops did not participate in Vatican II, and it was sometimes implied that most of them had not read the documents of Vatican II.

Dreamy Fanaticism

RATZINGER and the synod insisted that the text and the spirit of Vatican II must not be opposed to one another. At the synod the affirmations of Vatican II as a "gift of grace' were repeated and sometimes verged upon the effusive. Everyone wanted it understood that, if much had gone wrong after Vatican II, the Council was not the cause. And yet, delicately in public and more candidly in private, synod fathers acknowledged that Vatican II made two massive errors in judgment. The first was the vast overestimation of the solidity of Catholic teaching and practice. In the late 1950s the Catholic world seemed "rock bottomed and copper sheathed,' as Daniel Webster said of the Union. Historians have noted that Vatican II was the first council that was not called in response to a perceived crisis, which is why more than one curial official thought Pope John XXIII was not thinking very clearly when he called it.

The second error was an astonishing naivete about the nature of the modern world. Renewal would come, it was thought, through aggiornamento, an "opening to the world,' in which the Church would discover its mission in seconding and sanctifying the human project. A few years earlier non-Roman Christians in the World Council of Churches had unfolded the banner, "The world sets the agenda for the church.' The predictable consequence was that the mission of the Church in the world became the mission of the world in the Church. As liberal Protestantism was consumed by endless programs of presumably world-transforming fussy benevolence, so Catholics were giving way to what Ratzinger calls a "dreamy fanaticism' motored by the utopian illusions of theologies "stamped by the typical mentality of the opulent bourgeoisie of the West.'

A New Idolatry 

VATICAN II had invited Christians to read "the signs of the times.' As befits an official synod document, the Relatio puts the matter rather gingerly: "The signs of our times do not exactly coincide, in some points, with those of the time of the Council.' There is, for instance, a secularism that is implacably hostile to transcendent truth, without which the Church and its message do not make much sense. An uncritical embrace of the modern world subordinates the Gospel to the opposite of transcendence, which is an "immanentism' of crude, and frequently cruel, this-worldliness. As the Relatio describes it: "This immanentism is a reduction of the integral vision of man, a reduction which leads not to his true liberation but to a new idolatry, to the slavery of ideologies, to life in reductive and often oppressive structures of this world.'

"Transcendence' is crucial to understanding the synod, as it is crucial to Ratzinger's Report. The loss of transcendence and the growth of immanentism have resulted in what the synod Relatio calls "deficiencies and difficulties' that constitute "shadows in the post-conciliar period.' Ratzinger speaks repeatedly of a "crisis' and states flatly that "it is incontestable that the last ten years have been decidedly unfavorable for the Catholic Church.' Between Ratzinger and the Relatio there is a difference in tone, with the synod speaking more obliquely at points and attempting to accent the hopeful. But, as the catalogue of "deficiencies and difficulties' makes clear, there is little difference in substance.

Africa Speaks

IN SORTING through the issues, the synod attempted, with considerable success, to rise above or even transpose what has been meant by "left' and "right,' "liberal' and "conservative.' For example, nationalism is conventionally thought to be conservative, while a global perspective is deemed liberal. But it was the "progressives,' notably from North America and the United Kingdom, who pressed to give the national bishops' conferences a quasi-autonomous role in the "magisterium' (teaching authority) of the Church. This was effectively opposed not only by those who are jealous for Rome's prerogatives, but, more importantly, by bishops who wanted to protect their own freedom to teach and to lead. In the United States, for instance, some bishops increasingly chafe under the procedural manipulations of bureaucrats attached to the bishops' conference. In most other countries of the world more independent national conferences would be that much more vulnerable to control by hostile regimes. The theological point was made again and again that the Catholic Church is not constituted as a mere federation of national churches. Progressives said they were contending for "decentralization' against the allegedly stifling centralization of power in Rome. The bishops responded, in effect, by saying they would rather be accountable to Rome than to national church bureaucracies, or to their government's Ministry for Religious Affairs.

The transposition of stereotypes applied to other "liberal' and "conservative' positions. For instance, progressives habitually assume they are speaking for the poor against the rich. At the synod, however, the bishops of Africa and Asia in particular repeatedly insisted that they would speak for themselves, thank you. This synod was dramatic evidence that, in terms of numbers, growth, and spiritual vitality, the Roman Catholic Church is predominantly a Church of the Third World. Bishops from the poor countries minced no words in indicating that they held the churches in the industrialized societies responsible for most of the "deficiencies and difficulties' afflicting contemporary Catholicism.

Whether the point under discussion was the "decadence' of feminism, or the exportation of oppressive ideologies, or the desire to increase the power of national episcopal conferences, the bishops from Africa and elsewhere wanted it understood that the British/European/ American agenda was not theirs. An African bishop complained that the churches in the developed countries were eager to send him help for programs of social change but were unresponsive to his pleas for help with evangelization and the "spiritual' mission of the Church. He confessed to being puzzled by the priorities of the rich. (There may, of course, have been an element of anti-Americanism in the resistance to U.S. efforts to elevate the authority of the bishops' conferences. As another African bishop is reported to have said privately, "You Americans have the money, you have the United Nations, you have the power to blow up the world. Now you want the power to blow up the Church.')

Similarly, it is thought that progressives oppose "triumphalism' and favor a church of service and discipleship. In tone and substance, however, this synod rejected the triumphalism of the Left that would create a "new Christendom' through radical social and political change. It underscored the Church's calling to walk "the way of the Cross,' with its only power being its faithful witness to God's revelation in Christ.

A synod of 1971 had declared that "action on behalf of justice and participation in the transformation of the world fully [appears] to us as a constitutive dimension of the preaching of the Gospel, or, in other words, of the Church's mission for the redemption of the human race, and its liberation from every oppressive situation.' In some cases--notably among "liberation theologians' in Latin America--the 1971 formulation had been turned to mean that political action is equivalent to preaching the Gospel, indeed that solidarity with the oppressed in the class struggle is the same thing as the Gospel promise of salvation. Clearly repudiating this as a distortion, the 1985 synod declared that it is the "primary mission of the Church . . . to preach and to witness to the good and joyful news' of God's saving acts in Christ, and to point a pilgrim humanity to the "eschatological character' of a promise that awaits supra-historical fulfillment in the rule of Christ. Against the notion of class struggle, the synod declared that the Church is "a sacrament, a sign, and an instrument of unity and of reconciliation, of peace among men, nations, classes, and peoples.'

Thus, in its work of constructively confusing what is "left' and what is "right,' the synod portrayed the "progressive' position as being nationalistic, flawed by the hubris of the rich, and triumphalist in its political ambitions. Against these propensities, it called the Church to universality, to heeding the authentic voice of the poor, and to servanthood as a pilgrim people shaped by transcendent promise. The Church, it was said again and again, must be understood as a divinely constituted "mystery,' and not as a humanly constructed agent of worldly purposes. In addition, the synod's statements on the "universal vocation to holiness' lifted up the responsibilities of the laity. This theme undoubtedly will be developed in a synod on the laity scheduled for 1987, which is expected to counter the clericalism of "progressive' bishops and priests who have in recent years felt called upon to prescribe in detail the right ordering of the world, from MX missiles to marginal tax rates.

Toward the end of the synod I discussed with two very progressive, and very unhappy, priest observers what term might best describe the change signified by the synod. Restoration? Renewal? Redirection? "I don't like any of them,' said one. "Why does there have to be a change? What's wrong with the way things have been going?' Thus the final irony of the synod, it would seem, is to have turned the "progressive' position into the defense of the status quo.

One Catholic editor, perhaps a trifle irreverently, called ecumenism "the dark horse' of the synod. By this he meant that ecumenism had not been expected to fare well in a synod determined to redirect the Church into the paths of orthodoxy. Ratzinger's Report had some hard words for allegedly compromising accommodations in the search for unity with other Christians, and ecumenism has been viewed by many traditionalists as a liberalizing and relativizing enterprise. Prior to the synod, rumors abounded that the Secretariat for Christian Unity would be sharply downgraded. However, at the meeting of cardinals just before the synod itself, the Secretariat and its work received a resounding vote of confidence. The synod was very much of the same mind. The Relatio declares that ecumenism has now "inscribed itself deeply and indelibly in the consciousness of the Church.' It goes on to emphasize that ecumenism is not simply about improved relations with non-Roman-Catholic churches but is premised upon the intention that "the incomplete communion already existing [may] come to the point of full communion.' In an unprecedented ecumenical service at the synod, John Paul II flatly declared, "Divisions among Christians are contrary to the plan of God.' Those who are the bearers of Christ's reconciling mission, he said, "must themselves be reconciled.' For the first time since Vatican II the cause of ecumenism has been firmly claimed by what is called the party of orthodoxy in Rome.

Scorecard

"RATZINGER WINS!' was the banner headline in at least two Italian dailies at the conclusion of the synod. I believe they were right, but what difference will the synod really make? Bishop James Malone of Youngstown, Ohio, who represented the U.S. bishops' conference and tried in vain to get more authority for such national conferences, declared himself "more than content' with the synod. "What difference will it make in what you'll do when you get back home?' he was asked. "I'll continue to do what I have been doing, except with greater confidence,' said he.

On the question of who won and who lost, Bernard Cardinal Law of Boston, who politely but firmly distanced himself from Bishop Malone at critical points, said, "The Church won.' Those who had reason to be less than ecstatic about the synod's outcome responded variously. Some said it was an irrelevant exercise in reaction. Others claimed the synod had not really said anything substantive at all. The editor of the liberal Commonweal urged his readers to interpret the synod "with dogged hope.' There were about seven hundred journalists accredited to cover the synod, and most of them treated the affair as something of a yawn. They were disappointed that there were few overt confrontations and no blood on the floor. "What is all this talk about transcendence and mystery?' asked one. He had come to cover hot issues, such as revolutionary praxis and women's ordination. He did not understand that those, inter alia, were the issues addressed by the synod, but they were addressed in what was to him and most other journalists the foreign language of theology.

E. J. Dionne of the New York Times was a rare exception in recognizing the historical significance of the synod. Quoting the synod's statement that it is the Church's task "to co-operate for a return of the sacred so that we will overcome the secularism of our time,' Dionne writes: "There are few better summaries of John Paul's own priorities. Twenty years after Vatican II opened the Church to the world, this challenge to modernity is emerging as the heart of Catholicism's new agenda.'

Those who claim that the new agenda will make no difference are in fact saying that there is no effective leadership in the Roman Catholic Church. St. Augustine said, "Rome has spoken; the case is concluded.' Fifteen hundred years later some bishops say, "Rome has spoken; we appreciate the input.' Nonetheless, Rome has ways to give its words effect.

There is, for instance, the synod's commissioning of a universal catechism or "compendium' based upon Vatican II and first proposed at the synod by Cardinal Law. "Don't worry about that,' Bishop Malone told a 38-year-old reporter. "You won't live long enough to see it completed.' The bishop may be right, but others say there will "soon' be such an authoritative guide for the development of instructional materials throughout the Church. (One Vatican wag suggests that Cardinal Ratzinger has already written it.) And, although it is not the most edifying consideration, it is obvious that Rome's speaking has consequence when one remembers that the Pope still appoints and promotes bishops. It is fair to assume that those who have ambitions in the Church (ambitions to serve, of course) will not be inattentive toward the new agenda.

The "recovery in Rome,' then, is not a recovery accomplished but a recovery promised. Twenty years later, it may signify the real beginning of the renewal proposed by Vatican II. Cardinal Danneels spoke of three phases. First there was the phase of "postconciliar fervor.' That, he said in words of elegant understatement, was followed by the phase of "a certain disappointment.' "The third phase,' he declared, "will be one of balance, rereading, and recovery.' If, as may very well be the case, it initiated the third phase, the extraordinary synod of 1985 will prove to have been extraordinary indeed.