How Pope Benedict XVI Called us to be Disciples

 As I recently stated on Catholic Unscripted, I truly believe that Pope Benedict XVI made an immeasurable contribution to the world. It is a legacy that will not end with his death but will stretch far into the future. I believe we will be studying his works in hundreds of years time, just as we study Augustine, Aquinas, Teresa of Avila and Anthony of Padua today.

His contribution has formed the Church we have today and his theological reflection was equalled by his encouragement of the ways in which lay Catholics can be present in culture and politics, by prioritising Christian witness and the contribution of ideas to the secular debate without fear or compromise.

Pope Benedict XVI knew how to reduce the great mysteries of life and faith to their most comprehensible form which was demonstrative of his thorough understanding of them. He proposed an intelligent, reasonable and comprehensible Christianity and avoided moralism. He understood the importance of the reality that faith takes historical forms, which means it produces a culture. This seemed to be clearly a result of his own extremely positive familial experiences growing up. He also recognised that if that culture is not produced, faith dies. This led to his valuable critique of the contemporary situation in Europe and the West directed at its loss of culture inextricably connected to its spiritual sources, and the Church’s inability to propose a spiritual renewal. A good example of this was his public criticism of the bureaucratisation of the German Church.

I have spent a lot of time carefully studying Ratzinger's writing, drawn to it because I found he was able to intelligently explain the faith in an accessible way without intellectual compromise. It felt like he was writing to me and addressing my concerns directly, and that of course is because he understood the challenges faced by the faith and the Church in the modern culture.

A little while ago, after the Gospel was Luke 16, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, I turned to Ratzinger to share an explanation of the message of the parable, you can listen to that on YouTube here. I want to share some of the insight I have gained from studying Ratzinger so that you can benefit from it.

Two main addresses came immediately to mind. Regensburg and Westminster.

I may still do this, but I found this beautiful testimony from Ed Condon, part of this editorial post in the Pillar, which speaks to the effect of Pope Benedict XVI's words on his life. It is an effect which altered the very course of his life and moved him to work more completely for the Church. I think this is the case for so many of us. I have pulled out the relevant bit from Ed's post here and posted it below for you:

How I got here

Yesterday, JD remarked to me that I seemed a little out of sorts, even ambivalent, at the funeral of Benedict XVI.

It was a fair observation, but it would be wrong to think I’ve been indifferent to Benedict’s death. On the contrary, I found myself feeling deeply conflicted.

Like most of the people we spoke to here in Rome this week (see above), I have my own story about how the late pope changed my life, and how Benedict came to be both the remote and proximate cause for me being in Rome this week.

It dates back to 2010, when Benedict made his state visit to the UK — the first by a pope.

At the time, I was working in British politics and loving it. I had a very cool office, I had a backstage pass to Parliament, I had great friends.

My career was also, though I say it myself, looking good. These were the years of the coalition government, and all signs pointed to a political flood tide over the next few election cycles. My then-boss was an MP I had known as a candidate; he had asked me to run his office when he was elected.

My boss had a tag in his ear, as they say: He was destined for the cabinet (and he got there), and I fully expected to be along for the ride, probably for the next decade or more.

Then, one day, Pope Benedict came to work.

He gave a short address to the joint Houses of Parliament. I wanted to go to the speech, obviously. Thanks to a modest boycott by some Ulster and Scots Protestant members, I got wind there were a few tickets going spare and, after some begging around the Speaker’s office and Black Rod, my wife and I ended up sitting in the seventh row. It was great.

I was a Catholic, obviously. And having the pope show up at your office was exactly as cool as it sounds.

I loved the occasion of the thing, and reveled in the Bishop of Rome speaking to the country’s political class about the integrity of conscience in the hall where Thomas More stood trial.

He spoke about the ethical foundation of political choice, and the role of faith and the Church as a “corrective” to a merely technocratic and mechanistic view of society and government. He also spoke of the objective moral principles which underpin true freedom and human flourishing, and warned against the “distortions” which come from neglecting or excluding them.

His speech was, by papal standards, short. But it covered a lot of ground. And it stayed with me for weeks afterwards. It left me with a serious question about what I did for work.

My out-of-office life revolved around the practice of the faith. And I made my own halting efforts to bring Christ into the office, and the pub, and talk about the Gospel with the people I knew. But I also had a pragmatist’s view of British political life. All of the parties were (and are) decidedly secular — the handful of MPs who were openly opposed to abortion were (and are) universally considered cranks.

I did what I could in the rooms I was in, sure, but I didn’t think twice about my wider complicity in a government agenda that was, I knew, heading in several directions that definitely fell foul of Church teaching. Benedict’s address, delivered only a few yards from me, made me question all of that.

Those questions set me on the path to finding a new career, one in which I could root what I did in the truths Benedict had spoken about. When, 18 months later, I told my colleagues I was quitting my job to study canon law, the collective consensus was that I was having some kind of meltdown.

As I worked through my first semesters as a canon law student, I fell in love with the subject, and it was Benedict I credited with encouraging me to put my whole working life at the service of the Church, though he didn’t know it.

The day he announced his resignation, I was in class. Like all my classmates, I couldn’t believe what we were reading.

There was obviously a lot of frenzied discussion about the nature of ecclesiastical office and the canonical requirements of a valid renunciation of the Petrine ministry, which was intellectually fascinating. But I took Benedict’s decision personally. I felt, like a lot of Catholics did at the time, confused. And, on some level, it felt like a kind of betrayal.

For me, Benedict was the pope who came to my office and called me to do something better — to have faith that I could work in a different vineyard and that God would sustain what efforts I offered with sincerity for the Church. His resignation felt to me like he was walking off the job, just as I was about to come on shift.

After Pope Francis’ election, I gradually settled into my new work, first as a canonist, and in more recent years in Catholic journalism. I felt less raw about Benedict’s resignation. I still leaned often on his writings; his total confidence and innocent delight in the unshakable reality of God’s love is the basis for much of what little interior life I claim to have.

But whenever I thought about Benedict it was with an ardent kind of bittersweet affection.

As I watched his funeral yesterday, I felt it again. As the Mass carried on I found I couldn’t really focus on it.

But I came to Rome to do a journalism about the event, so after it ended I went back to my hotel and wrote an analysis of it.

Then I sat for a while. I prayed the rosary, as I reflexively do when I don’t know what else I should be doing. As I prayed, the same three words came to my mind, as they usually do: “God is love.”

If those three words prove to be the only true thing I ever speak or write with confidence, it will matter more than any degree I ever got, or any job I ever do.

Benedict taught them to me.

God is love.

And by a very long road that started in Westminster Hall 12 years ago, Benedict brought me here to Rome this week. For all of this, I am grateful. And I will miss him.

See you next week,



Ed. Condon
Editor
The Pillar