‘Take the fig tree as a
parable: as soon as its twigs grow supple and its leaves come out, you know
that summer is near. So with you, when you see these things happening: know
that he is near, at the very gates. I tell you solemnly, before this generation
has passed away all these things will have taken place. Heaven and earth will
pass away, but my words will not pass away.
‘But as for that day or hour, nobody knows it, neither the
angels of heaven, nor the Son; no one but the Father.’
Mark 13:28 - 32
Some names we meet regularly through our lives. One name that has met me often through the years is ‘Michael’. Various Michaels populated my childhood, mostly fellow students. I was baptised at St Michael’s Church, and then began my education at St Michael’s School. We were so enamoured by the name that we appended it as a second name to our second son. His godfather was, of course, a Michael.
Michael, the patron angel and guardian of Israel, is one of the seven archangels in both Jewish and Christian scriptures. He is often depicted as a warrior. We meet him in the book of Daniel (12:1-13) as a great angelic prince who stands guard over the people. In the book of Revelation (12: 7-9) Michael and his angels encounter a dragon which must be fought and defeated. A Hebrew name, it means ‘Who is like the Lord?’ It is derived from the same name root as Micah (the prophet). From it we have Mitch, Michelle, Mike, Michaela (and Mykayla) and many others. Unsurprisingly Michael became the patron saint of soldiers. During the Reformation the name fell out of use in Protestant countries, but became very popular in Catholic countries, such as Ireland – so much so that Irishmen were often called ‘Micks’ and for that matter, so were Catholics in general when I was (so much) younger.
In Daniel, this Michael will guard Israel during a time ‘of great distress, unparalleled since nations first came into existence’ when the dead will be raised. He will be there for the Second Coming. Ancient tradition believed that Michael would be the receiver of souls in the afterlife. Some suggest that the Afro-American spiritual, ‘Michael row the bow ashore’ refers to this role. The first disciples expected this Second Coming to occur within a short time after the resurrection. That expectation failed to be met, and Paul in his second letter to the Thessalonians explained that the Second Coming was indeed some way off. People had to get on with living, getting married, raising their families, working. No one but God alone would know the hour and the day.
This is indeed the message to us. We must get
on with the business of life, but we must also keep the promise and the hope of
that Second Coming in our hearts and minds for it will come like a thief in the night. Be prepared. But also know and
understand the promise that awaits us.
Peter Douglas
The
Pope is transforming the way Catholics think of their place in Creation / By
AUSTEN IVEREIGH
Pope
Francis tells a new story
WHAT DID Laudato Si’ do? Did Pope Francis’s groundbreaking encyclical,
now six years old, mobilise global church institutions to disinvest from fossil
fuels, capture carbon and turn their roofs photovoltaic? Did it create the
momentum for world leaders to deliver the historic 1.5 degree pledge at COP21
in Paris in December 2015, which remains the global benchmark, even now, for
COP26 in Glasgow? Did it melt the ice between science and religion? Did it
reframe relations between rich and poor countries in terms of an “ecological
debt” owed by the former to the latter? Did it offer our troubled age a
distinctive Catholic vision – “integral ecology” – of common political and
social action, comparable to the way that a century ago “integral humanism”
paved the path to post-war Christian democracy?
The answer is, of course, that it did all of these things, yet how far
is still too soon to measure. It is too soon to judge the impact of history’s
fattest, most read and most talked about social encyclical. But not too soon, I
suggest, to make this claim: that in helping humanity face its greatest
existential crisis, Laudato Si’ performed a huge shift in the thinking and
outlook of the Catholic Church. And that this shift reshaped modern theology.
Yet even when they corrected that distortion,
Francis’ predecessors continued to operate within an anthropocentric frame:
Creation should be protected for the sake of human beings, not for its own
sake; we have a duty of care to creatures by virtue of our dominion, not their
value. “Our duties towards the environment flow from our duties towards the
person, considered both individually and in relation to others,” Benedict said
in his 2010 World Day of Peace, an idea he repeated in Caritas in Veritate,
that “when ‘human ecology’ is respected within society, environmental ecology
also benefits”.
As now seems obvious, this was not yet the needed shift. In stressing
human duty to a passive Creation, the teaching remained within the modern
paradigm. And because the teaching was in terms that stressed obligation and
duty without challenging prevailing models of production and consumption, there
was little incentive for most Catholics to respond. The libertarian right could
continue to obsess about same-sex marriage and abortion while seeing
environmentalism as woke, or for wimps. As Francis would later write in Laudato
Si’, “an inadequate presentation of Christian anthropology” concealed “a
Promethean vision of mastery over the world, which gave the impression that the
protection of nature was something only the faint-hearted cared about”. Little
surprise that of the 1,500 organisations taking part in the global climate
march in New York in 2014, there were just one or two linked to the Catholic
Church.
Laudato Si’ shattered this complacency, critiquing not just modern
anthropocentrism in general, but that of papal teaching. In stressing the
interconnectedness of Creation and Creator, and the intrinsic value – even
dignity – of non-human creatures, every one of whom has within it “the Spirit
of life”, Francis recast the natural world as an expression of God’s gift of
self. No longer did we humans stand proudly above Creation; we were joined by
“bonds of affection” to all creatures, called into a “sublime communion” with
all living things. The connection was visceral, even painful. “God has joined
us so closely to the world around us that we can feel the desertification of
the soil almost as a physical ailment, and the extinction of a species as a
painful disfigurement,” he wrote. And we were responsible for that pain: the
disappearance of creatures because of our recklessness meant they no longer
gave glory to God by their existence.
Francis had two big drafting challenges. The first was how to capture
the urgency and magnitude of the crisis without tipping people into despair at
the enormity of the task. The second was how to retell the old story of the
harmonious vision so clear from Scripture and medieval thinking without falling
into the biocentrism – a dark pessimism about human beings or sentimentality
about nature – that is sometimes found in the ecological movement. In a sense,
the second challenge was the answer to the first. In rejecting the old – in
reality, post-medieval – Christian story about man’s dominion, Francis had to
tell a new story, one that told the truth about who God is, who we are, what
sort of thing is Creation and how they all fit together. And while we would be
shamed at the realisation that we had failed to see the earth as a moral
subject, we would also see the beauty and necessity of conversion, on the other
side of which was not just a better way to live, but a way to live that better
reflected who we truly are.
Enter, at this point, Erich Przywara SJ
(1889-1972), a German Jesuit virtually unknown these days but a towering figure
in the pre-war world: a prolific, brilliant contemporary of Romano Guardini,
and a major influence on the group of Jesuits – especially Hans Urs von
Balthasar (later to leave the order), but also Gaston Fessard and Henri de
Lubac – who were key to Jorge Mario Bergoglio’s formation. In 1932, Przywara
published his great Analogia Entis, or “Analogy of Being”, which reformulated
in contemporary metaphysical terms what had been deeply grasped by medieval
theologians such as Bonaventure, who is quoted more than once in Laudato Si ’.
The “Analogy of Being” is an attempt to narrate – more than explain –
the basic structure of creaturely existence, summed up in the Fourth Lateran
Council of 1215: Inter creatorem et
creaturam non potest tanta simili tudo notari, quin inter eos maior sit
dissimilitude notanda. The formula – “God and Creation are like one
another, and yet even in this resemblance ever more unlike each other” – houses
a dynamic polarity: we creatures derive our being from infinite being (the
principle of similiarity) yet are wholly transcended by it (the principle of
dissimilarity). The glorious unresolvable tension between these two is
energetic, life-giving – indeed, is life itself. You can look at a sunset and
grasp something about the beauty and majesty of God, while also seeing God’s
utter ungraspability; or see animals, and their Creator, and us in them, and
learn something vital about ourselves. Francis in Laudato Si’ quotes Bonaventure
on St Francis, that “from a reflection on the primary source of all things … he
would call creatures … by the name of brother and sister.”
The Analogia Entis is unmentioned in Laudato
Si’, yet irrigates it like an underground stream. Przywara saw it not as an
abstract principle but the basis for all kinds of Catholic ways of thinking and
behaving, so it makes sense for Francis to use it to develop a new narrative of
our belonging to the oikos. On the one hand, it makes us humble: the
dissimilarity between ourselves as creatures, who are finite and transitory,
and the Creator, who is infinite and absolute, is vast; and such humility can
lead us to an awareness of the creatureliness of others, which is the basis for
fraternity and solidarity. (It works, in other words, both for Laudato Si’ and
for Fratelli Tutti.) On the the other hand, there is the similarity, the
special role for humans as collaborators, “co-creators” with God, whose unique
dignity and autonomy and capacities give us special responsibility for “the act
of cooperation with the Creator”, as Laudato Si’ puts it. Yet when we
mistakenly view other living beings as mere objects, sources of profit and
gain, we violate the essential harmony underpinning the universe – and pay the
price.
The “Analogy of Being” allows Laudato Si’ to
critique anthropocentrism that is “misguided”, “tyrannical” or “excessive”, but
not to jettison the vital significance of human beings in the Creation story –
for better or for worse. This, then, is the great contribution of Laudato Si’,
to both Church and world: to reject the distorted story modern Christians had
begun to believe, and to embrace the truth they had abandoned. And by inviting
us to embrace the analogy (in both similarity and difference) between the role
of God in Creation and our own, Francis has given us a new (yet old) story, one
that calls us to see and treat the world a little as God does, to contemplate
it and learn from it, in a way that gathers up and includes all creatures,
seeing that each has its place; to respect its rhythms, heal its wounds and
reap its fruits. It is a story that tells the truth about us, and our time.
Most of us no longer need to be persuaded that violence to the earth is a sure
way of losing it; but the good news is that, as Jesus says in Luke’s second
Beatitude, the gentle – those who treat the created world as gift, not
commodity; who work not just off or on but also with the land – will indeed
inherit the earth, and relish its abundance. Laudato Si’ allows us to go deep
green, but in a way faithful to our best tradition: to reject the complacency
and corruption of the status quo, and urge conversion, yet without falling into
the enragé pessimism of much environmentalism. Best of all, we can tell this
new/old story without imposing it, because it is true, and will attract by its
own internal force. Laudato Si’ allows us to say that human beings are indeed
special, not by virtue of their sovereignty but by their unique responsibility.
We are tasked by God to bring Creation to fulfilment, while finding our own
fulfilment in the process: in fraternity, solidarity and the joyful mission of
caring for our common home.
Austen Ivereigh is the author of Wounded Shepherd: Pope Francis and His Struggle to Convert the Catholic Church (Henry Holt, £21.25; Tablet price £19.12), and collaborated with the Pope Francis in the writing of Let Us Dream: The Path to a Better Future (Simon & Schuster, £10.99; Tablet price £9.89).
The original article may
be found in The Tablet of 6 November 2021 and may be accessed via the Fr John
Wall Library.
