Salt of the Earth

I took Peter Steinfel’s advice – to “get a clearer sense” of Pope Benedict XVI’s “vision of the world” and sense of his priorities, I spent the weekend reading Peter Sewald’s book-length interview with Cardinal Ratzinger, The Salt of the Earth: The Church at the End of the Millennium (Ignatius Press 1997).  I was deeply impressed by the breadth of his sweeping vision, and—I would venture to say—his mystic depth.  Below are a few of my favorites—but I’d encourage anyone who wants a window into what’s ahead to read the book.  Topics include his personal biography and reflections on the “canon of criticism,” and current questions for the new millennium (institutional renewal, dialogue with other religions, dialogue with the world, etc.).  Because the questions are posed by a secular journalist, the resulting text is frank, open, spontaneous, and very readable.

In response to the question, how many ways are there to God: “As many as there are people.  For even within the same faith each man’s way is an entirely personal one.  We have Christ’s word: I am the way.  In that respect there is ultimately one way, and everyone who is one the way to God is therefore in some sense also on the way of Jesus Christ.  But this does not mean that all ways are identical in terms of consciousness and will, but, on the contrary, one way is so big that it becomes personal for each man.” (32)

In response to a question about the public image of the Church as a severe and ossified tribunal: “ . . . one must also ask how the Church herself, instead of simply scolding the media, can properly adapt her public presentation.  In the inner life of faith, where the real core of the faith is proclaimed, individual elements can be correctly related to one another, and in that case such prohibitions could have their proper place in a much larger and positive whole. . . . The Church has to consider how to establish the right proportion between internal proclamation, which expresses a common structure of faith, and how she speaks to the world, where only part of what she says will be understood.” (171-72).

On priesthood, he reflects that demands for women’s ordination are understandable when clericalism dominates, when “importance is attributed to the person of the priest . . . He is the real center of the celebration.  In consequence, one has to say: Why only this sort of person?  When, on the contrary, he withdraws completely and simply present things through his believing action, then the action no longer circles around him.  Rather, he steps aside and something greater comes into view . . .” (176). 

On the role of the Bishop: “The officeholder ought to accept responsibility for the fact that he does not proclaim and produce things himself but is a conduit for the Other and thereby ought to step back himself . . . he ought to be one who serves, who is available to the people and who, in following Christ, keeps himself ready to wash their feet. In St. Augustine this is marvelously illustrated. . . . he was really constantly busy with trivial affairs, with footwashing, and [he was ready] to spend his great life for little things, if you will, but in the knowledge that he wasn’t squandering it by doing so.  That would, then, be the true image of the priesthood.  When it is lived correctly, it cannot mean finally getting one’s hands on the levers of power but, rather, renouncing one’s own life project in order to give oneself over to service.” (192-93).

On a celibacy: “The renunciation of marriage and family is thus to be understood in terms of this vision: I renounce what, humanly speaking, is not only the most normal but also the most important thing.  I forego bringing forth further life on the tree of life, and I live in the faith that my land is really God—and so I make it easier for others, also to believe that there is a kingdom of heaven.  I bear witness to Jesus Christ, to the gospel, not only with words, but also with this specific mode of existence, and I place my life in this form at his disposal.” (195)

“History as a whole is the struggle between love and the inability to love, between love and the refusal to love.  This is also, in fact, something we are experiencing again today, when man’s independence is pushed to the point where he says: I don’t want to love at all because then I make myself dependent and that contradicts my freedom.  Indeed, love means being dependant on something that perhaps can be taken away from me, and it therefore introduces a huge risk of suffering into my life.  Hence the express or tacit refusal . . . Whereas the decision that comes from Christ is another: Yes to love, for it alone, precisely with the risk of suffering and the risking of losing oneself, brings man to himself and makes him what he should be.  I think that that is really the true drama of history . . . Yes or no to love.” (283)

Reflecting on the “substance” of faith: “The theology of littleness is a basic category of Christianity.  After all, the tenor of our faith is that God’s distinctive greatness is revealed precisely in powerlessness.  That in the long run, the strength of history is precisely in those who love . . .” (20)