by Brian A. Graebe

 

Spe Salvi, Pope Benedict XVI’s eloquent encyclical on Christian hope, provides a reflection on man’s place in the modern world that alternately comforts, cautions and encourages. Animating the entire work is what might be termed an eschatological immanence: Christians have a future beyond this world, and that “distinguishing mark” shapes and permeates the present. Hope in the future, then, becomes not mere wishful thinking, but a lived reality. Pope Benedict uses a favorite line when he writes that “the Christian message was not only ‘informative’ but ‘performative’” (2). Faith, the substance of hope, allows us confidently to live in the “already-not yet,” partaking here and now in the divine life whose fullness has been promised to us.

That “great hope”—a constant refrain—alone makes life worth living. Rising above the demands and expectations of this world, the hope-filled Christian radiates an interior freedom. In a particularly moving passage, Benedict extols the life of St. Josephine Bakhita as one who, in the face of slavery’s enormous cruelty, ascended the heights of hope and lived as a free child of God.

And yet when God is denied, or ignored, hope’s future promise becomes disfigured. “Perhaps many people reject the faith today simply because they do not find the prospect of eternal life attractive….To continue living for ever—endlessly—appears more like a curse than a gift” (10). Benedict answers this concern with a stirring vision of the extra-temporality of heaven as “plunging into the ocean of infinite love…plunging ever anew into the vastness of being, in which we are simply overwhelmed with joy” (12). Such a hope allows the Christian to have abundant joy in this life, aware of that which awaits him in the next.

Even in the most harrowing of trials, the Christian never lives alone. Quoting the Vietnamese martyr Paul Le-Bao-Tinh, Benedict recalls the transformative power of suffering: “In the midst of these torments, which usually terrify others, I am, by the grace of God, full of joy and gladness, because I am not alone—Christ is with me…” (37). In the words of Bernard of Clairvaux, “Impassibilis est Deus, sed non incompassibilis”—God cannot suffer, but he can suffer with. This is true com-passion, a co-suffering. Although an assent to love always produces suffering in the diminishment of self, God shares our burdens and offers consolation. In this divine communion, “the capacity to suffer for the sake of the truth is the measure of humanity” (39). Those who paid the ultimate price for truth, the martyrs, stand as necessary witnesses to the greatest love and the embodiment of the greatest hope.

Ultimately, the martyrs offer witness that justice is not to be found in this world. In a paramount theme of Spe Salvi, Benedict writes that, “In the modern era, the idea of the Last Judgment had faded into the background: Christian faith has been individualized and primarily oriented towards the salvation of the believer’s own soul, while reflection on world history is largely dominated by the idea of progress” (42). For Benedict, the Last Judgment forms the essential context of all hope. Whatever the injustices of this world, God will set all things right. Here, Spe Salvi furthers the early reflections on heaven with a clear and unqualified examination of purgatory and hell. After a remarkably ecumenical look at the Eastern Church’s theology of purgatory, Benedict describes hell as the place for those who “have totally destroyed their desire for truth and readiness to love…who have lived for hatred and have suppressed all love within themselves. This is a terrifying thought” (45). The Pope’s candor is at once surprising and refreshing; in putting forth the Church’s teaching he minces no words, yet writes with a deep trust in the goodness of God’s justice and love.

In the end, the burden is on each man to live a good life—our actions determine who we are, and resonate eternally. If we are willing to take up the cross and follow Christ, then the moment of judgment will be welcomed rather than dreaded. “We welcome and we absorb the overwhelming power of his love over all evil in the world and in ourselves. The pain of love becomes our salvation and our joy….The judgment of God is hope, both because it is justice and because it is grace” (47). Our full communion with the Body of Christ finds its beginnings here and now, as hope instructs and informs us on that journey. And it is Mary, Star of the Sea, who will always “shine upon us and guide us on our way” (50).

For all of Spe Salvi’s theological depth, however, it is what the encyclical does not say that has engendered no small amount of controversy. As numerous commentators quickly recognized, Spe Salvi contains not a single reference to any of the documents from the Second Vatican Council. Moreover, for one of the four major constitutions of the council, the very title of which contains the word hope (Gaudium et Spes), to be entirely absent from an encyclical devoted to hope begs consideration. Indeed, the omission is glaring: since the close of Vatican II, the four encyclicals of Pope Paul VI and all fourteen encyclicals of Pope John Paul II cite the conciliar documents in abundance. A brief look at the statistical compilation underscores the uniqueness of this omission.

Pope Paul’s four post-conciliar encyclicals cite Vatican II an average of seventeen times; Gaudium et Spes specifically an average of seven times. Those numbers skyrocket in John Paul’s oeuvre: Vatican II documents are referenced an average of forty times in his encyclicals; in Redemptoris Mater alone, there are no fewer than one hundred and three footnotes citing council documents. Gaudium et Spes appears an average of twelve times in each of John Paul’s encyclicals; Veritatis Splendor sets the high-water mark with thirty-five references. With the exception of Paul’s first post-conciliar encyclical, the brief Christi Matri, and John Paul’s fourth encyclical, Slavorum Apostoli, Gaudium et Spes has appeared in every single papal encyclical for the past forty-two years. It even makes an appearance in Benedict’s first encyclical, Deus Caritas Est (along with two other conciliar citations). And yet in Spe Salvi, nary a mention. From a peritus of the council, the failure to refer at all to the most theologically significant event in the past century—not to mention in the life of Joseph Ratzinger—is nothing short of startling. But what does it all mean?

Reactions to Spe Salvi’s conciliar silence have ranged from dismissive to alarmed. The Italian press especially has read quite dramatically a seismic shift in Benedict’s ecclesiology: only two days after the release of Spe Salvi, Rome’s La Repubblica, the largest-circulating newspaper in Italy, carried the sensational headline, “The pope who renounces the modern world.” Writing with an enormous oversimplification of both the council and the thought of Pope Benedict, the article concludes that “Benedict XVI has turned his back on the Vatican Council.” Another journal proclaimed, “Benedict XVI: A pope who ignores the Second Vatican Council.” The commentator Antonio Socci, offering a balanced analysis, goes so far as to dub Spe Salvi “a bomb.” Are these conclusions much ado about nothing? Only through an exploration of Ratzinger’s view of Vatican II, and specifically Gaudium et Spes, can we fully and properly understand the genesis of Spe Salvi and how Pope Benedict intends for it to be read.

Even before the conclusion of the council, Ratzinger saw ominous signs on the horizon. What specifically troubled him was the final document, the Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World (Gaudium et Spes). Suspicious of its heavily Chardinian influences, Ratzinger believed that the document spoke of the Church’s encounter with the modern world in overly optimistic tones. Lacking a balanced discussion of sin and the divide between the Church and the world (cf. John 15:18), Gaudium et Spes offered a focus on progress that he would later term (specifically in reference to article 17) “downright Pelagian.” While Ratzinger contends that the document could, and should, be read properly, and that certain articles are quite laudable (e.g., 22), he nonetheless looks warily upon an unfounded rapprochement between Christian man and modernism.

Ratzinger’s suspicions would deepen and solidify in the post-conciliar years. Specifically, he was greatly disappointed to see Gaudium et Spes, which he regarded as the least of the four major constitutions, come to be viewed as the crowning work of the entire council. For Ratzinger, it was just the opposite. Magisterial pronouncements should be deeply rooted in the ancient creeds, not in a superficial dialogue with non-believers. While Gaudium et Spes presented, in Ratzinger’s view, a curious project with which to close the council, it was never meant to define the entire spirit of the council itself. These suspicions saw rather immediate realizations: a “can-do” spirit soon enveloped the Church, an optimism that had little grounding in the historical reality of the Pilgrim People of God. Such a progressive outlook found its way into the pews, as tradition was largely cast off, to be replaced with self-affirming exhortations to “build the city of God.” If the world is really not so bad after all, many began to ask, why do we need Christ? A renewed focus on the present, no longer grounded ecclesiologically or historically, served drastically to undermine the Church and her authority. The flood-gates had been opened by a misplaced emphasis, and, as Ratzinger foresaw, people soon began wondering where things had gone so terribly awry. In short, the misreading of Gaudium et Spes resulted in a divorce between the council’s twin goals of aggiornamento and ressourcement; without the latter, the former becomes woefully inept and even detrimental.

To counter this prevailing tide, Joseph Ratzinger would devote much of his intellectual output over the next few decades to a “re-grounding” of the authentic aims of the council’s renewal. The greatest error in the Church, one committed by both traditionalists and liberals alike, was to view the council as a fundamental break with the Church’s past. For traditionalists, this was unimaginable treachery, and resulted most infamously in the Lefebvre schism of 1988. For liberals, the council un-tethered the Church and allowed for untold numbers and types of innovation, experimentation and reinterpretation. Ratzinger saw all of this as terribly wrong.

Throughout his writings, interviews and memoirs, Joseph Ratzinger clearly sees the legacy of Vatican II as having been hijacked, and needing to be restored to its proper place in the heritage of the Church. This means neither turning the clock backwards, nor jumping ahead, but re-evaluating the present situation of the Church. The council must be authentically interpreted and implemented, not as a break from the past, but as a legitimate development of the Church’s magisterium. The key to this goal, for the Pope, undoubtedly lies first and foremost in liturgical restoration. (For a fuller treatment of this topic, one would do well to refer to Eamon Duffy’s fine lecture, “Benedict XVI and the Eucharist,” published in the March 2007 New Blackfriars.) In this vein, Ratzinger balks at the subtle but too-pervasive mindset that the Catholic Church began in 1965. The council must be viewed in the wider context of the Church’s history and living Tradition. That history comprises twenty-one ecumenical councils, of which Vatican II is but the most recent.

The lack of references to that particular council in Spe Salvi seems to possess a dual significance. Benedict is firstly, in Robert Moynihan’s fine phrase, “re-weighting” the council, placing it in the fullness of Church teaching. Interestingly, although Benedict cites the Catechism of the Catholic Church eight times, not one of the paragraphs cited contains in itself a footnote to Vatican II. Benedict is making a strong statement, affirming the council implicitly and only through the authoritative lens of the entire magisterium.

At the same time, the Pope seems to be signaling (as Socci and others point out) that the Church has moved past the Vatican II era, one that has been unfortunately marked by deep-seated division and misunderstanding. Ratzinger sees it as irrefutable that the great expectations of the council, and its promises of renewal, have been frustrated. Taking a candid look at the fruits of the past forty years, Benedict finds them largely rotten. The sunny optimism with which many read Gaudium et Spes, looked at from today’s vantage point, rings hollow.

Entering the third year of his papacy, then, Benedict evidences a clear “back-to-basics” approach. Foregoing overtures to the secular world, Pope Benedict, like his namesake, appears intent on shoring up the faith among its adherents. His ecumenical overtures—to the Orthodox, to the Anglicans, to the Lefebvrists—all bear the urgent stamp of this need for unity. It is noteworthy that, unlike John Paul’s encyclicals, which were addressed “to all men and women of good will,” Benedict directs his to “all the lay faithful.” The difference is subtle but underscores a clear shift in focus and priority. Benedict has spoken often of a smaller Church in the future, one composed, as it were, of a remnant faithful. Such language contrasts sharply with John Paul’s “new springtime”; Benedict may well foresee a new springtime, but only after a deep winter.

Much of this divergence finds its nexus in the term “ Kingdom of God.” When Gaudium et Spes was misread in a secular and progressive way, talk of the Kingdom envisioned a world where universal peace and harmony reigned. If only we could eliminate war, poverty and injustice, heaven would become a place on earth. Without discounting the noble aspirations of these goals, Benedict nevertheless views them with a skeptical eye.

Looking at the modern world, the Pope sees a widening gulf between the secular project and the Church. In place of mutual cooperation and shared values, a spirit of marked hostility characterizes modern man’s view of Christianity. Nowhere was this more recently crystallized than in the bitter debate over the European constitution. A mere mention of Europe’s Christian patrimony met with furious opposition by the architects of their new continental order.

Benedict stands unafraid, then, in calling the enemies of the Church by their name. Spe Salvi offers a penetrating look at the evils of Communism, both in theory and in practice. Moreover, Benedict speaks frankly of the Antichrist, albeit through the writings of Kant, as a real threat to the faith of Christians in the end times. Benedict here picks up an ancient theme of the Church—the continual struggle and ultimate incompatibility between the Church and the world. This conflict was given voice in 1976 by then-Cardinal Karol Wojtyla: “We are today before the final struggle between the Church and the Anti-Church, between the Gospel and the Anti-Gospel.” One can find this theme throughout Benedict’s writings, often through the work of Vladimir Soloviev, Russian philosopher, poet and religious thinker. In one of Soloviev’s books, The Open Way to World Peace and Welfare, the Antichrist ushers in an age of pure rationalism and earthly well-being. In his short work, “The Antichrist,” Soloviev portrays the title character as a scripture scholar whose exegetical work denies the divinity of the Christ of the Gospels. Reducing Jesus to a mere social worker and non-violent resister, the Antichrist destroys the faith of Christians. Joseph Ratzinger explored these themes at length in an address at St. Peter’s Lutheran Church during his 1988 visit to New York; he employed them again in his recent book Jesus of Nazareth. Both Marx and Soloviev’s character fall into the same trap: trying to establish the Kingdom of God without God. It has been the project of man ever since the fall—in Eden, in Babel, in the modern world. And all such projects, uninformed by man’s ultimate destiny, are doomed to fail.

“There is no doubt, therefore, that a ‘ Kingdom of God’ accomplished without God—a kingdom therefore of man alone—inevitably ends up as the ‘perverse end’ of all things…” (23). No earthly paradise, if such a thing were possible, would ever satisfy man, whose restless heart yearns for the infinite, for the great beyond. Spe Salvi thus stands as a powerful corrective to this misguided optimism. Its lengthy middle section, dealing with the way in which hope can—indeed, must—inform the present, offers a true and sobering vision of the Kingdom of God. Suffering and death do not disappear, but they are never the same. Hope, rooted in love, has transformative ability. Once man is freed by love, truly free for his own excellence, this love spreads outward and becomes manifestly present in the communion of saints here on earth. This foretaste, this longing, foreshadows the authentic Kingdom of God.

Such an assessment of the world is far from optimism. Indeed, when The Ratzinger Report appeared in 1985, it was widely deemed a pessimistic book. But Pope Benedict has little use for such caricatures, which only represent subjective evaluations or wishful thinking. Instead, he revisits Christian hope as a little-remembered and less-understood virtue, but one that has the power here and now to shape the world for the better. “Certainly we cannot ‘build’ the Kingdom of God by our own efforts….The Kingdom of God is a gift, and precisely because of this, it is great and beautiful, and constitutes the response to our hope” (35).

And so, Pope Benedict’s remarkable encyclical deserves to be read carefully. It shares an undeniable and, at times, uncomfortable link to the Second Vatican Council. But rather than rejecting or minimizing the council, Pope Benedict restores its teachings to a rightful place and perspective within the Church. Seeking to free the truth of the council’s documents, most notably Gaudium et Spes, from decades of misinterpretation and wrong emphases, Pope Benedict hopes that the fruits of the council can slowly and surely begin to blossom. One can see in this young pontificate a steady mission, unashamedly reinforcing and renewing areas of the Church—theological, ecumenical, liturgical—that he believes have stagnated for too long. In many ways, he continues the work of his great predecessor, although with a directness that can be seen variously as refreshing, startling or jarring. One has every reason to believe that this pope has much more he wishes to accomplish; for now, he has given the world a profound encyclical that may well stand as a signpost when the history of the post-conciliar Church is written. For as cautiously as Benedict reads the signs of the times, this demure Bavarian smiles and forges ahead with a sure grounding in hope—the very hope by which alone we are saved.