They brought the Pope back to the Vatican, the papers said, "in a people-mover
with tinted windows
; looking fairly alert." It was, I figured, a
symbol not only of the Pope's physical condition but of the spiritual state of
the entire church. We are all living behind the tinted windows of another age.
What we took to be eternal truth in so many areas has turned out to be
temporary at best, in some cases even highly questionable. We wonder now
about the nature of life, the purpose of government, the place of religion,
the role of institutions, the power of power.
We look “fairly alert” but we are all struggling to breathe, to speak, to
go on living in a world in which parts of it, and parts of ourselves, as well,
are clearly long gone. The problem is that no one is really sure which parts
This pope's last real message to the world may well be that silence and
faith, in the face of such change, are the only appropriate responses to it.
All hope for being able to control it is over now. The questions rage
without end. Should Terri Schaivo’s feeding tube be reinserted? Was the
invasion of Iraq moral? Should Social Security, the lifeline of our
middle-class elderly be ended, changed, or stay the same? The questions
abound. The answers are slow in coming.
Oh, force is always a factor, of course. We can force our answers on other
people--and many are trying. But once a group, any group, lacks the power to
enforce its will--like the Roman Empire, for instance, or the old European
ruling families, or even the U.S. army in Iraq, whatever its firepower--there
is nothing left to do but face the unwanted circumstances: to listen, to
learn, and to change with the changes around us.
Force always masquerades as real but when the masses stop listening, it
dies. And we are there, it seems.
Authoritarianism, the notion that any one person can have all the answers,
has become a thing of the past. It has outlived itself, in fact.
No one is completely under anyone's real domination anymore. People know
too much to be fooled. They travel too often to be duped into thinking that
any one way is the only possible right way to do a thing. Because I said
so has ceased to be proof of anything. Is almost ludicrous. Is barely heard,
let alone listened to much.
The times, as always, are indeed a’changing.
The trouble is that the times are changing faster, more globally and more
dramatically than at any other period in history. We are on the cusp, not only
of a new era, we are on the edge of a whole new way of being human.
On the one hand, technology seems poised again to change life as we have
always known it.
The Japanese are developing robots at a great rate. They play instruments,
they sing songs, they greet visitors at the new expo.
Cell phones, those gadgets that have turned the world into a roving
communication system designed to unleash us from the umbilical cords of desk
and home, are becoming standard now. We go through life, head phones around
our necks, microphones in front of our faces, talking to people thousands of
miles away as if they were beside us.
Medicine is discussing eternal life; the imminent possibility that life can
be extended indefinitely, cloned, engineered and manipulated without end.
Regional accents are disappearing as the whole world begins to melt into
itself like butter folded into cream.
Purporting to speak definitively, for all time, absolutely, without
discussion, for everyone in all circumstances in a world of this character
smacks of a scene out of Our Town where the dead one returns only to
discover that nothing is the same as when he left it.
The question then becomes--in the person of a pope whose speech is
limited--how will we, as a church, speak to a world such as this? Now that all
the rules are suspect and all the laws were written to regulate another whole
kind of society, what rules can now prevail? How long will the old answers to
new questions inspire, give direction?
It may be the moment for the church itself to contemplate a different way
of being alive in the world that is more than the image of a massive basilica,
confined under a hulking dome, encircled by a monumental colonnade and living
behind a set of old rules.
The very person of a frail, silent pope, devoid of the drama and the force
of the church triumphant, open to the future, calm and quiet in the face of
it, could itself be a lesson to the church in a spiraling, renascent world
such as this one. That, in fact, might be a far more potent image of what is
really the spirit of Christ in the Christian church than anything else we
could hope to see.
In 1294, Pope Celestine entered Rome after a 27 month conclave stalemated
over the direction in which to take the Church. In the end, they chose an 84
year old monk who insisted on entering Rome on a donkey. Three months later,
when the Cardinals refused to take over the daily administration of the church
so he could fast and pray during Advent, he called a consistory and resigned on
The pope who succeeded him understood the power of the spiritual over the
administrative. He refused to allow Celestine to return to his mountain
hermitage for fear the gentle, prayerful monk-pope, would become a center of
schism, a rallying point of holiness, in a church more given to pomp than to
Now, in our time, the world has launched a period of authoritarianism, it
seems, in order to control the chaos that change brings. But it isn't working.
On the contrary. The control has only managed to breed alienation at every
Maybe Pope Celestine knew in the thirteenth century what people are now
beginning to suspect: Simple holiness always trumps force.
From where I stand, it seems that history may well be repeating itself. This
time the stakes are higher than ever. Let's hope we're all fairly alert
to the fact that the purpose of the church is not control. It is holiness. The
power of frailty is always more potent, in the long run, than the power of
Bring on the donkey.