Political Homelessness and the Church

By Patrick Ryan Cooper

Reclaiming the Church’s political homelessness is a matter of urgency today.

However, this affirmation of homelessness in no way annuls the immense breadth of her public commitment and witness. Rather than continuously seeking extrinsic accommodation and unmitigated compromise, the intrinsic search for her innate, public character requires broad, theological vision and an unrelenting commitment to praxis that is ultimately and unwaveringly grafted upon the folly of the Cross if we are to convincingly affirm the fundamental priority that as members of the mystical Body of Christ, we are first and foremost Christians and Catholics over and above, and at times even against, every other polity and national regime.

Crisis of Institutions and Shifting Ideological Landscapes

Having recently returned with my family to the US after living in Belgium for the past seven years, I, for one, acutely feel the dizzying effects of such homelessness on various levels. The truly bizarre political spectacle of American presidential politics has certainly been a rude awakening, dominated largely by the bumbling populist nationalism of Donald Trump. Above every insult and outrage, Trump's brash demagoguery has yet to demonstrate even the slightest impulse of governing in favor of the common good that would in any way interfere with his own private, commercial interests that he so regularly flaunts and ostentatiously puts on display. Adding to the voices of anxiety over a Trump nomination, Catholic neo-con voices have recently joined in the chorus, though the opposition that Weigel et.al. are making so baldly exposes their continuing attempts to reify the Church in service to a neo-liberal democratic polis, and so thoroughly aligned with the Republican party, that the very idea of reclaiming the Church's political homelessness itself is nothing but utterly abhorrent. Their theopolitical vision is both entrenched and waning─perhaps not all that dissimilar from the earlier “alliance” between the Church and the Democratic party decades earlier─and hence, they are vainly seeking to forestall the shifting ideological terrain that a Trump candidacy is currently ushering forth.

Homo adorans, homo politicus

Beyond however the immediate headlines of “walls” and “bridges” surrounding the recent exchange between Trump and the Holy Father, with the former accusing the pontiff as being a very “political man”, the greater substance of Francis’ response was brilliant in stating:  

Thank God he said I was a politician because Aristotle defined the human person as a ‘homo politicus', a political animal. So at least I am a human person….

And so, in accord with the Holy Father’s statements, we must further qualify the assertion of man as intrinsically political with the necessary Augustinian rejoinder, “Which polis?” The city of man or the city of God?

For the 20th Century German theologian and Catholic convert, Erik Peterson (1890-1960) ─ and his profound Theological Tractates and his superb liturgical angelology, “The Book on the Angels” ─ the political homelessness of the Church reflects an utterly excessive, cosmic (and not merely “salvific”) historical view of the suffering Church as necessarily beyond political confinement and ideological capture. As a pilgrimatic community in-between “the earthly Jerusalem, which is at once polis and temple” and its “ever drawing closer to the eschatological, heavenly temple and its own…polis”, Peterson positions the ekklesia under a clear eschatological proviso. That is, a line of demarcation that at once bears witness to the ontic difference that frames ─ by way of exploding ─ the Church’s distinctly public act, the liturgy, as the site of a transversal commericum: an angelic participation within the earthly cult as well as her “participation in the worship that the angels offer to God.”

In this regard, Peterson's liturgical angelology has little immediate concern with reconstructing either Gregorian or Dionysian hierarchies and perhaps unique in this theological genre, he evinces strong apophatic tendencies ─ what von Balthasar described as Peterson's "ontology of performance" ─ within the liturgy's doxology as necessarily escaping both affirmative predication and political smuggling. (Keep in mind, this is mid-1930's Germany after all.) Rather, Peterson's interest in angelology is both multi-layered and at once counters its stark absence within both scholarly and popular approaches to the liturgy and by extension, recalls us to the liturgy's intrinsically public nature that doxologically explodes any and all idolatrous doubling in the secular political realm. In this, Peterson's angelic turn largely parallels another famous convert, John Henry Newman, who quipped in a famous sermon, "The Powers of Nature", that if the sin of the medieval mind errored too much in its exaggerated focus on the angels, "the sin of what is called our educated age…is just the reverse…to ascribe all we see around us, not to their [angelic] agency, but to certain assumed laws of nature. This, I say, is likely to be our sin….of resting in things seen, and forgetting unseen things, and our ignorance about them."[1]

Furthermore, the very porosity that resists ideological capture simultaneously entails an absence of neutrality. And Peterson certainly does not have in mind a tit-for-tat between liberals and conservatives. Rather, he invites us to patiently recover the cosmic vision of the metaphysical struggle between the angelic and the demonic that transects the historical wherein the militia Christi is embedded in its own apocalyptic struggle that is neither apolitical or blithely escapist, but instead "inevitably stands either under the power of the Antichrist or the power of Christ." In other words, with Peterson, there is no logic here that could support accomodationist views of a "lesser of two evils". Constructively, a more radical Catholic option consequently emerges from Peterson's writings (though one in which he was not immediately aligned with) wherein the supernatural provides a critical contrast as both beyond, yet inseparable that expands and distinguishes the uniqueness of our political vision and commitments. The paradox, as seen in Peterson’s difference with the political theology of Carl Schmitt, demonstrates the necessary resistance of reductively capturing the Church within existing political discourse, though never apart from it either.

Theopolitical Mysticism

Peterson's angelology is heavily rooted in both liturgical sources as well as in the Fathers, as he himself was a notable Patristics scholar. The significance of angels, both cosmically and liturgically, attests to none other than the intrinsic nature of the Church's public nature at its very origins - irreducible and not to be confused with its later legal status - as not extrinsically conditioned by the State. "The relationship of the ekklesia to the polis in heaven is thus…also a political relationship, and on this basis the angels must always be present in the cultic actions of the Church."[2] Peterson illustrates this point by drawing from the commentary of St. John Chrysostom, recalling that for the Eastern Father:

[T]he holy angels accompany Christ in his presence in the Eucharistic celebration that way that soldiers accompany a king, then we realize why they [ angels] appear in the holy Mass. They serve the purpose of making the Eucharist’s public character clear. As the emperor demonstrates the public character of his political authority when he appears in the company of his bodyguard, so Christ demonstrates the public character of his religio-political authority when he is accompanied by the bodyguard of the angels at holy Mass….[which is] public, official ecclesial and not a private processes.[3]

However,  we would minimize the significance of Peterson’s work by simply aligning him with some communitarian collectivist alternative to the State. Rather, his aims are clearly centered upon a greater recovery of the integral character of angelology and to “grasp clearly the role that the angels actually play in these ways of thinking” within the Tradition. For one, we see this in the intensely pregnant confluence of Peterson's theopolitical mysticism whereby his angelology mediates between the mystical and the liturgical, as the “mystical act of praise, as theologia” is “able to unfold only in inner linkage with the cult of the Church….which praises God with the angels and the whole of creation”. A proper angelology thereby facilitates this inner linkage, which is both profoundly cosmic, and yet entirely antithetical to attempts at naturalizing Christian faith. Instead, such angelic linkages aim to convey the dense realism and requisite worlding of claims within Fundamental Catholic approaches to the nature of Christian revelation. Again, not an immanent worlding that would contain such revelation, yet  as the eschatological tearing open of “God’s eternal world”  that acclaims O Heiland, reiß die Himmel auf. Hence, a proper understanding of the  angels not only act as the guarantor of the public nature of the Church's liturgical cultic actions that are beyond ideological capture, yet they do so precisely in attesting to the cosmic character of liturgical worship, without which humanity’s self-transcending praise would be solely self-reflexive:

The Church's worship is not that of a human religious society whose liturgy is tied to a temple. Rather, it is a worship that permeates the entire cosmos, in which sun, moon, and all the stars take part….It is always the entire cosmos that participates in the praise of God, though this is something that could not be conceived of had Christ's ascension not torn open heaven. The heaven of the angels is…the most central, the most spiritual part of the cosmos… the singing of the angels would never be permitted to disappear from the Church's worship, for that is what first gives the Church's praise the depth and transcendence that are called for by the character of Christian revelation.[4]

In short, the excessive, non-reductive character of our liturgical praise and its mystical, transcendent depths both exceeds political capture, while simultaneously providing the very same grounds for our necessary, continuing public involvement.  A proper angelology that facilitates these linkages by way of excess and porosity, thereby both resists the modern State’s continuing attempt to publically regulate and confine the Church as a private entity as well as helps her reenvision the Church’s innate public character in a distinctly ecclesial manner. Angelology is thus not a "poetic ornament left over from the storehouse of popular fables" for it stands for a porous ontological continuity, a transversal commercium between the metaphysical and the historical that likewise, by way of excess, ensures the ontological difference at the heart of the Church's pilgrimatic homelessness.

[1] See John Henry Newman, "The Powers of Nature", Sermons, vol. II, 358-9.

[2] Erik Peterson, "The Book on the Angels", Theological Tractates, (ed.) and (trans.) Michael J. Hollerich (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011) 135.

[3] ibid.

[4] Peterson, "The Book on the Angels",121-2.

The Politics of the Catacombs

By Jared Schumacher       This past week, renewed attention has been given to the so-called “Catacombs Pact”, an agreement signed by a coterie of bishops in the closing days of the Second Vatican Council. As this year marks the 50th anniversary of the Council’s closure, renewed focus on the Pact makes sense. What is more, the content of the Pact also seems ripe for reconsideration given that its central emphases are in line with Pope Francis’ overall tone and message that the Church be a “Church that is poor, for the poor.”   

In many ways, the document itself is a laudable effort by shepherds of the Church to recover “the smell of their sheep”. Its paragraphs are rife with practical themes treated by the Council, including a renewed emphasis on episcopal collegiality, more focus on lay activity in the vital ministries of the Church, and a rejection of material waste and ostentation in the Church’s life and mission.

Indeed, the Pact goes further than the Council in a few key respects. It calls for a personal renunciation of both honorific titles and personal property by the signees, even the personal resignation of “everything that may appear as a concession of privilege, prominence, or even preference to the wealthy and powerful.” These principles of the Pact thus stand at the hyperbolic vanguard of what later liberation theologians have called “the preferential option for the poor”, now officially part of Catholic social teaching (c.f. Compendium of Social Doctrine of the Church, §182).

In general, the Pact was emblematic of the time in which it was pledged, where leaders in the Church were seeking to find fresh and faithful ways of making a difference in the world in imitation of the poverty of Christ and the early Church.

The economical and political relevance of the Pact for today

Fifty years have now passed, with the Pact largely lost to history. Few ever knew of its existence, let alone felt its influence. It has recently been brought back into the light of day thanks in part to a documentary produced in 2012 and recent traction from theological observers keen to relate the content of the document with Pope Francis’ view of the Church’s mission.

Take as an example this recent articulation of the Pact’s import. David Gibbons argues for the significance of the Pact as a call for the Church to resist the excesses of capitalism and the “income inequality and economic injustice” it tends to promote. His argument for semblance between Pact and Pope is strong, given that Francis’ most recent encyclical, Laudato Si’, focuses heavily on the “throwaway culture” of market capitalism and its devastating social and environmental effects, one of which is economic inequality.

But more than a document concerning economic justice, the Pact contains political elements as well. Though he does not mention it directly, Gibbons is sensitive to this political register when citing the words of Brother Uwe Heisterhoff––one of the administrators of the Domitilla catacombs where the Pact was signed––to critique “conservative apologists” who would use the catacombs as a rallying image to maintain political power. In his view, rather, the catacombs represent “a Church without [political] power”, given the Church’s history of secret services in the catacombs in times of political disfavor.

Such politically contentious readings of the Pact find support in one particular paragraph which suggests that it is as much a political call to arms as it is a pastoral call to economic action. As I do research in political theology, it quite naturally caught my eye. It reads:

We will do everything possible so that those responsible for our governments and our public services establish and enforce the laws, social structures, and institutions that are necessary for justice, equality, and the integral, harmonious development of the whole person and of all persons, and thus for the advent of a new social order, worthy of the children of God. See Acts 2,44-45; 4,32- 35; 5,4; 2 Corinthians 8 and 9; 1 Timothy 5,16.

How to (not) read the Pact politically

At one level, this passage can be read as a call to the practical exercise of Christian charity and justice in all aspects of life, even the political. It resembles that ancient type of Christian speech professed by the martyrs, i.e. speaking truth to power. Viewed in this light, it stands on a well-grounded tradition of Catholic social thought. However, closer scrutiny of the passage demonstrates its ambiguities and problems. Two appear most prominent. The first is the extremity of the language used, particularly at the beginning. “We will do everything possible….” It might seem obvious that Machiavellian political options would be off the table for the episcopal signees, and yet the lack of qualification is equally apparent. Not “everything in our God-given power”, not “everything Jesus would do”, not “everything justice calls for”, but “everything possible.” Would supporting an armed insurrection against an ‘unjust’ regime be fair game for the document’s signees? From the text alone that option would be difficult to discount.

[The extremity of the language used is problematic in other parts of document as well, c.f. the already cited “everything that may appear as a concession of privilege, prominence, or even preference to the wealthy and powerful.” It is not difficult to imagine how a radical interpretation of that language could lead to some troubling outcomes.]

The second concern I have with the phrasing of the passage is the immediacy with which actions on behalf of charity and justice are linked with “the advent of a new social order.” Biblical scholars have long noted a change in biblical eschatology, from “imminent return” beliefs of the early biblical authors to a more balanced “delayed parousia” position of the later biblical writers. That arc can be traced on Christian theology as a whole, where immediate eschatological expectation is moderated by a call to patient suffering in the time between times. The problem I have with the language of the Pact is that it can be read against this trend of theological moderation, favoring a radicalized eschatological reading of present political realities.

Moreover, the shift to immediacy is couched within language which assumes that the political apparatus of the State is the instrument responsible for ushering in the Kingdom of God. This assumption leaves far behind the balanced considerations of St. Augustine, whose line of demarcation between the City of God and the City of Man saved Christianity from the political ruin of Rome. Any of those seeking in the Catacombs Pact a political ideology do well to remember the history of the Church and the dangers of confusing any earthly polis with the New Jerusalem of Christian expectation. While it is the Church’s mission to begin forming people in the habits of upright citizenship, that citizenship––until the eschaton––remains in heaven (Phil. 3:20). As a result, Christians are to remain political pilgrims on earth, putting their trust in Christ and not political ideologies.

It is not irrelevant to this final point that the Compendium of Catholic Social Doctrine follows its seminal paragraph on the preferential option for the poor with a paragraph noting the dangers of ideological messianisms (§183). One of the reasons Gibbons notes that the Pact initially failed to garner larger influence was that “it had the odor of communism”; given the ambiguity of this pivotal passage, it is not difficult to see why many might think so.

Surgeons, not revolutionaries

In summation, given both the frequency today with which a call for economic justice is easily captured in political narratives of left v. right, liberal v. conservative, and given the ambiguities internal to the document itself, there is a danger in reading the Pact––which was only ever intended as a voluntary personal profession of pastoral solidarity––as a theo-political program, an affirmation of statist secularism accompanied by an ecclesiology in which the Church is no longer “the people of God”, but a social service organization or advocacy group. Such a reading would do violence to the positive potential of the Pact and to the nature of the Church affirmed at the Second Vatican Council in Lumen Gentium.   

If the Church is truly going to be “the field hospital” of the world, as Pope Francis rightly declares it to be, this means that it cannot be a combatant in merely political conflicts. As field medics know well, picking up a gun turns the red cross on their helmets into a bullseye. The doctors of the Church serve a higher purpose than ensuring which side wins in a political contest of wills. The Church’s calling is to wash the bodies of political victims indiscriminately, while sharing with all the discriminating message of truth: one has already come to show us a way beyond political tumult, and he will come again to bring a Kingdom of Peace not of this world.

The Church does not have much at stake in whether Democrats or Republicans or Whigs or Tories or Labour parties win an election cycle. For the Church’s war is “not against flesh and blood, but against the spiritual powers and principalities of this present darkness” (Eph 6:12). This does not mean that the Church withdraws from the world or its vast array of sufferings. It rather recognizes that the Church’s fundamental mission is to drop the sword and pick up the scalpel. It is easy to confuse the two, but the differences are vast.

In order to honor the positive message of the Catacombs Pact, the Church must follow the lead of its signees in getting its hands dirty; but it must also remember the danger of confusing the blood on the surgeon’s hands with the blood on the revolutionary’s. For the Church follows the Son of the Father named Jesus Christ, not the political radical Bar-abbas.