The two-year debate over “The Challenge of Peace” did bring to public attention a previously obscure former U.S. Navy chaplain who would become one of John Paul II’s bolder episcopal appointments. Bishop John J. O’Connor was auxiliary bishop of what was then called the Military Ordinariate, the “diocese” of U.S. military and diplomatic personnel, when he was appointed to the committee drafting TCOP. In May 1983, O’Connor was named bishop of Scranton, Pennsylvania. The man whom Jeane J. Kirkpatrick once described as the brightest student she had ever had took Scranton by storm and was named the city’s “Man of the Year” six months after his arrival.
On October 9, 1983, Cardinal Terence Cooke of New York died after a protracted, heroic, and, by many accounts, saintly struggle with leukemia. Although the Catholic Church in the United States has, technically, no primatial see, New York is undoubtedly one of the two or three most important archdioceses, if not the most important archdiocese, in the United States. Given its position at the center of international communications and finance, New York also looms large in international Catholic affairs. John Paul evidently wanted an archbishop of New York who could take advantage of its bully pulpit and bring a more assertive, culture-challenging voice to the American Catholic scene. Passing over a triad of candidates who reflected the comfortable and, by some reckonings, ingrown mainstream of the U.S. Bishops’ Conference, he pulled Bishop O’Connor out of Scranton after less than nine months and, on January 26, 1984, named him archbishop of New York. There, O’Connor quickly emerged as a powerful defender of the Catholic claim to a place for the Church’s moral teaching in American public life. The new archbishop also revitalized the pro-life cause in American Catholicism at a point at which some bishops were inclined, by exhaustion or conviction, to move the defense of the right to life of the unborn from the front of their public policy agenda.
Shortly after his appointment to New York, O’Connor was in Rome and went to see the Pope. “Welcome,” John Paul said, “to the archbishop of the capital of the world!”93
INTELLECTUALS
In August 1983, John Paul II began a biennial series of summer humanities seminars at Castel Gandolfo. Unique in the annals of the modern papacy, these seminars brought Christian, Jewish, agnostic, and atheistic philosophers, historians, and other scholars into conversation with the Pope, for whom serious intellectual exchange remained a passion.
The Castel Gandolfo seminars were a Roman variant on the discussions with academics that Father Józef Tischner organized and Cardinal Wojtyła hosted at his residence in Kraków. During the latter years of these meetings, Wojtyła met Krzysztof Michalski, a doctoral graduate of the Jagiellonian University who was then an adjunct professor of philosophy at the University of Warsaw. In 1981, shortly before the Bydgoszcz crisis, Michalski and Tischner were in Rome and Michalski broached the idea of a new institute that would bring Polish scholars together with their Western counterparts. The Pope was interested, in part because he sensed that difficulties were on the horizon in Poland and he wanted Polish intellectuals to have an outlet to the West. With the Pope’s endorsement of the idea and a letter of introduction from Cardinal Casaroli, Michalski and Tischner went to Vienna to discuss the plan with Cardinal Franz König, whose first question was, “Who’s going to pay for this?” The Viennese cardinal soon rose to the occasion and the Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen [IWM], the Institute for Human Sciences, was launched prior to the imposition of martial law in Poland. After the “state of war” was declared, Michalski stayed in Vienna to run the institute while Father Tischner lived in Poland and came to Vienna as circumstances permitted. From the outset, and with John Paul’s approval, IWM was intended to be an independent scholarly institution—not explicitly Roman Catholic, neither left nor right politically, a place where serious research and debate could take place on the future of the humanities and their relationship to the free society.
The first Castel Gandolfo conversations organized by IWM were held in August 1983 on the topic, “Man in the Modern Sciences.” The participants included such intellectual luminaries as philosophers Hans-Georg Gadamer, Charles Taylor, and Emmanuel Lévinas, legal scholar Ernst-Wolfgang Böckenförde, physicist Carl-Friedrich von Weizsäcker, the German theologians Gerhard Ebeling (Lutheran) and Johannes Metz (Roman Catholic), in addition to Tischner, Michalski, and others. Each participant presented a paper, which was discussed by the group in a meeting room or on a balcony overlooking Lake Albano, with the Pope listening but rarely interrupting. Meals were organized according to language groups, with polyglot John Paul switching from group to group at different lunches and dinners. At the end of the papers and discussions, John Paul II offered a personal summary of the conversation and then commented on its implications.
John Paul had known Emmanuel Lévinas, the French Jewish philosopher of dialogue and intellectual heir of Martin Buber, prior to being elected Pope, and had a great respect for his work. For his part, Lévinas, who had yet to meet John Paul as Pope, wondered how he would be received. John Paul took Lévinas by the hand, and said, “Thank you for wanting to meet with me.” The Frenchman was so floored that he was speechless until lunch—when he then asked the Pope what he was doing meeting with Palestinian leader Yassir Arafat.94 John Paul, for his part, was not above joking with his illustrious guests. A group photograph was to be taken at the end of the seminar. Father Metz, whose controversial “political theology” was widely regarded as one of the inspirations of Latin American liberation theology, was among those shuffling around, not wanting to seem to be pushing themselves closer to the Pope, in the line-up for the photo. John Paul spotted Metz and called out, “You, Metz, a little closer to the Pope!”—at which everyone laughed, including Metz, who did what he was told.95
IWM continued to organize the Castel Gandolfo conversations throughout the pontificate. The roster of intellectuals involved was primarily middle European in origin and intellectual temperament, and the general seminar topics and papers reflected dominantly European (and particularly German-oriented) intellectual problems, interests, and preoccupations. Father Tischner once commented on a curious feature of the seminars. It was easier, he said, to invite nonbelievers than Catholics, since the intellectual factionalism in the Church had become so ingrained that if someone from a particular camp were invited, others would be angry.96
Despite some limits on their intellectual range, the Castel Gandolfo conversations became one of the trademarks of the papacy of John Paul II. Like his May 1982 creation of the Pontifical Council for Culture as a permanent office of the Roman Curia, the seminars reflected not only his personal interest in the life of the mind, but his conviction that serious intellectual dialogue was crucial to the reconstruction of a genuine humanism for the twenty-first century, and his commitment as Pope to doing something about that.97
The Jesuit General Congregation
If John Paul was successful in opening and sustaining a dialogue with some of the Western world’s most prominent intellectuals, he was far less successful in applying papal shock therapy to the Society of Jesus, which had been, historically, one of the Church’s most intellectually assertive religious communities.
The papal intervention in the internal governance of the Society in October 1981 had not been followed by open revolt, as some expected. Numerous Jesuits wrote John Paul, individually or in groups, to express their dissatisfaction. One group of seventeen, including the eminent German theologian Karl Rahner, wrote that they accepted the Pope’s decision, but since he was now acting as their superior, they felt free to tell him that they “could not see the finger of God” in his intervention.98 Some months afterward, John Paul told his delegate, Father Paolo Dezza, that he admired the way the Jesuits had reacted to his decision.
Until Father Pittau arrived from Japan in late November 1981, Father O’Keefe, the former vicar general, continued, at Father Dezza’s bidding, to do exactly what he had been doing before the papal intervention, including running various mee
tings for the papal delegate, who was eighty and almost completely blind. Father Arrupe’s four general assistants remained at the Jesuit generalate, and it was they who suggested to Dezza and Pittau that the Jesuit provincials from around the world be called to Rome so that the delegate and his deputy could tell them what the Pope’s concerns and hopes were. Dezza and Pittau agreed and met with the eighty-six provincials at Villa Cavaletti outside Rome in February 1982. The entire group then had an audience with John Paul in the Vatican on February 27.
The Pope’s lengthy address was devoted primarily to praise for the Society’s distinguished history and its intellectual, missionary, theological, and pastoral apostolates. Brief mention was made of the importance of an “exact interpretation” of Vatican II, of a distinctively priestly engagement with the quest for justice, and of a rigorous “spiritual, doctrinal, disciplinary, and pastoral” formation for aspiring Jesuits. As if to further underscore his confidence in the Society, John Paul asked them to take up with even greater urgency four tasks: ecumenism, inter-religious dialogue, dialogue with atheists, and the promotion of justice. At the end of the address, the Pope indicated that, if things continued the way they had been going, it would “be possible to convoke the General Congregation within this year.”99
The address was interpreted by those most opposed to the papal intervention in the Society’s governance as a virtual apology for what had taken place a mere four months earlier.100 Fathers Dezza and Pittau evidently continued to assure John Paul and the relevant curial officials that the papally imposed period of reflection was going as hoped, for on December 8, 1982, with the Pope’s approval, Dezza convoked a General Congregation, the 33rd in the Society’s history, for September 2, 1983. John Paul concelebrated the opening Mass of the Congregation with more than 200 delegates. His homily asked that the delegates keep in mind the influence that the Society had on other religious, on priests, and on the laity—“What you do often has some reverberations that you do not suspect.”101
The Congregation wasted no time in electing a new Father General. The delegates clearly understood that to elect one of Arrupe’s general assistants would have been interpreted as a direct slap at the Pope. On the other hand, they were determined not to elect anyone who might have been identified as the Pope’s candidate—for example, Father Pittau or Father Roberto Tucci. Father Dezza was obviously impossible because of age. After four days of internal discussions the delegates had reached agreement, and on the first ballot, in forty-five minutes, elected Father Pieter-Hans Kolvenbach, a Dutchman who had spent much of his life in Beirut and had been rector of the Pontifical Oriental Institute in Rome for the past two years. In filling the posts immediately under the General, the delegates consistently rejected Father Pittau, who before his appointment as deputy to Father Dezza had been a widely respected figure in the Society. The delegates, in other words, were determined to assert their independence, but to do so in a way that would not immediately provoke further anxiety in the Curia or risk another papal intervention.
Pittau, for his part, believes that the papal intervention had the desired effect: greater humility, a willingness to listen to each other more carefully, a relearning of the fundamental characteristics of the Society, a better dialogue with bishops around the world.102 Father Tucci agrees that the intervention was successful, although he concedes that “Dezza did not change the Order very much.” What did change, thanks to Dezza’s old connections and diplomatic skills, was the quality of relations between the Curia and the Society. Dezza may also have been able to suggest to concerned Curialists that the concerns about the Society under Father Arrupe had been exaggerated.103
Father Dezza once told Father Tucci that John Paul II had “many hesitations” about allowing Dezza to convoke the 33rd General Congregation, but permitted it because he trusted Dezza’s opinion that the message intended by the October 1981 intervention had been received and accepted.104 Father Dezza may indeed have believed that to be the case; subsequent events suggest that his view was too sanguine.
Father Kolvenbach, a man of deep piety, would not prove to be an assertive General—which was, one assumes, no disappointment to the delegates who elected him so quickly. Jesuit training continued along many of the same lines that had raised earlier concerns. Jesuit involvement in partisan political activity in various Latin American venues also continued. Jesuit theologians would, over the years, be at the forefront of various efforts to “inculturate” Catholic doctrine and worship in Asian societies in ways that seemed to some to deny that Jesus Christ was the sole, unique savior of the world. Jesuit universities in the United States continued to weaken their once-distinctive core curriculum and their Catholic identity. The oldest of them, Georgetown, engaged in a lengthy controversy over whether crucifixes in its classrooms violated the university’s commitment to pluralism. The Society continued to diminish in numbers, while other religious orders more attuned to John Paul II’s vision of the priesthood and religious life grew.105 If serious change in the direction of Jesuit life and ministry was the purpose of John Paul II’s 1981 intervention, it is not easy to see how the intervention can be rated a success.
Among those who applauded the initial intervention, there are critics who claim that the entire story exemplifies one dimension of the pontificate of John Paul II—a failure to complete bold initiatives with sufficient disciplinary follow-through. A more plausible explanation is that John Paul’s fault, if one wishes to describe it as such, is to project his own virtues onto others. The intervention in October 1981 was aimed at creating a period of reflection in which the Society of Jesus could look again at the Second Vatican Council, and at John Paul’s pontificate as an effort to secure the Council’s authentic teaching in the life of the Church. That seems to have been what the Pope, projecting his own spirit of obedience onto men who had taken a special vow of obedience to the Bishop of Rome, hoped for.
That hope did not take sufficient account of the degree of anti-Roman animus that had built up in the Society, nor the fact that the levers of power at the 33rd General Congregation remained in the hands of the legatees of the Arrupe-O’Keefe years. The Jesuits had indeed learned some things during Father Dezza’s delegacy, but the learning seemed to have had more to do with repairing broken lines of communication between the Roman Curia and the Jesuit generalate than with such matters of substance as training, theology, social activism, and way of life.
The Jesuit intervention and its aftermath, set against John Paul II’s cordial relationship with new renewal movements of priests like the Legionaries of Christ, also suggests that the Pope conceived his role vis-à-vis Catholic religious communities more as a matter of nurturing and encouraging those who were self-consciously orthodox and loyal to the Church’s teaching than of disciplining dissidents and bringing them to heel. This is, in part, a reflection of his respect for the freedom of others. It is also an expression of his calm confidence that the authentic spirit of Vatican II will win out over time, because it is far more compelling—indeed, far more radical—than the inadequate or false interpretations that had led to, among other things, the crisis of the Jesuits in the 1970s.
LIBERATION AND REDEMPTION
Karol Wojtyła’s lifelong interest in anniversaries and jubilee years derives from his conviction that God’s action in history has sanctified time.106 For Christians, time is not mere chronology; time is the dramatic arena that God chose to enter for the salvation of the world. Anniversaries and jubilees are occasions to bring the depth dimension of history to the surface of Christian consciousness.
According to traditional dating, the 1983–1984 Holy Year of the Redemption marked the 1,950th anniversary of the turning point in world history, the redeeming death of Jesus Christ.107 Celebrating the anniversary of humanity’s redemption was a good in itself. This particular Holy Year was also intended to set human liberation in its proper theological and religious context.
The custom of a jubilee year of pilgrimage to Rome began w
ith Pope Boniface VIII in 1300. By the Renaissance, the practice of holding a special “Holy Year” every quarter-century had become established. Holy Years were held every twenty-five years from 1450 until 1800, when the sequence was broken by the turmoil of the French Revolution and its effects in Europe. The only Holy Year of the nineteenth century was held in 1825. Ninety-year-old Leo XIII revived the custom in 1900 (and reminisced about having attended the Roman celebrations in 1825). Pius XI held a Holy Year in 1933, to mark the 1,900th anniversary of the death of Christ—the precedent invoked by John Paul II in calling a Holy Year for 1983–1984.
The traditional Holy Year pilgrimage to Rome was built around the city’s four patriarchal basilicas (St. Peter’s, St. Mary Major, St. John Lateran, and St. Paul Outside the Walls), each of which has a special “holy door” that is opened only during the Holy Year and is the pilgrims’ portal to the basilica.108 In striking contrast to other Holy Years, John Paul wanted this Holy Year of the Redemption to be a universal celebration, and asked every diocese in the world to appoint a jubilee church with its own holy door to which pilgrims could come, and which would enjoy the same status as the Roman basilicas. John Paul also extended the reach of the Holy Year in Rome itself, so that pilgrims could satisfy the customary requirements by visiting the catacombs or the Church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme (the Church of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem, near the Lateran basilica), instead of the patriarchal basilicas.
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