Humility and the papacy

One more time, we are invited to think about “humility,”

The question raised often during this most recent papacy has been: What does it mean to be “humble?”

From the old Catholic Encyclopedia:

The virtue of humility may be defined: “A quality by which a person considering his own defects has a lowly opinion of himself and willingly submits himself to God and to others for God’s sake.” St. Bernard defines it: “A virtue by which a man knowing himself as he truly is, abases himself.” These definitions coincide with that given by St. Thomas: “The virtue of humility”, he says, “Consists in keeping oneself within one’s own bounds, not reaching out to things above one, but submitting to one’s superior.”

Willingly submits himself to God and to others for God’s sake.

The death of Pope Francis, and particularly his funeral, sheds more light on this, I think.

Face it: when a pope dies, the world is going to come.

They’re going to come from all over the world, they’re going to come from all walks of life. They’re going to come for all sorts of reasons, from curiosity to grief.

When a pope dies, the world is going to come, and its leaders are going to come, leaders of countries at peace, at war, in a state of hot or cold friction, as is the way of the world. But they’re going to come.

And the world is going to pay attention to the death of a pope. And it is going to be a big deal.

A portion of that interest is rooted in affection for a particular individual pope. But the foundational energy is not. That energy is drawn to Rome because of what Rome is and who the pope–any pope–is.

The attention is an acknowledgment of Jesus Christ and his living presence on earth, the Church. It’s an interest–perhaps inchoate, perhaps even unconscious–in the message and purpose of this living Body of Christ.

And, it’s not hard to see, an openness to that reality. An openness grounded in part in the fact that this is, in fact, a big deal.

The question lingers: Why is it a big deal?

Only because of the particular identity of the person in the coffin? Or something else?

When I went to Rome for the first time in 2005, I wasn’t a particular Pope Benedict devotee. A few years into his papacy, I admired him, but I had not yet done the deep dive into his writings that I would a bit later. Also,am I am generally a complete cynic about church structure and leadership, a student of history and ecclesiastical politics, so when it came time for the General Audience, I was sure that it would not be a big deal to me.

Narrator: It was a big deal.

It was really nothing, from the outside. No direct contact, not even eye contact. I had a baby on my hip, but as the Popemobile passed, I was immediately overwhelmed by the realization: It’s the Pope. In Rome. Where Peter was. And, 2000 years later, here we are. Still.

The question is, then, what to do with that?

It’s the same question, in a way, that any teacher faces. You are, say, a history professor, and you know that some in your class will be there out of obligation, others will have a mild interest, and a few might have the potential of being as passionate as you are.

What do you do with that moment?

Do you turn that potential interest into an opportunity to elevate yourself and draw your students’ interest to you as a person, as a guru, or do you try to guide them into the fascinating deeps of the subject at hand? Will you resist the temptation to be Miss Jean Brodie?

The world looks to Rome, whether it wants to or not. The world sees Catholicism as the default Christianity, whether it wants to or not. The Pope holds the oldest continuing public office in the world.

What do you do with that moment?

The point is: the papacy is a gift, a part, an office. A man is given and accepts that office.  And when he dies, the world will come, as I said, partly to pay homage to the man, but mostly because the office and the Body that office serves, which means the Lord that office serves.

And the more you center that moment on the individual qualities or desires of the individual holding the office, the temptation grows to focus less on Christ.

For that is the purpose of all the ceremony, symbolism, and ritual. It is  “designed”—in its organic, twisty way over the centuries— to turn our mind to the thing symbolized—in this case, Jesus Christ and his Body through space and time—the Church. As well as the kind of life he calls each of his disciples to and, finally, the purpose of Creation itself, rooted in God, fallen, called to re-creation in Christ and the hope of life eternal with Him.

They are going to come. And they did come. From all over the world, from all walks of life. Global leaders of countries at war, cold or hot, or at least in the normal way of nations, which is a continual state of friction, came.

And yes, the personality of the deceased, the particular attraction he held, will draw some.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter who the pope is—when the pope dies, everyone will come.

So here, it seems to me, is the lesson in humility—for future popes, for all church leaders at every level of ministry, for every Christian who seeks to grow in the virtue of humility: To know that the temptation to make idols is always present in human life: to honor the one who has brought us closer to Christ and then to simply stop there—and to do everything we can, as we serve, to help others resist that temptation.

The question of a papal death and a funeral, it seems to me, poses a particularly interesting angle to this. I am going to die. Millions–in fact, the eyes of much of the world will be on my funeral. They will be watching and listening.

What should they see and hear about life and death?

What opportunity does this moment provide?

The “regal” aspect of the papacy, from election to death, should, ideally, serve to bury, as it were, the individual in the role. Of course, given human pride, there’s always the possibility of this not…working in an ideal way. Any person in power will have to do battle, every day, against that power going to his or her head. That’s why, as I say often, in different contexts, it’s so important to recognize these temptations and tensions—to be honest about them, and not pretend that any quality or virtue—even humility—cannot be twisted into its opposite. To decide every day:

It’s not about me. So I’m going to do what I can to ensure that no one mistakenly thinks that it’s about me at all, and make sure that in this moment, whatever I do or effect turns eyes and hearts, not to me, but to Him.

When Paul and Barnabas heard this, they ran among the people. They tore their clothes and cried out, “Why are you doing this? We are only men with feelings like yours. We preach the Good News that you should turn from these empty things to the living God. He made the heavens and the earth and the sea and everything in them. Long ago He allowed all people to live the way they wanted to. Even then God did not leave you without something to see of Him. He did good. He gave you rain from heaven and much food. He made you happy.” Even with these words it was hard for Paul and Barnabas to keep the people from burning cattle in an act of worship to them.

(Editor’s note: This essay was posted originally at Charlotte Was Both in slightly different form and appears here with kind permission of the author.)