On the Pope

Have you caught it? Pope fever? It’s been a month since Pope Benedict XVI announced his resignation, eleven days since he left St. Peter’s. Stories have swirled about what this resignation means, what Benedict’s legacy is and will be, what future popes will do when they feel unable to carry out the duties of the papal office, who the papabili are, the pros and cons of each “candidate,” top agenda items for the next pope. Facts and fabrications, likelihoods and slim chances. We have the opportunity to lose ourselves in the razzmatazz of it all.

I’ve been wanting to write about the resignation myself, but I’m having a hard time doing so. Catholic though I am, I am not well versed in papal language. I don’t know the cardinals, the group of men from whom the next pope will be chosen. There are some people who can tell you exactly who they are, what they’re known for, what their faults are, how they might be as pope. I, however, am woefully ignorant about such things.

What I do know is that I find myself with rather mixed feelings about the papacy these days.

When John Paul II died, I was excited for something new, something fresh. A conclave! A new pope! My roommate and I left the television on day and night after John Paul II died. I distinctly recall being in our dorm room between classes, alone, when Benedict walked out onto the balcony as our newly elected pope. I cried. I was disappointed and angry, and I cried. I grabbed my backpack, stalked out of the room, and made my way to class amid students who were jumping with joy that God’s Rottweiler had been elected. I thought it was the end of the church as I knew it.

So imagine my surprise when the church didn’t end. A couple of years later, I found myself reading Cardinal Ratzinger’s Eschatology for my comprehensive exams here at Saint John’s. I enjoyed that book immensely. The writing was beautiful. Ratzinger’s theology on life after death, grieving, the end—all of it moved me more than I could have imagined. And so, I thought, maybe he’s not that bad.

Benedict XVI had his faults. He made some questionable decisions about the liturgy. His support of the investigation into American women’s religious communities was hurtful (to put it mildly). His handling of the sexual abuse crisis was disgraceful. He was not a pope who fixed. If anything, it could be argued that he was a pope who divided. 

And so, again, imagine my surprise when, as I watched this pope take leave of the Vatican, I cried. But this time they were not tears of anger or disappointment. They weren’t even tears of sadness, I don’t think. Truly, I’m not sure what they were about. We Catholics are an odd bunch. I’ve never been much of a papal fan, but for some reason as I watched Benedict process to the car waiting for him I was moved to respect this man, to recognize the bigness of the decision he had made.

One of my difficulties in writing about Pope Benedict’s resignation is that I fear I’m going to wade into some murky doctrinal waters with what I’m about to say. But as I’ve read articles and listened to conversations about this historical thing, I keep coming back to Jesus’ humanity. 

In his Rule, St. Benedict says that the abbot “is believed to hold the place of Christ in the monastery.” He is the shepherd of the members in their spiritual and material lives. The abbot guides, teaches, leads, disciplines, and loves the members of the community. Our popes would do well to read chapter 2 of Benedict’s Rule when they are elected, and perhaps every day until they die (or retire). The pope represents Christ; he isn’t Christ, of course, but he shows us what it means to follow in Christ’s footsteps. 

It tends to be a lot easier to speak of Christ’s divinity than of his humanity. We think the divinity is tidier, prettier, snazzier. I am a lover of John’s gospel, and John the Evangelist is known for having a very high Christology. Jesus knew everything. Nothing surprised him. His friend was dying and his immediate response was to use this death for the glory of God, not to rush to his side to offer comfort. It makes for a nice story, what with the raising of Lazarus from the dead and all, but we know that this friend’s sisters were not very pleased. Who among us in the throes of grief are much concerned with the glory of God? Jesus, apparently.

But we can’t have a high Christology all the time. Jesus wasn’t performing miracles all the time. He was a baby who needed to be fed from Mary’s breast, just was we were fed by our mothers when we were born. Jesus played and laughed and learned. He raised Lazarus from the dead, yes, but he also wept before he did so. He hung on a cross to die. He was humbled. 

What does that mean for us? What does that look like for us?

As I’ve contemplated Pope Benedict’s decision to resign, I’ve thought that maybe he’s showing, in some small way, what it means to accept limitations as a human being. He held the place of Christ as pope. Maybe as pope emeritus he’s showing us something of what it means to hold the place of Jesus, which, if we’re honest, is what we’re all called to do. 

I’m not ready to put Benedict XVI in the sainthood category just yet, and I’d be surprised if that were to happen anytime soon. This resignation has thrown everyone for a loop. Can we saint a guy who quit? And yet, since we surely won’t saint him for his handling of sexual abuse scandals, or treatment of women, or justice for gays and lesbians, maybe we can respect him for forcing us to confront our own limitations, our own humanity and, therefore, our own divinity in Christ.