Pope Francis and the Traditionalist Opposition: Transcending Ideological Sides

Certainly by the close of 2023, a group of American Roman Catholic clerics, informally headed by Cardinal Raymond Burke (a traditionalist and legalist), were actively opposing Pope Francis. The problem for the members of the opposition faction was that, as traditionalists, they would take seriously the specific oath of obedience they had made to the pope and his successors. Lest such oaths be construed as only binding when they are convenient, which would effectively dissolve any binding, the traditionalist were at risk of being caught by their own hypocrisy. How to deal with such people? The pope had doubtless asked himself this very question on multiple occasions. How does enforcing the oath square with loving one’s detractors, even enemies? The American president Abraham Lincoln put his political rivals on his cabinet; should Pope Francis follow suit, or should he expunge his disloyal opposition and risk Burke’s charge of dictatorship? Does such a charge even make sense, however, given the oath of obedience? I submit that a Christian organization—any Christian organization—ought to be run not by the world’s methods, but according to a radically different kingdom, possible here and now, in the transformation of one’s own heart by serving, and even caring for, one’s detractors. Otherwise, a Christian organization is so in name only, and thus inherently hypocritical.

On November 11, 2023, Pope Francis removed Bishop Strickland from the office of Bishop of Tyler, Texas. The bishop had “been an outspoken critic of Pope Francis, challenging his leadership over social media and even daring Francis to fire him during an interview in 2020.”[1] To challenge the legitimacy of Pope Francis as head of the Roman Catholic Church is in direct conflict with the oath of obedience to whomever is the Vicar of Christ (i.e., the pope). Clearly, having “accused Francis of undermining the central teachings of the church, including on politically charged issues like abortion and same sex marriage,”[2] Strickland didn’t believe that the pope, or at least Pope Francis, stands as the Vicar of Christ to the Church. The bishop’s hypocrisy doesn’t end there. Along with the other American traditionalists, Strickland didn’t like Francis’ “focus on migrants and the climate crisis.”[3] Yet Strickland himself had been very ideological in posting anti-vaccine messages during the Covid pandemic and calling President Joe Biden an “evil president” over his support of abortion rights.”[4] To be sure, Francis’ choice of issues, including economic inequality and the environment, reflect a certain ideology, but the pope war right in his criticism of the American traditionalist clerics as too preoccupied with (human) ideology.

Both sides, and indeed even there being sides in this fight, could transcend ideology itself by letting go of all of the political issues and instead focusing on putting into practice what Jesus says and demonstrates in the Gospel narratives about how people should treat each other. Beyond neighbor love, and much more difficult, caring for opponents is how the Kingdom of God grows within and thus in the world, changing it fundamentally in the process, for faith without love is for naught, Paul wrote.

Although Pope Francis had “frequently turned the other cheek, going so far as to say he does not seek to crack down on opponents,” even appointing “to Vatican departments” people “who held different views than his own,” he decided that Cardinal Burke would “lose some of his privileges, reportedly including a subsidy for his 4,488-square-foot apartment and monthly stipend.”[5] Austen Ivereigh, a papal biographer, told CNN that while meeting the pope on November 27, 2023, “Francis told me he was taking away the apartment and salary of Cardinal Burke because he was using these privileges ‘against the church.’”[6] In what sense? “For so long, Cardinal Burke had been calling into question Francis’ authority and his teaching. This would be shocking in any organization, but particularly shocking in the Catholic Church, given the special role the papacy has in upholding unity,” Ivereigh said.[7]

I contend, however, that the pope should not only have resisted the temptation to take away his detractor’s privileges, but also could have been personally serving and caring for Burke on both a personal and a professional level. This does not mean agreeing with the Cardinal, or even promoting him to a cushy Vatican office; rather, it means going beyond the natural tendency to retaliate, and even less convenient route of turning the other cheek to actively love the Cardinal by caring for him as a human being, and in that way being a servant leader as Jesus is in the Gospel narratives. Doing nice things on a human level, such as volunteering to do some of his errands, like picking up dry cleaning for the Cardinal when he is busy, does not signal ideological agreement or capitulation. Rather, strength of the sort that Jesus evinces in the Gospels is shown. Not that there would be any publicity; the caring must be selfless. To be sure, this may be difficult, as we’re talking about a pope here, but perhaps he could have less visible people care for the Cardinal to make his life easier. In theological jargon, going beyond turning the other cheek to reach out to detractors and even enemies enables us to go beyond Augustine’s notion of caritas to the relatively selfless notion of agape.

Cardinal Burke also could have been acting in compassion for his ideological opponent. That the Cardinal too was a leader in the Church means that his efforts to help the pope personally would count as servant leadership. The matter of the oath of obedience would be transcended by selfless love operationalized as helping the older man with life’s challenges. What use is jousting over which ideological issues get the microphone of the Church if its very leaders are resentful and angry at each other and thus evince not Jesus’ way but that of the Romans and the Sanhedrin? If an organization can be characterized as being hypocritical, then what’s the point? Hasn’t the institution already lost? 

Lest it be concluded that such a response would only encourage more dissent, it might, but the things being fought over would be relativized—transcended as the Church goes from ideological agendas to focus on something deeper: ultimately, the spiritual feeling that God is present in a very curious way in interpersonal relations run contrary to egos. Hopefully, eventually such love that is not at all convenient, if earnest and sincere, would seep into the fabric of the institution and transform it into something that Jesus would recognize. Gradually, the focus would shift from political ideological agendas on both sides to behaving as Jesus advocates in the Gospel. This would be the focus. A spiritual experience in interpersonal relations would be increasingly felt and even valued and thus the movement would gain traction. The Kingdom of God would be growing as if from a mustard seed. Although hopefully not motivated to serve as a model, the pope’s change of course could rub off on local bishops and parish priests around the globe, as they start to help out those parishioners and employees who have been “pains in the ass.” It is easy to care for, and in this sense serve, friends; it is not easy to enter the Kingdom of God, as it is antithetical to the ways of the world. People who would view Francis as strong for caring for Burke are the authentic Christians, whereas even believers in Jesus who infer weakness and even capitulation on Francis’ part are not Christian. This is admittedly a different litmus test than the one that has enjoyed hegemony throughout the history of Christianity, and the two can lead to different verdicts concerning the same person.

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1, Raja Razek, “Pope Removes Outspoken Conservative Texas Bishop after Investigation,” CNN.com, November 11, 2023.
2, Christopher Lamb, “Pope Francis Takes on Unprecedented Attacks from American Opponents,” CNN.com, December 13, 2023.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.

Mary Magdalene: On the Kingdom of God

In the film, Mary Magdalene (2018), Mary Magdalene and the other disciples have two different interpretations of the Kingdom of God; these may be called the interior and the eschatological, respectively. The Kingdom of God is within, already and not yet fully realized, or not yet at all, as it will be ushered in by Christ in the Second Coming, which is yet to come. The film’s point of view is decidedly with Mary’s interior interpretation and against Peter’s revolutionary (i.e., against Roman oppression) eschatological take. After both sides fail to convince the other, Peter sidelines Mary in part also because of her gender, so she decides to preach and help people on her own. That the film does not portray Jesus and Mary as romantically involved is a smart move, for it sidelines a controversy that would otherwise distract the viewers from focusing on the question of the nature of the Kingdom of God. This focus is long overdue in Christianity, and is important because only one of the two interpretations—the eschatological—has dominated historically. The film is valuable theologically in that it gives the minority position—Mary’s interior interpretation—a voice. To be sure, Mary Magdalene is a controversial figure, so the choice of that character as a mouthpiece in the film for the minority theological position on the Kingdom is daring and not without its drawbacks. For one thing, she is a woman in a man’s world in the film. Outside of the film, in real life, a medieval pope denigrated her by erroneously identifying her as the prostitute in the Bible, and her reputation had to wait until the twentieth century for the Vatican to correct the error and label her as the Apostle to the Apostles. Finally, there is the Gnostic gospel, The Gospel of Philip, in which Jesus kisses her and the male disciples ask, “Why do you love her more than us?” That jealousy is present in the film, and plays a role in the dispute between Mary and Peter on the nature of the Kingdom. So, returning to the film, having her as the mouthpiece for a minority position that has not seen much light of day historically in Christianity puts the credibility of the interpretation at risk. Accordingly, it may not have much impact in shifting the emphasis away from the eschatological Kingdom in the religion, given the tremendous gravitas that any historical default enjoys.

The full essay is at "Mary Magdalene."

The Exorcist Extrapolated: Ministering to the Devil as "Love Thy Enemies."

One of the most iconic films of the horror-film genre, The Exorcist (1973) focuses on the duality of good and evil that the film’s director, William Friedkin, maintained is in a constant struggle in all of us. The dialogue between the two priests performing the exorcism on the one side and the Devil possessing Regan on the other not only reveal the duality, but also the essence of evil itself. Once this essence is grasped, interesting questions can be asked that are distinctly theological, as distinct from modernity’s trope of evil portrayed in terms of, and even reduced to, supernatural movements of physical objects. The decadent materialist version of the theological domain stems from modernity’s bias in favor of materialism and empiricism. In other words, highlighting supernatural physics as being foremost in representing the religious realm is how secularity sidelines religion, rather than how religion itself is. The bias of modern society is very clear in the film as the “professionals” go through alternative explanations first from the field of medicine, privileging the somatic (physical) and then the psychological domains of medicine. In other words, the narrative establishes (or reflects) a hierarchy of three qualitatively different levels of descending validity: the somatic is primary, and only then the psychological, and, if the first two do not furnish an explanation, then, and only then, are we to turn to the theological as metaphysically (i.e., supernaturally) real primarily shown by physical objects defying the laws of physics. Science, rather than religion, is thus still in the driver’s seat. The bias in favor of materialism is in the assumption that only after feasible hypotheses from modern medicine are nullified can theological explanations be considered (as credible). In this way, the film reflects the hegemony of materialism that has taken hold since the Enlightenment, and the relegation of the theological as “magical” supernaturalism, as in a bed levitating of objects flying around Regan’s bedroom. The essence of evil is instead interior. If religion is a matter of the heart, then how could evil be otherwise?

The full essay is at "The Exorcist."

Exposing Yale’s Sordid Side: “The Inner Ring” by C. S. Lewis

C. S. Lewis aptly describes in one published lecture the nature of a very human game, which is really about how soft power, which is often buttressed by institutional position, works in any human organization. To use Nietzsche’s expression (which Lewis would have hardly appreciated), the dynamics of an inner ring is human, all too human, and thus hardly an extractible part of the human condition. Yet it is much more salient, and arguably even dysfunctional, in just some organizations, especially those that have an elite reputation such as Yale, whose essence, we shall investigate here, might be exclusion even within the university community, such that some vulnerable members are told they are not really members (but that their donations are welcome).

The full essay is at "Exposing Yales Sordid Side."

Contending Christianities

The films Agora (2009) and Fatima (2020) contain very different depictions of Christianity. By depictions, I mean ways in which Christianity can be interpreted and lived. This is not to say that all of the interpretations are equally valid, for only those that contain internal contradictions evince hypocrisy. The sheer extent of the distance between the depictions shown in the two films demonstrates not only the huge extent of latitude that religious interpretation can have, but also just how easy it is even for self-identifying Christians, whether of the clergy or the laity, not only to fail to grasp Jesus’ teachings in the Gospels, but also to violate the two commandments even while believing that Jesus Christ is divine (i.e., the Son of God). The human mind, or brain, can have such stunning blind spots (or cognitive dissidence) when it comes to religion that even awareness of this systemic vulnerability and efforts to counter it are typically conveniently ignored or dismissed outright. This is nearly universal, in spite of claims of humility and fallibility more generally, so I contend that the human mind is blind to its own weakness or vulnerability in the religious sphere of thought, sentiment, and action. Augustine’s contention that revelation must pass through a smoky stained window before reaching us is lost on the religious among us who insist that their religious beliefs constitute knowledge. I contend that this fallacy as well as the larger vulnerability to hypocrisy should be a salient part both of Sunday School and adult religious education. For the vulnerability is correctable, but this probably requires ongoing vigilance. That is, the problem is not that the divine goes beyond the limits of human cognition (as well as perception and emotion) as Pseudodionysus pointed out to deaf ears in the 6^th century; the human brain is fully capable of spotting and countering its own lapses in the religious domain. In other words, the problem here is not that of the human mind being able to understand the contents of revelation because must travel through a darkened window before reaching us; rather, the problem lies in grasping what Jesus preaches in the Gospels and putting the spiritual principles into practice, rather than doing the opposite and being completely oblivious to the contradiction, which is otherwise known as cognitive dissidence. The two films provide us with the means both to grasp this problem and realize how much it differs from a healthy faith that has the innocence of a child’s wonder.

The full essay is at "Agora vs. Fatima."

Fatima: The Miracle of the Sun

The film, Fatima (2020), tells the story of the three Roman Catholic children in Fatima, Portugal, who in 2017 claimed to see and hear the Virgin Mary periodically over a period of 6 months. The film centers around Lucia, the oldest of the three children, and, moreover, the question of whether the children really encounter the Virgin, or are lying, hypnotic, or even psychotic. In the film, as well as in “real life,” a miracle is associated with the last visitation. In the story world of the film, the visitation really happens, and the multitudes watching the children come to believe this when the Virgin delivers on a miracle as promised. Historically, believers as well as nonbelievers who were present at the event have testified that the Sun moved around in the sky and even came closer. If this really happened as witnesses have described, then the empirical “proof” in the story world of the film is not the whole story, and the religious truth therein is not limited to the faith narrative, but holds in an empirical, supernatural sense. An implication is that Jesus not only resurrects in the Gospel stories, but also as an empirical event in history. But, then, why have such supernatural events been so rare since the “time” of Jesus?  And, yet, witnesses as far as 40 km away from the visitation of the Virgin reported seeing the miracle of the Sun.

The full essay is at: "Fatima"

On the Infallibility of the Pope: The Assumption of Mary

What does it mean for a human being to be vested with infallibility in a religious organization even though like all humans, that one is a finite being? Ironically, it is often the ignorant who presume that they cannot be wrong (i.e., that they are infallible). That is something else entirely. The sort of infallibility granted by the Roman Catholic Church on its pope does not mean that he knows everything or can’t be wrong about anything. The infallibility is circumscribed to cover only religious doctrine. In short, Roman Catholicism gives the Pope the authority to promulgate theological truths that go beyond, yet are consistent with, the Bible. A pope cannot say that Jesus is no longer to be regarded as the Son of God, for such a claim obviously contradicts the canonical gospels. Yet more could be said that is consistent with Jesus’ divinity, and even about Mary, whose womb is regarded as blessed. The “Mother of God” is itself a title that practically invites further theological elaboration beyond the material on her that is in the Gospels. I have in mind here the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, which is celebrated by the Roman Catholic Church on August 15 annually. The feast-day is not a minor holy day for Catholics, for they are obligated to attend Mass. Indeed, a human body being admitted into a spiritual state is no small matter theologically. 

Aad de Lange, the chief financial officer of the archdiocese of Galveston-Houston in Texas, took to social media on the day in 2023 to give a synopsis of how the holy day came to be. “On November 1, 1950, Pius XII defined the dogma of the Assumption. Thus he solemnly proclaimed that the belief whereby the Blessed Virgin Mary, at the close of her earthly life, was taken up, body and soul, into the glory of heaven, definitively forms part of the deposit of faith, received from the Apostles. To avoid all that is uncertain the Pope did not state either the manner or the circumstances of time and place in which the Assumption took place--only the fact of the Assumption of Mary, body and soul, into the glory of heaven, is the matter of definition." Having degrees both in business and theology, I’m glad to see a CFO being so well-versed in theological-speak. Indeed, his paragraph is dense, so I shall endeavor to unpack it by putting the theological verbiage in contemporary terms.

In particular, I have in mind the telling of a story. I used to tell kids stories when I worked at two summer camps. As the storyteller, I could invent new characters and elaborate on existing characters as long as I did not contradict the story so far. For example, I could say that a group of kids alone in the woods came upon a bear; bears are consistent with forests. I could not then refer to the bear as a wolf unless I obviate the contradiction by saying that a witch changed the bear into a wolf. Furthermore, I could not start referring to the kids as adults without a magical explanation.

As a student at Yale, I took a course called storytelling that was taught at the divinity school. At the time, I just assumed that the course was for preaching, for who doesn’t enjoy a good story, even in church. But then I read Hans Frei’s book, Eclipse of the Biblical Narrative. Frei had been on Yale’s faculty, but unfortunately that was before I matriculated. In his book, he urges readers not to get in the way of the story in the Gospels. Take the story in without thinking about whether the characters existed historically or whether a miracle was an empirical event. Religious truth is distinct from historical facts; faith narratives and historical accounts are distinct literary genres. The writers of the Gospels would have known that they were writing faith narratives, so historical events could legitimately be appropriated or even invented to make theological points. For example, that gospels differ on when the Last Supper takes place—notice I’m not using the past tense!—relative to Passover to make different theological points. In Matthew, which was likely oriented to the Jews, it is no accident that the Last Supper takes place on the night that commemorates the sacrifice of lambs in Egypt so the death would pass over the Hebrew houses. Jesus is to be viewed as the sacrificial lamb who takes away the sins of the world by his willing sacrifice. This is the point, and interrupting the story to ask whether the Last Supper “really” happened is a diversion. Being eternal, religious truth is not affected by time, and is in this sense outside of history. Conflating the object of a faith narrative (i.e., getting at or uncovering religious truth) with that of a historical account (i.e., getting at the who, what, and where in history) not only evinces a category mistake, but also, especially since the Enlightenment, risks the subordination of religious truth to historical fact.

In his paragraph, Aad de Lange obfuscates the two genres. After pointing out that the dogma of the Assumption was added by Pope Pius to the then-extant deposit of faith, de Lange treats the new doctrine in terms of a historical event: “the Blessed Virgin Mary, at the close of her earthly life, was taken up.” It is as if being a historical event is needed to legitimate or justify the religious truth being promulgated. This “need” is merely a symptom of our age in which scientific fact dominates and is the default for certainty. To eclipse even the extended faith narrative, which has Mary go to heaven in body as well as soul, by asking whether or not it was an event that happened historically is to tacitly treat the story-telling as somehow insufficient or subordinate in its own genre. The dynamic, or narrative “arc,” in the Gospels being interrupted by interlarding exogenous questions, the reader (or ancient hearer) undoubtedly has trouble zeroing in on the unique sort of validity that religious truth enjoys. Such truth itself is best grasped from a story if it is not interrupted with distractions.

De Lange unwittingly provides us with a useful way to understand the distinction between historical events and religious truth: “the Pope did not state either the manner or the circumstances of time and place in which the Assumption took place—only the fact of the Assumption of Mary, body and soul, into the glory of heaven, is the matter of definition.” Although de Lange clearly views the Assumption as having occurred empirically (i.e., historically), he does depict religious truth in its own terms—that of definition. A historian would not find the language, “the matter of definition,” to be that which historians use, for they are interested in “the manner or the circumstances of time and place” rather than definitions of truth.

The Pope can be regarded as the chief story-teller as regards religious truth in the Roman Catholic Church. As long as he does not contradict the story so far, he is free to go on telling the story as the spirit and his mind moves him. As long as the dictates of logic (e.g., non-contradiction) are maintained, any storyteller cannot be wrong as one develops a story in progress. In the story of the kids in the woods, I am adding that a helicopter flew in at the last minute and rescued the kids. Once I add this elaboration, someone listening can’t very well say, “No! That doesn’t happen. The kids get eaten.” Notice that I use the present tense—doesn’t—because I am referring to what goes on in a story, rather than to an historical account. Were the listener to say, “No! That didn’t happen,” I would reply, “Of course it didn’t; it’s a story. Now, what does it mean?” Similarly, detecting the leitmotif of a faith narrative distinct from trying to ascertain whether a certain event (or character) existed in history.

To be sure, were the Crucifixion only in the story rather than also a historical event, then it could not be said that a sacrifice happened that restored humanity to God’s graces. Jesus actually suffering is necessary to “pay the price” that no one else would pay. If the only suffering is in the Passion Story in the Gospels, then the reconciliation of humanity with God is also only part of a story. Furthermore, the Incarnation is depicted as God piercing or entering human history—God made flesh. Indeed, the Immaculate Conception of Mary (i.e., she is conceived so as to be without sin) can also be regarded thusly.

Christians are in the unenviable position of believing in religious truth that hinges on historical persons events that historians have so far not been able to determine to have lived and occurred. Faith narratives do not count as historical sources because the writers of such stories can legitimately use, modify, and even invent historical figures and events in the service of making theological points. The risk involved in believing that the Word became flesh as a person who lived historically/empirically is that religious truth comes to depend on history even though truth itself is eternal and thus does not depend on time.[1] In other words, such faith can be in historical fact, which is an oxymoron as facts are known rather than believed and thus of religious belief. In contemporary parlance, it is said that a person is entitled to one’s own opinion but not to one’s own facts. Facts are solid, and thus deemed superior to mere subjective opinions. The danger in subordinating religious truth to historical facts is that truth is relegated as mere opinion.

Just as thinking during a movie in a theater about what to cook later breaks off, or eclipses, the suspension of disbelief that allows a person to “enter” a movie’s story-world, so too does thinking about matters outside of a faith narrative as it is being read. Let the story speak to you so you might grasp the religious truth from the continuity or flow of the narrative. Let history take care of itself. This is not to commit to any answer concerning whether someone existed or something actually happened. Even using words like really and actually for historical claims implicitly subordinates religious truth. Transcending temporal things, truth is really and actually existent. In an age in which some people insist on imposing their ideological opinions as if facts of reason, such presumptuousness shows up much better relative to a discernment of religious truth from a faith narrative.

The infallibility of a storyteller in the telling of a story is much different than the arrogance on ideological stilts that indicates self-idolatry. To be sure, such idolatry can be used to impose even religious truth. At a Roman Catholic church in my hometown, the pastor said in his homily, “Don’t worry if you don’t understand the Marian mysteries; just obey.” That is to say, just obey the pastor. Pope Benedict promoted the pastor to bishop.  Such a decision falls outside of a pope’s story-telling infallibility (as does that Pope’s decision when he was an archbishop to transfer rather than defrock a sexually-molesting priest), and perhaps even outside the purview of the Holy Spirit.  

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1. I deliberately use the word, “Word,” as the second person/manifestation of the Trinity (i.e., the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) to de-anthropomorphize God. To anthropomorphize something is to ascribe human qualities or attributes to it. Doing so in the case of the second person of the trinity risks understating the qualitative difference (i.e., difference in kind rather than degree) that exists between the Creator and creation, and thus the eternal God and temporal history. In my book, God’s Gold, is suggest that viewing God in terms too similar to us (i.e., anthropomorphizing the transcendent) may be one reason why the assumptions of theologians on wealth and profit-seeking in relation to greed have shifted from anti- to pro-wealth through the centuries. If the second person of the Trinity is viewed too much like the flesh in the Incarnation, then it’s easier to overstate the theological significance of the stuff of Earth more generally, including wealth. From such an overstatement, it was written in the Italian Renaissance that a person must be rich to exercise the Christian virtue of munificence (rather than merely liberality). Cosimo de Medici, who made his fortune from usury, a mortal sin, was absolved by Pope Eugene IV by making a large gift to the Church. Had de Medici not been rich, he could not have afforded to pay for the renovation of a monastery. So it turns out that a rich man can get through the eye of a needle, and that money helps.