By this I mean that conservative Catholics are being asked by Francis and his appointees and admirers to accept—however tacitly and ambiguously and provisionally for now—a revision of church teachings that makes the church’s claims to authority and consistency seem less compelling and coherent and even possibly absurd. But at the same time any kind of exit strategy or alternative seems even more illogical and incoherent, more self-contradictory, than remaining with Peter even when he seems to be flirting with grave error.
Or to rewrite Joyce’s young artist’s line: What kind of fidelity would that be, to forsake a synthesis whose logic and coherence are endangered and to embrace one that seems incoherent from the start?
Of course, one might discern a coherent reason to leave the Catholic Church if a stern Calvinist soteriology suddenly became intellectually compelling, or an Anabaptist ecclesiology, or for that matter simple atheism. But for a conservative Catholic trying to assimilate Francis-era developments to a pre-Francis worldview rather than abandoning it entirely, there are really only two possible arguments for jumping ship.
The first would say, well, if the magisterium can reverse itself so easily from pope to pope, I should downgrade my confidence in the binding quality of papal rulings, assume that the official definition of infallibility was mistaken or misinterpreted, and accept something closer to the Orthodox understanding of Rome’s primacy, with sharp limits on the authority ascribed to pretty much all teaching issued by popes since the Great Schism. (Indeed, it’s even possible that Francis wants to encourage something like this downgrading, as a means to reunion with the church’s eastern lung.)
But suppose one did accept this understanding: Would that really be a case for becoming Orthodox? Not so far as I can see. First, it seems ridiculous to leave Catholicism over a pope’s evacuation of marital indissolubility…and then join a church that conducted a more explicit evacuation many centuries ago. Second, it seems equally absurd to accept an ecclesial model that emphasizes a more national and regional model of authority—and then rush to submit oneself to the Patriarch of Moscow or Constantinople, when the Patriarch of the West is clearly the relevant authority for most Catholics (even if his authority might be more limited than has traditionally been claimed). Swimming the Bosphorus might possibly make sense, under this analysis, for a Francis critic who was also planning to permanently decamp for Istanbul or Saint Petersburg. (Given Orthodoxy’s ongoing Ukrainian disputes, someone moving to Kiev would only multiply his dilemmas.) But in the West and indeed in most parts of the globe, even under an Orthodox model of Christendom the church of Rome would still be that critic’s natural home.
Then there is a second possible move: a traditionalist exile of the sort embodied by the Society of Saint Pius X, which professes its loyalty to every pope while declining to be actually governed by the papacy. After all, the argument might go, if you are already choosing the coherence of tradition over the seeming incoherence of a given pope or popes, why not join a community in which that choice has been made explicit, resistance to liberalization is the organizing principle, and an ambiguous sort of schism is accepted as a divinely ordered test?
I think liberalizers underestimate the potential power of this logic; and if there is an eventual schism on the church’s theological right, it will happen roughly along these lines: first with the concomitant liberalization of the official church and a stronger theological and liturgical traditionalist turn among conservatives (a combination already visible under Francis), and then with some ill-advised attempt by Rome to bring these traditionalists to heel (of the sort already deployed against some traditionalist orders under Francis), which in turn inspires a portion of the church’s priests and bishops, the next-generation and possibly more intense versions of Raymond Burke and Robert Sarah, to exercise a Lefebvre option and effectively decamp.
But if this is imaginable, I still can’t imagine joining the decampers—again, because the don’t-call-it-a-schism maneuver also seems to answer absurdity with absurdity, addressing the problem of a tacitly Protestantized Catholicism with a different kind of Protestantization. By entering into this kind of internal exile you don’t simply remain with Catholic tradition; you also place yourself under the authority of whoever leads the exiled church. And even for a traditionalist (let alone a confused conservative like myself), the tradition is not self-interpreting: if it were, Cardinal Burke and Bernard Fellay would have no differences between them, and the expulsion of Bishop Richard Williamson from the SSPX would not have become necessary.
To submit oneself in that way, whether to a Fellay or any other future exile, is ultimately to gamble almost the way megachurches gamble during their successions, without any “tu es petrus” warrant to grant confidence in the result. My own presumption is already considerable, but it’s not strong enough for that. Only if such a choice were forced—in a disputed papal election or a collapsed ecumenical council—could I imagine making it, because only then would it seem reasonable to imagine that the same Christ who chose Peter was asking us to choose as well.
Absent such still-unlikely developments, it seems more reasonable and faithful to remain—staying on a boat taking on water rather than casting oneself at some likely-looking flotsam, combining disputation with submission until time and providence either mysteriously vindicate Francis’s critics or prove, through a slow accretion of evidence, that we were simply wrong.
That this sets up a strange tension within conservative Catholicism is obvious already. Under Francis you have not only journalists and theologians lodging criticisms but high prelates using apocalyptic language and even making reference to the final tribulation of the church. But at the same time that rhetoric has no accompanying action that matches its apparent gravity, because no such action seems available.
In this tension it’s quite reasonable for more liberal Catholics to see the provisional vindication of their premises—evidence of how the petrine charism of unity and the operation of the Holy Spirit will gradually bring the recalcitrant along.
But as Francis likes to remind us, we have a God of surprises—and our remaining on the barque with Peter also keeps open the possibility that tomorrow’s liberals will come to wish that today’s conservatives had leaped overboard.
WHY I LEFT
In the eyes of Rome, I was still in good or at least easily reparable standing in the Catholic Church until I married for the first time, in an Episcopal ceremony in 1980, and began the regular attendance at Episcopal services that I have continued to this day. In my own eyes, however, my exit began earlier and occurred in a gradual process that, simplifying, I can present in four steps.
The first step came in 1968 with Pope Paul VI’s publication of Humanae vitae, renewing the church’s absolute ban on artificial contraception. If I may risk a recent, very Catholic formulation, I found the pope’s position intrinsically disordered. I knew that a great deal of responsible Catholic thought favored the changes that the pope had declined to make. The encyclical had, accordingly, the early effect of weakening my lifelong allegiance to the church itself. It set the exit in motion.
At this point in my life, I was a Jesuit seminarian in doctoral studies. But I had begun to reflect with regard to my own decision (at eighteen) to become a Jesuit; it had been the Society of Jesus—its intellectualism, its internationalism, its esprit de corps, its glamor—that had attracted me more than the church to which, of course, the Society is dedicated. Did I not have the cart before the horse? This was a second step: a recognition that my passion for Catholicism per se had long been less than my formal vocation called for it to be.
In 1970, as I completed my doctorate, I took a position as assistant professor of theology at Loyola University of Chicago, now with my relationship to the Society of Jesus, the church, and the world of possible religious practice more in flux than ever. Early in the 1970s, I attended a debate in Chicago between the late John L. McKenzie, SJ, an eminent Bible scholar, and the late Charles Davis, an English theologian of Catholic background and training, who had recently departed the church. To the best of my recollection after nearly fifty years, Humanae vitae was the formal subject of the debate, but the church itself was powerfully the background subject.