While Opus Dei is a orthodox guide and help for Catholics seeking to deepend their spiritual lives, I take issue with the oft-repeated claim that it has given the Church the first authentic lay spirituality. For example, James Martin. S.J. reports in
"Opus Dei In the United States":
They all felt that Opus Dei is unfairly maligned. Part of the reason, they said, has to do with their “unique” charism—the spirituality of everyday life. Though lay spirituality has long been a Catholic tradition (St. Francis de Sales wrote his Introduction to the Devout Life [1608] with laypersons in mind), members say there are still many who do not understand their charism. “Opus Dei represents a new concept in the church,” said Bill Schmitt, “and this has given rise to misunderstanding, even, in some instances…slanders.” But he added, “A lot of it comes from bad will.”
Similarly, Dennis Helming says this about Josemaría Escrivá in his
Opus Dei founder Monsignor Josemaria Escriva's contribution to modern lay spirituality:
This self-dubbed "anticlerical" monsignor believed so much in us weaklings - quite ordinary, mediocre men and women - that he was able to pull off what no one had ever attempted on such a large scale throughout the sweep of Christianity.
Alas, we find that the claim about a new lay spirituality is repeated even by Albino Cardinal Luciani (before he became Pope John Paul I). In his "
Seeking God through Ordinary Work," the cardinal writes:
In less eloquent words, the "everyday realities" constitute the work which one does every day; and the "flashes of divine splendor" are those things which lead to a holy life. Msgr. Escrivá, with Gospel in hand, constantly taught: God does not want us simply to be good, he wants us to be saints, through and through. However, he wants us to attain that sanctity, not by doing extraordinary things, but rather through ordinary common activities. It is the way they are done which must be uncommon. There, in the middle of the street, in the office, in the factory, we can be holy, provided we do our job competently, for love of God and cheerfully, so that everyday work becomes, not "a daily tragedy," but rather "a daily smile."
More than three hundred years earlier St. Francis de Sales taught something along the same lines. A preacher had publicly consigned to the flames from his pulpit a book in which St. Francis had said that in certain circumstances dancing can be permissible; the book also contained a whole chapter on the “worthiness of the marriage bed." However, Msgr. Escrivá went further than St. Francis de Sales in many respects. St. Francis proclaimed sanctity for everyone but seems to have only a " spirituality for lay people” whereas Msgr. Escrivá wants a lay spirituality." Francis, in other words, nearly always suggests for the laity the same practical means used by religious, but with suitable modifications. Escrivá is more radical; he goes as far as talking about "materializing" --in a good sense-- the quest for holiness. For him, it is the material work itself which must be turned into prayer sanctity.
One is disappointed that the cardinal would write this, as if he were ignorant of the history and development of Christian spirituality.
Were not the early Christian martyrs examples of authentic lay spirituality, even before their martyrdom? We are to enliven all our actions with the infused virtue of charity. Let us take into account the different kind of works that people do, the different functions that they have in society--it is clear that the work that bishops and priests are involved in are, by their very nature, of a different order, involving in themselves Holy Things. But what of the temporal work of the Christian faithful. Did they think that it could not be sanctified? Let us take for example the work of monks -- their original
opus dei was certainly prayer, sanctifying the hours of the day with the divine office? (See the
Rule of Saint Benedict.) Still, the monks also had to do more mundane tasks, in order to sustain themselves, and these were
done in the spirit of prayer and charity, so as to make prayer unceasing, even if their minds and hearts were not consciously praying.
Fr. Louis Bouyer states my point better in
An Introduction to Spirituality (NY: Desclee, 1961):
Work
Whether his vocation is intellectual or manual, whether he is inclined toward tasks of directing or of executing, or toward the most disinterested kinds of cultural work, he must, therefore, see his work as being ultimately the special form that "faith working through love" is to take in him. This means that he should make of the work for which he feels himself more and more particularly destined his own special way of living charity, that he should make it his self-gift to the creative, the generous design off God Himself which at the same time is being opened out to him by this faith. This shoudl take on a twofold meaning for him, subjective and objective, which cannot be divided in the concrete without thereby making charity unreal.
Under one aspect, each person's work should be for him his special opportunity to live in all his activities that charity which results from faith, arousing in us an act of thankksgiving in which the whole being gives itself to God recognized in Christ. Under the other asepct, which cannot in practice be separated fromt he first, his task is to introduce this charity, from the point of his own insertion in the world, into the life of other men.
Under this aspect, everything that he does, in the most seemingly "profane" orders of activity, must be done in such a way as to break up the present organization of the world in view of the satisfaction of egotistic lusts which cannot help secretly warring against one another even when they provisionally aid one another. For the Christian, on the contrary, even through the very conflicts in which his fidelity to his faith will necessarily involve him with those who refuse it, his whole activity has no final purpose other than that of gathering all men, insofar as this depends on him, into the communion of God's charity. It is by giving this meaning, this ultimate purpose, to all his activities, it is in carrying them out concretely always in the light of this finality, that the Christian will make all his works an achievement of the charity which should be reigning first of all in his own heart.
If this is to be possible, it presupposes that the activity to which he devotes himself willb e one that can be "supernaturalized." Any activity, that is, which in itself involves sin or which leads to it as if inevitably, the Christian must ruthlessly avoid. But those which he may make his own can be consecrated in two different ways. They can be consecrated positively, in their positive human value: teh enrichment that they can give, along [with] their own proper lines, to his capacity and to the capacity of tohers to conceive and to carry out their vocation as children of God, called to live in the presence of the Father in a continual and total "act of thanksgiving." And they can also be consecrated negatively, simply by the abnegation they require, and so by the witness given to the cross, to its fruitfulness "in Christ": a witness which they provide the Christian the opportunity to render by providing him with a cross which is peculiarly his own.
But when we leave the abstract order and come to consider particular cases, we see that in every Christian's activity these two possibilities are always as it were very closely overlaid. Experience shows that the activities whihc are the most positive from the first viewpoint, such as the loftiest cultural pursuits, are endowed with a fearsome tendency to turn themselves into some kind of idol-making. Thus, for the faithful Christian, they cause an internal tension perhaps more painful than any bitterness that might be connected with humbler kinds of work. And, consequently, they involve him in conflicts, in particularly tragic ruptures with those who are pursuing the same tasks without the same faith....
On the other hand, there are servile forms of work which seem at first sight to have nothing but a trial of faith to offer the man who devotes himself to them, so barren are they of positive human satisfaction. And yet frequently they may afford him opportunities for generous contact with others, so clear that faith and its witness can as it were already gain in them some foretaste of the eternal reward. The poor man who gives a cup of water to another poor man may find therein an immediate recompense, of a fullness (because of a purity) certainly surpassing those that the Christian artist, and still more the Christian politician, can find in any of his achievements.
More simply still, the more the horizons of any truly creative work are extended and braodened, the more it requires us continually to go beyond what we have already seen and achieved--a requirement which is without doubt one of the most crucifying forms that the cross can take on in our human life. The most ambitious, the grandest human works are those the achievement of which, even when relatively successful, and in proportion to their success, is the most unsatisfying, if not delusive. For the Christian who measures the always painful hiatus that separates every partial incarnation fo creative charity from its absolute realization, and who knows further that his loftiest achievements, which are at best only provisional, can be changed into even more redoubtable obstracles in the path fo the final realization of charity--this experience of the cross within human creativity knows no limits....
Conversely, for the same Christian who knows the transcendent value of the "love of God poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit," the work most unrewarding from the human viewpoint, when it is th eoccasion for an act of pure charity, may perahsp become more luminous than the most glorious human achievements.
Whatever the task at which he labors, the Christian "in the world" must, therefore, believe that he is collaborating in the coming of the Kingdom of God. But he must believe at the same time that the achievements which at first seem the most brilliant may reveal themselves as the most fragile and even the most deceptive, just as he must be convinced that the failures whihc seem the most irremediable eneter in to the plan of God and its infallible realization. It is here that he finds his cross, the cross which is his own: not aside from his work, but deeply within it. (168-171)
Granted, the state of the Church has been lamentable for a while, though undoubtedly some dioceses have been better than others. But how many of our faithful have been exposed to the spiritual teachings of Christianity? Whether it be the separation of spiritual theology from moral theology in the university, or the perception by many that moral theology and (the Church's moral teachings) was legalistic, one sees the gradual loss of understanding of the spiritual things in many parts of the Church. Those who claim that St. Josemaría Escrivá anticipated the universal call to holiness in
Lumen Gentium are merely ignorant of Catholic tradition and history, and why exactly the Church is always in need of continual reform. This teaching had been obscured in the minds of many over the centuries, but it was never completely forgotten, as various bishops, spiritual masters and theologians (like Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange, O.P.) took pains to point out.
In their mind, he had a great influence--not a surprising judgment on the part of Opus Dei members, who look at the growth and global presence of what is now a personal prelature. And so how was St. Josemaría Escrivá able to reach out to so many? Through a movement that was able to cross the boundaries of dioceses--a band-aid solution, because bishops were unable to produce the results entailed by the duties of their office. If bishops taught the faithful what they really needed to know about Christian morality and spirituality, would something like Opus Dei really be necessary? I don't think so. In fact, the danger with any movement is that it can lead to a cultish mentality, severing the connection between the faithful and the bishop, between the faithful and the life of the local Church, especially as it is concretized in their parish. Hence, the repeated statements by both the Church (and affirmed by the leadership and priests of Opus Dei) that movements and the dioceses are to have a healthy relationship to one another, and so on.
But if the core teachings and message are nothing other than the Christian message, is there really anything new under the sun? When we look at Opus Dei's evenings of recollections and retreats, we see the use of modern spiritual exercises and devotions, especially paraliturgical devotions. (Whether the practice of meditation in modern Catholic spirituality really differs from that practiced by monks and so on, I will leave unexamined for now.) While they emphasize frequent reception of communion and attendance of Mass, it is not clear to me that fostering an authentic liturgical spirituality is part of the charism of Opus Dei priests. I do not doubt that individual priests may encourage those under their spiritual direction to pray the liturgy of the hours, but I do not believe that it is a prominent or "official" part of their formation. Should the liturgy of the hours completely replace other forms of prayer and practices? No--the latter can certainly supplement the liturgy of the hours. But, the question is whether one has an integrated liturgical spirituality or if it is merely one part of a fragmented prayer life.
I will be surprised if someone in the future were to write about Opus Dei spirituality being a new, separate school. In many ways, there is only one spirituality, in so far as there is one source, the Holy Spirit. Everyone is called to be an athlete of God. But this one spirituality can take many forms, as our roles differ; nonetheless there should be certain core elements--not only reception of the sacraments, but I believe a liturgical spirituality.
See also Jordan Aumann's
work on spirituality, Louis Bouyer's book on liturgical piety.
Finally, there is the question or whether all forms of work are morally defensible. There are some acts which are intrinsically incompatible with the love of God--fornication, for example. Similarly, there are forms of work which cannot be sanctified, such as prostitution or robbery. Now if an organization or practice is in some way disordered (as it often is the case in our contemporary capitalistic society), can my involvement in that organization or work be completely free from disorder? Even if I am not responsible from the evil to which my work contributes, should my conscience not be nagging me instead of reassuring me that everything is all right, since I am in the state of grace? If we are unaware of the evils that are present due to a lack of social justice, should we not, as active participants in our community, learn more, and abstain from materially cooperating with those who are responsible for those evils when possible? If there is any group which should be catechizing the faithful on the social teachings of the Church, it should be Opus Dei. But I don't see this being done. We should be questioning our assumptions about the economy and our practices and arrangements. The difficulty of finding answers should lead us to put our trust in God, and not in those deemed to be authorities by the world, and to begin to seek answers in the teachings of the Church, instead of worldly wisdoms (like liberalism).
The
message of Opus Dei
More
documents about Opus Dei
Opus Dei
files.
September 29th, 2006 at 1:09 pm
Alas, I have seen no new ground covered in this thread. And I entertain no illusions that any minds are going to be changed in a setting such as this. Still, it might be worthwhile for me to try to refine the state of the question for the sake of greater focus and less wheel-spinning.
The position being taken by the Orthodox is best summed up in #154:
…there is one area where all the Orthodox authors agree (e.g., Fr. Asanassieff, Fr. Meyendorff, Fr. Schmemann, and even Metropolitan Zizioulas), because they all appear to accept a “eucharistic” or “communion” ecclesiology, and all of them reject as completely incompatible with that ancient Patristic ecclesiology the concepts of “universal jurisdiction” and “supreme power.”
As I implied way back in #73, that posited incompatibility is exactly what Ratzinger, von Balthasar, Bouyer, and of course little ol’ me would deny. We affirm their compatibility, and I offered a bit of explanation why. The fundamental issues are how doctrinal development is understood and how it is to be understood. Thus if Ratzinger et al are correct, then the mature Catholic doctrine of the papacy is a connatural and thus valid development of what was held in common before 1054, including what is today called “the ecclesiology of communion”; if most Orthodox are correct, then of course it is not, and hence cannot be accounted as even an implicit part of the faith-once-delivered.
When it receives an Orthodox response that actually engages it—as opposed to merely restating what’s been said countless times before—what I shall call “the Ratzinger position” (’RP’ for short) typically gets the sort of the response given by Owen in #115.
Addressing me, he writes:
Two points in that are noteworthy: (1) RC advocates of RP are only said to determine what counts as valid development by appeal to papal authority; (2) as a result of such a move, RC advocates of RP are said to imagine that they understand Orthodox doctrine “better understand Eastern Christianity” than EOs and ECs do. If either point were true, it would be quite telling. But neither is.
(1) overlooks the significance of the fact that the doctrine whose development is most at issue is precisely that of papal authority. RP advocates are not trying to settle this issue by appeal to authority; indeed, if RP were merely saying that Vatican I’s doctrine of the papacy is a valid development because popes have so taught, its argument would be entirely circular and thus entirely uninteresting even to Roman Catholics. But Ratzinger et al deserve more credit than that. The real point is subtler: granted that V1’s teaching can neither be found in so many words in pertinent first-millennium texts and practices, nor even logically deduced therefrom, that teaching can readily be seen as a connnatural development therefrom. Hence the immediate issue is not by what authority a given development can be ascertained as valid, but rather whether data which both sides agree are data can reasonably be read to support RP. Apodictic proof is neither available nor being sought; what is available and sought is a reasonable way of seeing the common data.
Perhaps an analogy would help. Since the dawn of Christianity, the Jews have argued that Matthew’s quotation of Isaiah 7:14 as evidence for the Virgin Birth is based on a misconstrual of the original Hebrew. While the Septuagint, which Matthew followed, uses parthenos or ‘virgin’, the Hebrew uses alma, which means ‘young woman’ whether virginal or not; and Jews did not go in for imagining virgins having children. Despite countless attempts by Christian apologists to show that Isaiah really meant ‘virgin’—which continue even to this day—it is indeed rather unlikely that the original author actually had that in mind. We can’t really know for sure what he had consciously in mind, but we do know that that is not how he had been understood; for if he had been, then the idea of the Messiah’s virgin birth would have enjoyed much more currency in Jewish thought than it appeared to enjoy in the few centuries before Christ, which was little to none. It would not have seemed a novelty, which is how it seemed to most Jews at the time, who dismissed it accordingly. Yet as Christians we cannot of course agree with the Jews. What we must say is that even if the original human author of Isaiah did not have some future virgin in mind in 7:14, the Holy Spirit most certainly did. That’s why the Septuagint’s creative translation was prophetic. What the original author might have regarded as fantasy, and most of those who took his work as prophecy did indeed regard as fantasy, is logically compatible with what he wrote and is, in point of dogmatic fact, contained “in germ” within it. One could readily multiply examples of all the ways in which NT writers—and later, the Fathers—saw Christ and the Church in the OT even though the OT writers themselves, and certainly most Jews later, would not have seen things that way at all. Similarly, through the eyes of faith one can see V1 as a valid development from what was “commonly accepted and lived” regarding Roman primacy in the first millennium, without thereby imagining that most Easterners or even most Westerners at the time would have recognized Vatican I as what they believed.
Given as much, (2) above misstates the issue. One can readily understand why Orthodox do not see V1 in the first-millennium data: V1’s doctrine is neither stated there in so many words nor logically deducible from the sum total of the pertinent data. RP advocates agree. But that is not the relevant question. The relevant question is whether V1’s doctrine can reasonably seen as implicit in those data even if many of those who acknowledged Roman primacy in the first millennium didn’t see it there and even if many Christians today, including the Orthodox, still don’t see it there. That is what RP says. Accordingly, RC advocates of RP do not think they understand Orthodox doctrine better than the Orthodox; we know quite well what the Orthodox doctrine on this question is, which is what they say it is. Rather, RC advocates of RP maintain that Orthodox doctrine fails to recognize the full implications of what both sides believed for nearly a thousand years. Hence the common RC complaint that Orthodox “theological” resistance to the papacy is at root historical, cultural, and psychological.
Of course that complaint ultimately begs the question. To bulverize Orthodox resistance as cultural and psychological is plausible only if one already assumes the truth of the Catholic teaching on the papacy. But question-begging cuts both ways. Thus the following account of history from Owen:
One problem with that is its picture of popes “unilaterally” making changes in doctrine without regard to the sensus fidelium. That picture stems from a confusion of the normative with the empirical. Catholics certainly do hold that a pope’s defining a doctrine for the whole Church suffices to make believing that doctrine normative for and binding on the whole Church; but it does not follow, nor was it ever in fact the case, that popes dreamed up doctrinal “innovations” and then proceeded to impose them on the rest of the Church. Popes have no authority to invent doctrine or even to abrogate previously defined doctrines. Whether the doctrine in question be the filioque, papal infallibility, or any others that have caused divisions between East and West, each of the doctrines in question had undergone a long period of theological development in the West prior to definition and did not face opposition from most of the Catholic Church when they finally were defined. They were far from arbitrary or even new—in the West, and by the time of these alleged “innovations” the West was hardly an underpopulated backwater. Of course they were seen as unacceptable, heretical, or even monstrous innovations by many in the East. But what does that prove? All it proves is that, for a long time, the Eastern part of Christendom has not agreed with the Western about certain questions, including the question how other such questions are ultimately to be settled. It does not prove that popes of Rome have “imposed” certain doctrines on anybody. They had already enjoyed broad support in the West anyhow and, since the time of Photius, the popes have enjoyed rather little de facto juridical or doctrinal authority in the East.
That’s why the appeal to “reception” by “the Church as a whole” is even more problematic. One question that gets begged here is “Who is the Church?” If one includes all baptized people in the Church, then one would be hard put to make the case that any once-disputed doctrine escapes significant and ongoing dissent even today. If one includes in the Church all bishops of apostolic succession and those “in communion” with them, questions immediately arise: Who has such succession? Can it be lost by a see that once had it? Does everybody who has it or claims it count as part of the relevant consensus? Are all those who have it equally authoritative? If so, why? If not, why not? One can readily see how such questions are pertinent, and one might answer them by appeal to what is called Tradition. But of course the questions then arises “Whose tradition?” and “Whose interpretation of said tradition?”, and the answers always seems to end up as an appeal to the tradition of those who agree with “us,” whoever “we” are. But since what “we” say in the East diverges in some respects from what “we” say in the West, one cannot without begging the question appeal to what “the Church as a whole” has always believed.
This is why the hoary appeal to “reception” fundamentally question-begging and indeed a bit of legerdemain. Beyond even “Who is the Church?”, the more incisive question is “Who in the Church?.” Which of course brings us back to square one—unless, like the monks of Mt. Athos and not a few other Orthodox, one simply writes Rome out of “the Church” the way the Oriental Orthodox were once written out of “the Church.” But the world’s one billion Catholics can be forgiven for finding in that also not a little question-begging.
It will not do to say that Orthodoxy, unlike Catholicism, settles questions of doctrinal development by the bishops acting collegially over time. We have synods and general councils in Catholicism too. They are necessary not as window-dressing for papal absolutism, but as expressions of the real authority of the bishops and the nature of the Church as communion, which said authority serves. And as Vatican II recognized, the spiritual experience of the faithful and the investigations of theologians are necessary sources for the Magisterium—not only that of bishops individually or synodally, but even that of the papacy itself. The difference is not that Catholicism has the papacy to settle such matters instead of those other sources of input, but rather in addition to them, in such a way as to adjudicate and give definitive form to their results. Whether one thinks that a good thing or a bad thing depends on how one answers the conceptual question: whether V1’s doctrine of papal authority is compatible with the ecclesiology of communion.
Well, Ratzinger has long thought they are compatible, as do I, von Balthasar, and all RC advocates of RP. The books of those two great theologians provide the arguments. Even among the disputants here, everybody agrees that the pope may not do all that Catholic doctrine says he can do; we all even seem to agree that the pope cannot always do in practice what he can do in principle. But Owen and STK don’t seem to think helps. As I read them, they hold that the very idea of such jurisdiction as Vatican I ascribes to the papacy is incompatible with Tradition as a whole and with the ecclesiology of communion in particular. This is where the difference clearly emerges. But once again, the question is begged all around. One can always define ‘communion’ in such a way that somebody’s being in authority over everybody is incompatible with communion; but one can also define it so that the same state of affairs enables communion. That is what Ratzinger and his Catholic allies on this question do, and I think we can all agree that the absolute headship of the risen Christ himself is not only compatible with but the precondition for communion. Indeed, given what all acknowledge are the moral and practical limitations on the exercise of papal jurisdiction, especially in the East, there is no reason to suppose that such jurisdiction is incompatible in practice with the ecclesiology of communion. The sole question is whether it’s compatible in principle; that depends on how one formulates the principles; and the question how one ought to formulate the principles is to be settled by Tradition. But that doesn’t serve because the question at issue here is precisely whose interpretation of Tradition is to be accounted normative.
Once one recognizes that we’re dealing with two plausible but competing paradigms of ecclesiastical authority, neither of which can do more than beg the question against the other, the question becomes how to choose between them. As I have often pointed out before, each is plausible and self-consistent in its own terms. (Such a situation is very familiar to any professional in the field of philosophy.) I have also written about the means an inquirer does well to adopt in making their choice. The most important intellectual task is to avoid caricature as much as possible and get as clear a picture as one can of what each side actually believes. Once the requisite prayer and ascesis are practiced, only then can one decide where truth finds the more capacious home.