The recent publicity about the departure from the Roman Catholic Church of Charles Davis, a prominent theologian in England, has caused a certain dismay among clerical and lay “reformers” inside the Roman fold. Not many of these reformers are known to the public because of censorship, a censorship that is especially severe for priests—those who usually have the most to say. There are not many as outspoken in public as theology professors Hans Küng and Edward Schillebeeckx, though a man like Archbishop Thomas Roberts, being somewhat independent because of his rank, has been able to speak. Even Charles Davis followed a course of restraint until the time when he made public his decision to leave the church.
There is indeed an intellectual ferment in the Roman church, chiefly in western Europe, but it is mostly confined to the university-trained clergy or to the more advanced members of some of the religious orders. Very little is known to the public. Ideas are sometimes revealed in private discussions, sometimes in lecture rooms, and sometimes in unpublished manuscripts, most of which are rejected by the ecclesiastical censors.
Individual thinking and personal initiative in research have been dangerous activities for priests. At the end of the last century, it was thought that Leo XIII had cleared the way for new freedom by declaring, as he opened the Vatican archives to scholars: “The Church has nothing to fear from the truth.” Some of Leo’s utterances on Bible interpretation were thought to encourage a new approach. Then came the reign of Pius X and his assistant Cardinal Merry del Val, a very traditionalistic Spaniard. In 1907 the pope issued a decree and an encyclical that strongly attacked modernism and commanded bishops to “purge their clergy of modernistic infection.” Some priests were excommunicated and several teachers were dismissed.
At Vatican Council II, Archbishop Pellegrini of Turin referred to this suppression in a speech advocating greater freedom of research for the clergy. This speech was but little reported and may have been bypassed deliberately. (Some account is given in Xavier Rynne’s The Fourth Session.) Pellegrini surprised his audience by stating that many clerics had suffered unjustly: “Who would dare to assert that … the rights and dignity of clerics, whether priests or bishops, or even cardinals, were always respected?”
The speech caused much discussion in the aisles, corridors, and coffee-bars of St. Peter’s. Nobody seemed to know what bishops or cardinals were involved. Many had heard of George Tyrell, the Jesuit theologian, who had died in loneliness and excommunication; some knew of Loisy, the rebel French critic of the Gospels, who had defied the Vatican on the basis of his convictions as a historian; others knew of Msgr. Louis Duchesne, who had seen his history of the primitive Church placed on the list of prohibited books; Msgr. Pierre Batiffol was remembered as having lost his university presidency at Toulouse; the Italians cited Father Ernesto Buonaiuti, who had maintained a spiritual witness in Rome itself until his death. But who had been the members of the higher clergy?
Pellegrini was probably thinking of men like Cardinal Mercier, suspect for having introduced a new interpretation of Thomism at the University of Louvain. There was also Cardinal Ferrata, an opponent of Cardinal Merry del Val, who reputedly was against the witch-hunt of the intellectuals. The future Benedict XV, Della Chiesa, was kept waiting for the red hat at Bologna for several years as a “potential heretic.”
During the modernist crisis, a powerful underground movement for repressing heresy was organized by a certain Monsignor Benigni. This was called Sodalitium Pianum (Fraternity of Pius), with the code name La Sapinière (The Pinewood). It was a very secret, international society with a group of members working independently and in the dark. The main object was to keep Roman agencies informed of any suspicious utterances or activities by members of the clergy, principally those in teaching positions. The society was suppressed by Benedict XV, who had once been on its list of suspects.
Tension relaxed somewhat after World War I. Then after World War II there came another crisis. During the war, many movements for a greater freedom had appeared, such as the worker-priest movement. After the war the forces of reaction were at work again. Several prominent theologians were removed from office. Some were banned from publishing. In certain religious orders there was a purge in which nearly all superiors were removed from office. Some priests were summoned to Rome, where they were asked to give an explanation of their opinions before the tribunal of the Holy Office. Some were menaced with public condemnation. Some were sent into exile and isolation.
Since the great exodus of the Reformation era, many serious thinkers in the Roman fold have maintained that the church can be reformed only from within. This may be only partly true; there is no doubt that the continual witness of the Eastern Orthodox and the Reformed churches has had an influence, perhaps more in this century of universal communication than ever before. Yet the example of the followers of Port-Royal—the Jansenists, as their enemies called them—is often cited. Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Jansenists demanded many reforms in matters of use of the Bible, liturgy, and church government. Many of these demands have been met in this century, in particular by Vatican II. Today it is no longer heresy to spread the Bible in the language of the people, to put aside Latin in worship, or to reshape the Roman Curia in favor of the episcopate. The Jansenists suffered for their ideal of reform, and their witness inside the church is considered to have been an essential leaven.
Some progressive spirits have been able to follow the Jansenist example of working in comparative obscurity. Their main endeavor is through personal contacts; their publications are generally marked by prudent reservations. The sweeping changes of modern liturgists, which are hotly denounced as Protestant by the traditionalists, would not have been possible without the less extreme work of various pioneers, many of them Benedictine monks, such as Dom Lambert Beauduin. Dom Beauduin was able to achieve great changes in the attitude of Roman theologians toward Orthodox and Reformed churches. But his periodical, Irénikon, was often menaced by the Holy Office. Beauduin himself was once exiled for two years, and a ban was placed on his publication of further writings.
Yet, curiously enough, the leaven of change was at work. Archbishop Roncalli, for long years a friend of Dom Beauduin and a fellow “laborer in obscurity,” was elected to the papacy as John XXIII. The very name he assumed was instructive, at least for the initiated; it took the historians back to the days of powerful councils. John XXIII will go into history as the pope of Vatican Council II, a pope who defeated the conservative view that in 1870 Vatican I had put an end to councils.
The election of Angelo Roncalli is hailed by the reform groups as an example of how a struggling minority may suddenly achieve a breakthrough against odds. When Roncalli entered the election, he was able to rely chiefly on the support of the French, who had known and liked him while he was papal nuncio in Paris. The French group could rally progressives like Cardinal Gracias of Bombay and various anti-Curialists, reactionaries against the “personal rule” of Pius XII. This group gradually brought in neutrals who were not very enthusiastic about the men of the old brigade.
A tenuous and fragile force raised up John XXIII. As one who had served his apprenticeship in Rome, he knew the special hazards of office, even for popes. He sprang the announcement of Vatican Council II outside Vatican City, at the church of St. Paul. The expected delaying tactics of the Curia became plain and forced John to hasten the council preparations, lest he should die before anything could be accomplished. Even popes have frustrations in the Roman machinery of government.
Now the “reformers” are asking whether there is any permanence in their victory. The optimists are putting their hopes in the new episcopal senate which will open its first meeting on September 29. However, it is too early to foresee what direction this body will take. How successful will it be in overcoming the bureaucrats in permanent session? To what extent will it be controlled by the Curia, acting as advisers to the Pope in the nomination of members?
Undoubtedly Vatican Council II was a hopeful beacon. It revealed to the world and perhaps to an astonished Roman hierarchy that a majority were in favor of updating and change. A few of the “advanced” theologians were called in. But John XXIII died too soon. For in spite of a number of changes, there is still everywhere in the Roman system of government the firm pattern of authoritarian rule.
The fate of any “reformers” inside the Roman fold will remain uncertain. A departure like that of Charles Davis is looked upon as high treason, and the tragedy that may loom over some who are left is that of a slow extinguishing. The opponents, notably those wielding power, now have an excuse for denouncing “potential defectors” and “secret heretics.” There may be secret “court martials” for those left in the camp, or a more rigorous surveillance. Some may lose all chance of promotion or be subjected to acts of intolerance.
The most progressive Roman Catholic intellectual leaders have often debated whether a brother can leave in good conscience, knowing that his departure may make life harder for those left behind. He will be branded a deserter and his friends will be viewed as suspects.
Yet the question of intellectual and spiritual integrity remains. How far can one go against his personal convictions? Must he always remain silent and passive in confronting what he believes to be error? The old argument in the past has been that “blind obedience” and humility before the voice of authority show a true religious spirit. Today many feel that voices of protest are needed until in the Roman fold there is freedom for the public communication of ideas.
