A new--and doubtless very different--St. Francis

In his 1981 book After Virtue, Alisdair MacIntyre addresses the abandonment of an Aristotelian ethics in our modern society and the startling effects of this abandonment—philosophical inconsistencies on both sides of the line, utter relativism, and the fallacies of fact, protest, and rights. While his overall treatise has its triumphs and failures, perhaps his most memorable line is stamped upon the conclusion of his piece. He addresses the time in the sixth century of the “fall of civilization,” the age when the barbarians stood ready to destroy Christian civilization. At this time, a figure by the name of St. Benedict arose. He did not, however, go out and fight the forces that awaited, but instead pulled back and radically revolutionized monasticism, writing what is now considered The Rule of St. Benedict and preserving the treasury of the faith until the storm passed. MacIntyre, eerily, compares the age of Benedict to our very own, and concludes his piece with the prophetic words “We are waiting not for Godot, but for another—doubtless very different—St. Benedict.”

            Whether one agrees with his conclusion or not, MacIntyre has hit upon a very key feature of human history. The Church emphasizes that history moves not in a “progressively” straight line (simply from point A to point B), nor does it move in a circle with no destination. History is not cyclic, but cyclonic. It moves as a spiral—directed to an end, but nevertheless reaching that end through seemingly repetitious stages. The Church emphasizes this view in Her understanding of Scripture—that the David of the Old Testament is seen again in the New, under a “new and doubtless very different”, and in this case a much perfected, form, namely Christ.

            So, where is our modern age in this cyclonic history?  Are we, too, mirroring a previous age in a new but doubtless very different way? Perhaps MacIntyre has places his finger upon our times.

            In the first 1200 years of the Church, three figures arose who are arguably the most impactful (or in the least the most popular today) in the history of the early Church—St. Paul, St. Benedict, and St. Francis. St. Paul was the Apostle to the Gentiles, a model of evangelization, teaching the heart of the faith through his travels, letters, and sermons. His impact is unparalleled, as evidences in his place in the New Testament. He revealed how to bring the faith to the world, how to be another Christ.

            In the centuries that followed, St. Benedict arose. His period I have already addressed—one of danger to the heart of the Church, one in which he was not so much evangelistic but catechetical, preserving and explicating the teachings of the Church.

            Then, in the thirteenth century arose St Francis, that radical witness to poverty and discipleship. In a time of clerical unrest and Lateran reform, Francis answered God’s call to “rebuild my Church.” And he did. He is known (in addition to his popularized love for animals) for his love of the nativity, his love of the cross. He loved the little ones, the poor, the downtrodden—and he lived like them and with them, giving up a noble life and the very clothes off his back.

            Perhaps in this final figure, we can find our place in Church history. In my life, I have seen the new Paul. He was a man who travelled to over 127 countries, wrote 14 encyclicals, and revealed how to bring the faith to the world, across boundaries that haven’t been breached in centuries. He was the late Holy Father John Paul. The fact that he bore the name of the Apostle to the Gentiles I find neither ironic nor coy, but fitting.

            And now, perhaps, you can see where this is going. When MacIntyre first published After Virtue in 1981, we were, indeed, looking for a new St. Benedict. Three decades later, we realize that he has already come. Our pope emeritus, Benedict XVI, who took his name from the Benedict of the sixth century, was not the radical evangelizer that his predecessor was. He focused on internal renewal—explicating the faith in a “Year of Faith”, renewing and preserving the liturgy, and emphasizing catechesis as a weapon against the tyranny of relativism, which he condemned so frequently. He preserved the body of faith, and he did so with humility and dignity.

            Upon Benedict’s resignation, we have seen a new papa arise—Pope Francis. Though we have seen hints of his mission—dressing simply, riding in buses, living like and with the people, celebrating Holy Thursday Mass at a juvenile detention center—we know not where his papacy will lead. But in his first week, we have seen where he would like it to. Francis is not the philosopher like his predecessors (though we should not shortchange his intellect in the least). He is a man of simplicity, of poverty, of radical witness to the person of Jesus Christ. He is a man who preaches the gospel, only “when necessary” using words.

            Our time is one in which the Church is in need of renewal, of rebirth, of “rebuilding.” Perhaps our new St. Benedict has come and gone, and perhaps we have come under the servitude of a new St. Francis, though it is still too early to tell. What we can know, however, is that the Church is in an age of radical witness, of love for the nativity, love for the cross. We must look outward, while ever looking inward. We must be a Church of poverty, of littleness, of charity. The Church is returning to her roots, and in doing so ever moving forward—“ever ancient, ever new” in the words of St. Augustine. And this ancient newness we now embrace. We are waiting not for the prophet of tomorrow, but instead are called to live out the Gospel today, in new—and doubtless very different—ways.