A friend of mine recently told me, “If you’re trying to initiate something new (like reclaiming my priesthood) and the response isn’t ‘Hell yeah!’ you’re probably on the wrong track.”
Well, I haven’t yet heard many “Hell yeahs!” in response to my efforts to (as I said here) re-appropriate my priesthood and start a house church in Berea, Kentucky.
Oh, my very good and generous friends have humored me by showing up on Saturday evenings. But even the closest of them have made it clear that they were doing so out of a sense of duty, rather than enthusiasm.
On top of that, my own reflection on our gatherings has been less than “Hell yeah!” And that’s led me to think that perhaps the whole form of Eucharistic gathering (Mass) might be passé. Certainly, as Garry Wills has pointed out in his book Why Priests? “priesthood” as we’ve known it is beyond recall.
That’s not surprising, since the office of priest turns out to be foreign in the experience of the early church. In fact, no “priest” is mentioned In the accounts of Eucharistic meals found in the first two centuries of Christianity [e.g. in the Dialog with Typho and First Apology of Justin Martyr (100-165)]
Instead, we find mention of a presider – a proestos in Greek – whose function was to stand in front of the congregation, call it to order, and keep the meeting on track. That’s what proestos (the Greek word for the presider at the Eucharist) literally means – the “stander-in-front.”
“Priests” came in much later – and definitively after Christianity became the official religion of Rome. Then, as mentioned earlier, the Christian Eucharist took on the trappings of Roman “mystery cults,” like for instance the cult of the Sun God, Mithra, a favorite of the Roman army, whose birthday was celebrated each year on December 25th.
Mystery cults worshipped gods and goddesses like Mithra, Isis, Osiris, and the Great Mother. All of them descended from heaven, lived on earth for a while, and then ascended back to heaven. From there they offered eternal life to followers who in at least one cult ate the divine one’s body under the form of bread and drank his blood under the form of wine to attain eternal life.
Does that sound familiar?
Of course, it does, because that’s what Jesus became under the aegis of Rome. And priests were part of the syndrome. The new Christian Holy Men dressed up like their mystery cult counterparts, and performed a liturgy so similar to the pagan sacred meal rituals that most Romans probably couldn’t tell the difference.
Nonetheless, the pagan cults were eventually swallowed up entirely by Christianity, and believers were left with a ritual that resembled neither Jesus’ “Lord’s Supper” nor a blood sacrifice. Even the bread stopped looking like bread, but more like a plastic wafer.
But the priests remained, accompanied by an ideological lore that justified their existence by claiming that:
- Jesus was a priest.
- His apostles were the first Christian priests.
- In fact, Jesus’ right-hand man, Peter, was the first pope.
- Priests were necessary to forgive sin.
- And to offer what was now called “the holy sacrifice of the Mass.”
Such convictions meant that priests became separated from ordinary Christians. The cleric’s alleged power to miraculously change bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ did that. Performing the miracle seemed to be something between priests and God. Mass was often “celebrated” by the priest alone accompanied by an altar boy. Even in public, Mass rubrics had the priest facing away from the congregation in a sanctuary fenced off from the congregation by a “communion railing.” There priests completed their duties more or less in secret and using a language (Latin) that few besides the clergy could understand.
Mandatory celibacy also contributed to the otherness of priests. Largely to protect church property from priests’ heirs, the requirement became de rigueur for all priests in the Roman dispensation after the 12th century. Priests were so special that contrary to Jesus’ specific teaching about calling no man “Father” (MT 23:9), they could assume that title for themselves (as in referencing the pope as “Holy Father.”).
Priests signified their specialness by even dressing differently from other Christians – with the pope assuming all the trappings of the Roman Emperor. Eventually, ecclesiastical life revolved entirely around the “clergy.” They alone were allowed to preach and even touch the sacred elements.
In all of this, the “faithful” were reduced to the role of spectators at priestly cultic events. All such rituals centered on the “Host” consecrated at Mass, and afterwards taking on a life of its own in its “tabernacle,” or displayed for “benediction” in a monstrance, which was sometimes carried ceremoniously in Eucharistic processions.
All of that changed with the Second Vatican Council (1962-’65), when the Church of Rome finally caught up with the Protestant Reformation. The Council recognized the “priesthood of the faithful” that Martin Luther had celebrated. Vatican II also described the Eucharist as a “sacred meal,” rather than simply as a “holy sacrifice.” The altar became a “table” and was turned around and moved closer to the people. More and more frequently, liturgical periti (experts) at the Council described the priest as a “presider.” Lay people were allowed to touch and distribute the sacred elements. Council fathers recognized Jesus’ “real presence” not simply in the Eucharist, but also in Sacred Scripture and in the community they referred to as the “Pilgrim People of God.”
Meanwhile the “search for the historical Jesus” that had begun in earnest with the work of Albert Schweitzer in 1906 took a giant leap forward with the emergence of liberation theology and its adoption by CELAM (the Latin American Bishops’ Conference). Liberation theology was reflection on the following of Christ from the viewpoint of the poor and oppressed, especially in the former colonial world. It recognized Jesus as a poor peasant like his Third World counterparts. He was seen as thoroughly Jewish and as a resister to Roman Imperialism.
Far from being a priest himself, he was a foe of priests and all they stood for.
Such developments – Vatican II, its theological and liturgical reforms, new insights about the historical Jesus, and re-evaluations of the priesthood itself – brought priests down from their pedestals; their office became déclassé. With their own baptismal priesthood affirmed, the faithful felt empowered. They spontaneously stopped “going to confession.” Priests everywhere experienced identity crises. Mandatory celibacy entered full debate. As a result, thousands of priests worldwide left the priesthood to marry.
In response, the hierarchical church tried to backpedal. While recognizing the teaching of Vatican II as its own official teaching, the long reign of Pope John Paul II (1978-2005) followed by that of Benedict XVI (2006-2013) gave Vatican II Catholics the feeling that the hierarchy’s honoring of the Council was mostly lip-service.
John Paul II and Benedict systematically replaced cardinals and bishops who had taken to heart the Second Vatican Council’s reforms. The reactionary popes also packed the College of Cardinals (who would elect future popes) with conservatives, made it more difficult for priests to “return to the lay state,” suppressed liberation theology, silenced and removed creative theologians from teaching posts, returned Latinisms to the Eucharistic liturgy, cooperated with neoliberal political regimes, and were generally backward-looking.
Perhaps most importantly, formation programs in Catholic seminaries took a sharp turn to the right. The priests who emerged from them showed little sympathy for conciliar reforms. They displayed ignorance of modern scripture scholarship or awareness of ecumenical theology, as well as any inclination to connect the Gospel with contemporary issues other than abortion or gay marriage.
Such rightward drift came to a sudden and unexpected halt with the election of Pope Francis, an Argentinian, and the first Global South pope in the history of the church. Ordained in 1969, Francis is a product of the Second Vatican Council and inevitably influenced by liberation theology, which was largely a product of Latin America.
His Apostolic Exhortation, “The Joy of the Gospel” (JG, 2013) was seen as his manifesto announcing an acceleration of Vatican II reforms. It called for a “new chapter” in the history of the Catholic Church and for the church to embark on a “new path” on which things could not be left unchanged (JG 25). Preaching had to improve, he said (135-159). The roles of women needed expansion (103-4). Outreach was necessary to Christians of other denominations who share unity with Catholics on many fronts (246). And the struggle for social justice and participation in political life was an inescapable “moral obligation” (220,258).
As for priests, Francis’ Exhortation continued the clerical downgrading implied in Vatican II reforms. The priesthood, the pope taught, represents simply a church function. It is a service not necessarily distinguished in dignity, holiness, or superiority from those rendered by other baptized Christians (204).
And there’s more. Recently, Leonardo Boff (a Brazilian liberation theologian silenced under John Paul II, but reinstated by Pope Francis) spoke glowingly of the current pope. “He is one of us,” Boff said – presumably referring to liberationist Catholics. In any case, Boff went on to speculate that Francis is about to address the Brazilian priest shortage by making possible the reinstatement of the country’s thousands of laicized priests. Boff also conjectured that the pope might be on the brink of allowing women to become deacons. Both changes would represent giant steps towards eliminating mandatory celibacy for priests and towards ordination of women.
But is any of those measures sufficient for resolving the priest shortage – or for addressing the irrelevance of the church noted at the beginning of this series of four essays? I doubt it.
That’s because the very bases of priestly powers are in practice no longer believable. I’m referring to the quasi-magic ability to turn bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, and the authority to forgive sins in the sacrament of Penance. On these two functions, hangs all priestly authority and the entire special identity of the Catholic clergy.
And like the Protestant Reformers before them, many adult, thinking Catholics can no longer accept either. As we have seen, scripture scholars have shown that neither power enjoys biblical endorsement. They are inheritances from post-first century fundamentalists who lacked sensitivity to the rich symbolism of the words attributed to Jesus in the Christian Testament.
As explained earlier, that rich symbolism finds in a loaf of bread a wonderful image of the human condition. Its single reality summarizes it all. Bread is the product of seed, earth, sun, rain, and human labor. When shared it miraculously creates and sustains human community. Wine is similar. Throughout his life, Jesus celebrated the community that such simple elements manifest. His teachings reinforced that basic insight. He was a prophet, a spiritual master, and a religious reformer who preferred rough illiterate fishermen over pretentious, exclusive priests. That was a radical and liberating message.
The Protestant reformers saw all of that quite clearly. And so they did away with priests who insisted on being separate and special, while being honored with titles Jesus forbade.
All of this means that the reforms of Vatican II didn’t go nearly far enough. Pope Francis is correct. To survive, the church must embark on that “new path” he called for. There nothing can be left unchanged (JG 25). The roles of women need expansion (103-4). Ecumenical cooperation with other denominations and religions must be centralized as well as the struggle for social justice (220, 258). Until all Christians in close cooperation with Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, New Agers, and atheists cooperate to attack injustice, the survival of the world itself is in doubt.
Evidently, Pope Francis himself has not perceived the implications of his brave words. Certainly, church leaders have not. It remains for the rest of us to take the lead.
Taking that lead was the thought behind my initial “Hell yeah!” to the idea of house church.
10 thoughts on ““No Priests” Is the Remedy for the Priest Shortage: Notes for a Home Church (Pt. 4 of 4)”
we are beating a dead horse…
pls dont ask me what I mean!
class of ’62
PS I admire and thank you for all your effort.
And I’ve been a fool and I’ve been blind
I can never leave the past behind
I can see no way, I can see no way
I’m always dragging that horse around
All of his questions such a mournful sound
Tonight I’m gonna bury that horse in the ground
Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
But it’s always darkest before the dawn
Florence & the Machine, “Shake It Out”
Thanks Mike. You perfectly summed up every reason why I can no longer find meaning in the current Catholic Liturgy. The one thing I do miss about Sunday Mass is reading, sharing, singing with the few of us that believed in and practiced liberation theology. If I lived closer, I would gladly attend your home church with enthusiasm. You are clearly a priest I would follow!
And you would be so welcome, Brian.
Now you’re getting there. 🙂
Whether one is using a Sufi Liturgy (dance until you have entered into Spirit*), Quaker Liturgy (as the earliest Christians did, get together on wait for the emergence of Spirit), or the old Catholic Liturgy (use music and obscure rituals in an obscure language to induce a state of communion with Spirit), the target is always the same, at least ideally.
We know from modern psychology that states of consciousness are contagious: when a person is connected with Spirit and speaks/acts from that connection, those present will “catch” some of that connection. That sharing of Spirit is true communion. It broadens the connections to Spirit of all who are affected by the person’s sharing of their Spirit experience.
In the old “Regular Baptist” churches in Appalachia there would be 6 or so “deacons” and a minister. Whichever of them was “with Spirit” on a particular Sunday gave the message. The minister was not an authority, but more like a clerk of a committee, there to keep things organized.
Quakers have a saying that “every member is a minister,” because whoever is moved is who shares their message. There are Sundays of 60 minutes of silence. There are rare Sundays (like last week) where we had perhaps 6 messages, including one sung message. I have been present at a meeting where there was a dancing message.
I like the “House Church” model because it hits on another point modern psychology is exploring: that we work better together when we know each other well. Some say the magic number is 125 or 150, but from what I’ve seen both in work settings and Quaker Meetings is that the number is 50 or less, with 25 to 35 being adults. In larger numbers what is missing is the lack of empathic connection that comes from knowing others well. “Issues” become more important than people who have their own, different from ours, connection with Spirit.
Based on the perspective I’ve shared above, you have chosen the most difficult religious population to engage in a spiritual community: the older Catholics have grown up in a religion whose liturgy was based not on one’s own tuning in to the effects of Spirit in the moment, but rather being induced into the experience of communion with Spirit. Daily work in tuning into Spirit and willing/allowing that experience to be as strong as it can be at the moment might be a good place to start. Practice doesn’t make perfect, but often does make better.
* Spirit is a placeholder for the experience of connection with “the numinous,” which by definition is able to be experienced but is unable to be described. Pick your own name, as whatever name we pick is arbitrary except in the sense that is meaningful for the person using it.
Go for it! We need a world in which people tune into Spirit in themselves and in others. We desperately need that.
Beautiful and insightful comment, Hank. Do you have a daily spiritual practice that keeps you in touch with the numinous? Mine is meditation following the guidance of Eknath Easwaran. I’m also highly influenced by “A Course in Miracles,” especially as explained by Marianne Williamson (who’s coming to Berea next month!).
I’ve never been one for, or any good at, following a series of steps to reach a goal. That’s just me: I’m not good at remembering things (e.g., poems) or at visual imagination (I can play with images in my head in a hypnagogic state, but otherwise can see only a faint idea of an apple, e.g.). So I’m unlike most other people in being at one end of the spectrum in my ability to use other folks’ ways of doing things. Ignatian spiritual formation, e.g., even if I were so-minded in terms of theology, would be quite beyond me.
So, I keep things simple, because I have to.
If I experience being disconnected from someone, I use the Gurdjieff/Gestalt (John Wright) method of connecting as strongly as I can with their experience. Likewise if I feel disconnected from myself (frantic or ruminating or hopeless or whatever symptom of being disconnected from Spirit). I push what’s there are strongly as I can. The uniform result is a helpful differentiation of what was a mass of turmoil, and is palpable, as reflected in my body and emotional experience. Everything is still there, and I am centered in it.
When I experience “drifting” I ask for guidance (“hey, what should I be doing now?”) and wait quietly for the reply. Sometimes the reply is quite direct (“go help so-and-so”). Sometimes the reply is a certainty (again, palpable) that I will be led over time, when the time is right for me. I’ve gained confidence in this latter reply as I’ve seen it work out over time.
In other words, for me it’s pretty much a here and now direct relationship with others and with Spirit.
It took me a while to figure out what worked for me in groups. In Quaker Meeting, at the start of Meeting, I do my best to connect with those present simultaneously, and then ask to be led to what our needs are as a community. Then I listen. The hardest part for me is learning to disregard words/sentence/thoughts that come to mind: I’ve learned that for me at least, those are old things that are known. That which enlightens, at least for me, is that which bursts forth from deep experience, in which I hear the words for the first time after my mouth has spoken them. Getting to deep experience first is the prerequisite.
My writing of something like this reply follows a similar pattern of “strong undifferentiated experience” unpacked by focused experiencing until what is written reflects what is inside me. It is a tedious process in the sense of writing, checking against what is inside, and adjusting until I’ve reached a point where it “feels right.” I re-read and adjust umpteen times. That’s really the only way I know to write anything (which made doing things like my dissertation 44 years ago a painful process, saved only by my access to the system editor on the Emory mainframe, which I used as a word processor).
I too am looking forward to Williamson’s visit, both due to her topic (which is like an advertisement for Quakers 🙂 ) and also because connecting with the inner spirit of another person works much better in person. The latter is of the most interest to me.
Yet once again, thanks for the opportunity,
Thank you, Hank, for explaining your practice. For my part, I’ve tried to follow more conventional paths — first Ignatius during my 30 day retreat when I was 20, then Eknath Easwaran beginning 19 years ago, Vipassana during and after our trip to India 3 years ago, and now with “A Course in Miracles.” They are all mystical paths, I think; they all complement one another.
Indeed they are. I think I mentioned I just made my way through Kung’s “Tracing the Way,” and he is very clear (with chapter and verse, as it were) on that point.
Oops, brain-farted. That’s John Enright, not John Wright. As in his book, Enlightening Gestalt: Waking up from the nightmare. I attended his first ARC seminars in the late 70’s.