The Catholicization of a Catholic

This post was originally titled “The Liberalization of a Catholic,” but upon further reflection, I realized that “liberal” just wasn’t an apt word to describe my theological adventures. While some traditional Catholics might say I’m a more liberal Catholic now (and I do understand where they’re coming from), I would argue that if nothing else, I’m simply more Catholic than I was before. I’ll share with you a couple anecdotes to frame the rest of my post:
 
Anecdote 1: Recently I was spending time with college friends, catching up on our post-undergrad journeys. I of course mentioned my graduate studies in theology at Loyola University Chicago, after which one of my friends asked, “isn’t it really liberal there?” I was at a slight loss for words. I knew what he was asking, but the word “liberal” isn’t at the heart of the question. I think that what he more likely meant to ask was “is it really Catholic?” to which I respond with an unequivocal “yes!” I ended up telling him, in our circle of friends, that I didn’t think liberal was the right word to describe the school, anyway, and that my classes have been focused on social justice.
 
Anecdote 2: About a year ago I started at Loyola by taking two introductory theology courses, one of them being an Old Testament course. Our professor mentioned once that she was for the ordination of women, and I remember thinking “But you’re Catholic! And a professor of theology! Shouldn’t you know better?” Later on in the semester, she mentioned that once, in one of the many biblical workshops she leads in local parishes, she was introduced as a liberal Catholic, and she thought it was so unusual. At the time I thought “well, you’re for women’s ordination, so yes, you’re liberal.”
 
After a semester of grad work in theology, and some evolving viewpoints, I now understand where my Old Testament professor was coming from. From her (and now my own) point of view, the issue isn’t whether or not we’re liberal or, God-forbid, “cafeteria Catholics.” Rather, for me, it’s been a radical shift in what theological information I’m receiving and thinking critically about.
 
After my first semester of grad school, I still consider myself a devout, practicing Catholic. I believe in the real presence of the Eucharist. I am against abortion, artificial contraceptives, in-vitro fertilization and similar reproductive technologies. I go to Mass every Sunday and on holy days of obligation. I’m in the confessional weekly. However, I’m for women’s ordination. I’m for priests getting married (though I think it’s highly impractical – more on that another day). I’m no longer sure where I stand on gay marriage or transgenderism. There are a lot of things up in the air and/or changing, and it’s been a personal challenge to navigate it all.
 
When I first started a year ago, in my introductory courses, I thought I knew a lot. I did, but what I knew is what most well-educated, practicing Catholics know: the result of two thousand years of theological works, compiled, condensed, and canonized by the Church. Most of my good friends fall into this category; they know their theology well and can competently argue it with most anyone. The missing piece that I’ve found through grad school is opening up the now-orthodox beliefs to figure out how and why they got there.
 
Opening up doctrinal development, and moreover contemporary evolution of doctrinal development, has been absolutely fascinating to study. One of my professors told my class frequently that theology is not a noun, but rather a verb. No one has the last word on God, and theology can (and does) change. I even consider the Catechism to be a flexible document; while it is an excellent volume and very useful, it certainly doesn’t have all the answers (nor are they all correct – gasp!).
 
Now, one might say “but Cecille – truth isn’t a democracy! It’s absolute and unchanging!” I half-agree with this thought. No, we as human beings don’t have the privilege of deciding what truth is, at least at its core. But we do have the gift of being able to talk about it and decipher what it means for us. That’s not to say we “change” truth, but rather that we learn to interpret it in light of what we know now. And, because we don’t have the privilege of knowing all truth, sometimes we have to make educated guesses as to what it is based on what we know. Again, that’s not to say we decide what truth is for ourselves, but rather we do our best with what we have to figure it out. We are often wrong – and that’s okay.
 
I’ll give you an example. Thomas Aquinas, undoubtedly one of Christendom’s greatest theologians, came to some conclusions that are simply wrong. He writes in his Summa Theologica, “As regards the individual nature, woman is defective and misbegotten, for the active force in the male seed tends to the production of a perfect likeness in the masculine sex; while the production of woman comes from defect in the active force or from some material indisposition, or even from some external influence; such as that of a south wind.” (Treatise on Man, Q. 92, Art. 1, Reply to Obj. 1).
 
Aquinas is saying that women are a quirk in the reproductive process; the “natural” outcome of the male seed is another male, but due to some defect, a woman is the result. He continues in his reply by stating, “as regards human nature in general, woman is not misbegotten, but is included in nature’s intention as directed to the work of generation.” So women, while a biological defect, are nonetheless included in the plan of creation.
 
Aquinas didn’t get it right, but that doesn’t mean we should toss out the whole Summa or dismiss his contributions as a theologian. He did the best he could with the knowledge he had and the time he lived in.
 
Similarly, that’s how I’m finding I approach a lot of the traditional theology, the teachings of the Catechism included: this is the best we have with what we know, but it may not be the final word. To assume that any of us has the final word on the study of our faith is rather short-sighted, in my opinion. As I mentioned earlier, theology isn’t a noun, but a verb. Theology is not static; doing theology is a very active, dynamic process that is constantly unfolding.
 
What is one to do? Thankfully, that’s where theologians, philosophers, scholars, and many more come into the picture. Many individuals, myself included, have decided to devote their time and effort into deciphering what faith is and what it means. Much like the hypotheses, theories, and laws of science, there are traditions, doctrines, and dogmas of Christianity that we are yet unfolding and learning more about.
 
Going from a set of beliefs that I thought were rigid to having a more open, critical ear has been a very challenging process. The key for me has been moving theology from its once-static state to a now-dynamic state.
 
I’ll share another anecdote with you to illustrate this point. I was chatting with my roommate and her boyfriend (another theologian-in-training) on various conferences that I was submitting proposals to, in terms of their topics of interest and themes. My roommate asked if people are writing about things like the Eucharist, to which I said “not much, no,” and she responded with “well that’s sad.” My response? “Not really.”
 
I understand where she was coming from. When I first got the idea to study theology, I thought it included the following: studying what we know, coming up with new ways to say what we know, and coming up with new ways to defend what we know. There was a massive disconnect between the orthodox theology I wanted to defend and the “real” theology that gives life and plays a central role in our lives.
 
Take, for example, the Trinity. A year ago, I’d have said that the Trinity definitely played a role in my daily life, as the source and reason for my life, and the subject or object of many prayers. I’d have said that the Trinity is a mystery to be pondered, not solved, and studying the Trinity would involve all sorts of insights as to the gloriousness of God. While true in many ways, these thoughts don’t really point to living Trinitarian life. What is the point of having such an important belief if it doesn’t enter dynamically into one’s life and one’s relationships with others? The Trinity isn’t just a mystery to ponder, or a mystery to praise, but a signpost for living a true Christian life. I found a radical change from observing the Trinity as an important faith-filled topic in my life to an absolute necessity for living an authentic, fulfilling human life.
 
Going back to the point of the Eucharist, I have found that while modern theologians do write on it, it’s not so much on the Eucharist itself. Rather, I might find articles and books on the Eucharist and women, or the Eucharist and suffering, and the like. Unlike the many spiritual volumes that have been written on the metaphysics of the Eucharist, or the spiritual benefits of the Blessed Sacrament, or praises for the Most Holy, I might find that today’s theologians are trying to move the topic to modern-day applications. Asking “what does it mean?” with regard to women, suffering, racism, political injustice, and even the environment brings the self-contained discussions of the Eucharist to the forefront of human experiences and transformations. That’s theology.
 
So when I say it’s “not really” sad that we’re not talking about the Eucharist, I mean that we are gaining much more by reconnecting theological concepts to lived experiences than by pondering the concept itself.
 
How does this all relate to my recent “liberalization?” You’ll understand by now that cracking open theology as a living body has caused a big shift in the way I think about how theology is done and experienced. Consequently, when I started studying about what I thought were closed, canonized dogmas, such as the Trinity, I found that there is a lot of work left to do. While studying the work left to do, I found that some beliefs I had once held as rigid no longer made sense with the arguments I had been taught.
 
I’ll give you the example of women’s ordination*, which stems from learning more about the Trinity. When studying more about the persons of the Trinity – God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit – we studied their gender roles. Almost all Christendom knows the Spirit has no body, and therefore has no gender. The majority of Christians believe God has no body either (major exception: Mormons), and that the title “Father” has more to do with role than person. We can all agree that Jesus was born into a physically male body. So, of the three persons, only one – Jesus – has a “real” gender.
 
I’ve always understood that to be a priest, one must be acting in the person of Christ. Men, matching Christ in his gender, are the closest embodiment of acting in the person of Christ. However, we are all called to be like Christ, men and women. Are women unable to be in the person of Christ because of their gender? My previous answer would have been yes – while women can be like Christ, they cannot act in the person of Christ.
 
Why gender, though? Why focus on that characteristic of Jesus as the determinant for priestly eligibility? Why not ethnicity, religion, or race? Why not require all priests to be male, Middle Eastern Jews from the region of Galilee? The thought seems almost preposterous, doesn’t it? So why gender? It is because it’s the lowest common denominator between Jesus and humanity? Wouldn’t his humanity be the lowest common denominator?
 
Another couple arguments came up as my views were shifting: Jesus only had men in the Upper Room. Jesus’ twelve apostles were male, though we know he had female disciples, a different role. Jesus chose men, not women. Who are we to override the choices of God himself?
 
To this I would now argue that much of it was likely due to cultural appropriation and norms. In the early church we have plenty of examples of women leading, prophesying, and preaching. It wasn’t until the church was a little more organized, roughly the 4th century, that formal roles started emanating, slowly leaving women out of the picture.
 
My issue isn’t with history or tradition, though. It is with the issue of acting in the person of Christ. Before the incarnation, where was Jesus? Who was Jesus? Where was the Logos, the Word of God? And does the Word of God have a gender? Do souls have genders?
 
It was a bit thorny. I couldn’t bring myself to agree that souls have genders, having no materiality. Souls may very well have more feminine or masculine characteristics, according to the physical body they are connected to. What about the Word of God having a gender? Jesus did have a gender on earth. I’m guessing he has a gender in his resurrected body, though how that gender relates to how we understand genders on earth is another matter altogether.
 
In short, I couldn’t justify any reason why a physical characteristic (and whatever psychological traits assigned to it) was the definer of eligibility in the priesthood, particularly considering the genderless-ness of God herself and the Logos.
 
Does that make me a cafeteria Catholic or a liberal Catholic? I hardly think so. My thoughts were the result of critical thinking on the identity of God and our likeness to her. It didn’t come out of a feminist manifesto or any sense of injustice I felt on my part as a woman in the Church. I never went into theology thinking some of my beliefs would change. But they simply had to, with the new insights I came across, and coming to accept this has been one of the greatest challenges in my faith journey.
 
A changed viewpoint doesn’t mean the Church is suddenly wrong or not divinely inspired. I don’t think women ought to proclaim themselves priests today or tomorrow, either. Ordination is still a sacrament and is bestowed with proper authority. I am open to seeing women ordained by Catholic bishops with the full authority and backing of the Church, and not in any other way. This doesn’t mean that all women have the right to be priests, either, no more than all men have the right to be priests. The priesthood is, after all, a calling and not a right.  
 
The Holy Spirit hasn’t left the Church, either. I believe the Church is divinely inspired and under the guidance of the Spirit. It doesn’t mean we always understand what the Spirit is trying to tell us, however.
 
When I say that I am more Catholic than before, rather than “liberal,” I mean that I am more in tune with the reality of our faith as a lived experience. I am more in tune with the reality of God and her very real presence on earth. I am more aware of the practical implications of our faith and the importance of seeing our theology as a living, breathing being.
 
I’ll be posting in the near future on various issues that I either see differently or am unsure about. As for me, I still consider myself a devout, practicing Catholic, even if a few things have changed. I understand if you disagree, because I’ve been there too. There’s a lot more to the changes than meets the eye, however, and I hope this post might help you see that too.
 
Till next time.
 
*I’ll write a full post on this topic another day, so excuse my brevity.