The Audacity of PopeAug 6th, 2012 | By Neal Judisch | Category: Featured Articles
When Christ at a symbolic moment was establishing His great society, He chose for its cornerstone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystic John, but a shuffler, a snob, a coward – in a word, a man. And upon this rock He has built His Church, and the gates of Hell have not prevailed against it. All the empires and the kingdoms have failed, because of this inherent and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men and upon strong men. But this one thing, the historic Christian Church, was founded on a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no chain is stronger than its weakest link. – G.K. Chesterton
A feature of the papacy worth remarking upon is the enthusiasm with which people like me (‘Papists’) hold to it. It is odd enough on the surface that anyone should hold fast to the papacy, I suppose; for even among its supporters, the Petrine primacy (at least “as exercised”) presents an understandable obstacle to many.1 But it is all the more odd (I suppose) that somebody like me should hold fast to it. After all, I am a super-duper educated philosopher. And, as my erstwhile Anglican priest informed me, since philosophers and educated persons must in the nature of the case be free-thinkers, they cannot in the nature of the case submit to any external epistemic or moral authorities – especially not to “dogmatic” ones.
In point of fact I never did find that line of thought persuasive, still less seductive. I am way too humble to be moved by it. What I did find persuasive, and so seductive I didn’t realize I was being seduced, was something that appealed to my humility instead.
I used to believe that the Protestants had a more humble, God-honoring approach, and that the Catholics had an indefensibly high view of the human element within the Church. Things like the succession of the apostolate, the authority of the Church, the so-called “infallibility” of the pope – all of this stuff seemed to me to form a borderline blasphemous package that vaunted and exalted mere human beings at the expense of Christ and His work.
Yet in time, although I saw my previous perspective as eminently understandable, it became clear that it had been an understandable misunderstanding; a misunderstanding that had the peculiar effect of causing me to see things upside down. What I came to recognize, in other words, was that the Catholic position was in actuality the much more humble of the two. Indeed, it was downright self-effacing. For the Catholic position, paradoxically, was that it is precisely because mere men can claim no genuine spiritual authority that the successors of the apostles could claim it; and, in particular, it is precisely because no man can possibly be infallible that the bishop of Rome had to be.
The fundamental conviction here is really quite straightforward: Catholics think that we’d better not be left to our own devices, or else we’ll probably screw things up. When you get right down to the core of the thing, it isn’t that Catholics are misanthropes; they don’t think that human beings are just absolutely idiotic or irredeemably horrible. But they do have a lot of skepticism about man’s inherent capacity to get things right on his own; to see things straight for himself; to understand things clearly and objectively, apart from the potentially adverse influence of the cultural categories and presuppositions, the inherited traditions, through which he sees the world and understands the Bible – but which themselves usually remain unseen. They believe that owing to these inherent and historical limitations to which all men are subject, an individual person, even if he is a Christian indeed, cannot always rely upon himself – that his own internal “feelings” of certitude, or the inward confidence he has in his own views and in those of his tradition, do not necessarily come straight from the Holy Ghost and do not automatically mean he is right.
This Catholic stance manifests itself in a variety of ways, and it is frequently veiled in an odd sort of way behind precisely the sorts of claims I used to find so arrogant.
Think again, for example, about our previous reflections on the Biblical canon. As we’ve seen, Catholics have trust that the canon of Scripture we’ve received is the right one, because they believe that God Himself infallibly guided the Church to receive and recognize the right texts. Now this idea of an “infallible Church decree” had been uncomfortable to my Protestant ears, because it sounded like they were detracting from the authority of Scripture and its Author by placing a collection of mere men on some sort of par with them. Thus the human element, I thought, was being unduly exalted.
Yet from a Catholic perspective this gets things backward. For the Protestant alternative is to say that since the Scriptures alone are infallible, that means the Church cannot claim to have recognized infallibly which books belong in the Bible. At the same time, we know we cannot simply leave the task of determining the canon to each individual Christian, for the individual Christian clearly cannot claim to possess some sort of infallibility that he refuses to attribute to the Church. Thus we are left with the question of how we can know, how we can decide with confidence, what belongs in the Bible and what does not, if we have no guarantee that the Spirit won’t let us run off the rails – hardly a trivial issue, if the Bible is supposed to be (as the pope likes to say) the “trustworthy ground of our existence.”2
By way of response, John Calvin and many of his contemporary followers try to suggest that we know which books are inspired because the Scriptures “self-authenticate,” “self-validate,” “establish themselves,” and the like. But do you see what has happened? Calvin et al. recognize quite rightly that human beings are not infallible. So they attempt, through these rhetorical devices, simply to bypass the human element altogether, by speaking as though the Biblical canon somehow formed itself without any human involvement at all.3 And they do it in such a way that if you deny their proposal, it sounds like you’re denigrating the Bible.
But this strategy is no more than a band-aid draped over an open wound. The question is a serious one, and the human element cannot simply be bypassed; unavoidably, a judgment must be made by which humans decide what counts as Scripture and what does not, and no amount of “self-authenticating” or “self-validating” rhetoric could possibly obviate that. So, who decides, and how?
Ultimately, in this instance, the Protestant approach leaves us with a collection of writings and fallible humans who are supposed to decide which of them count as God’s words. To be sure, the Spirit is thought to be involved in some way; but it’s never entirely clear exactly what the way is. What is clear, however, is that whatever form His involvement takes, the Spirit does not infallibly guide the Church when it comes to such matters as these – since that would be to take the Catholic (and therefore man-exalting) approach; presumably, so as to ensure His own exaltation as opposed to man’s, the Spirit must leave room for human error. So what follows inevitably is this: to the extent we have full trust and confidence that the decisions about the canon were correctly reached, to that extent we exalt the human’s ability to figure things out for himself, and with no guarantee that the Spirit protects him from error. Thus the Protestant is assigning a much higher place to the role of human judge than he ought, at least from the Catholic point of view. For what’s really happened here is that the Protestant does not eliminate the human element, but rather retains the human element and specifically denies that the Spirit infallibly saw to it that the human element did not go astray. Nevertheless, we are still meant to place our faith in this Biblical canon – and therefore at least partly in the wisdom and acumen of these men. And that makes Catholics uncomfortable.
Similar remarks apply, as we’ve also seen, to the question of “Tradition” and “Magisterium.” The idea of an authoritative tradition and ecclesial teaching organ had sounded uncomfortable to my Protestant ears, since it sounded as though Catholics didn’t think the Bible was enough, that the words of mere men had to be added so as to round off and complete what was apparently lacking in the very Word of God. Here again, I thought, the Catholics were detracting from Scripture and its Author by putting mere men on some sort of par with them, and the human element was being unduly exalted once more.
Yet from a Catholic perspective this gets things upside down. For the Protestant alternative is to say that since Scripture alone is infallible, that means the Church cannot claim such authority when it comes to Scriptural interpretation. At the same time, we know we cannot simply leave this task to each individual Christian, for neither the individual Christian nor the tradition to which he belongs can claim to possess some sort of authority that he refuses to attribute to the Church. So, we are left with the question of how we can know, how we can decide with confidence, which of the endlessly diverse and contradictory Christian traditions has things right – hardly a trivial matter, if it might mean heresy on the one hand or fidelity to the Faith on the other.
By way of response, many Protestants assert that the Scriptures are “perspicuous;” that the Holy Spirit “inwardly seals” its truth upon the heart of every “true believer;” that we have no need of any “infallible tradition” because the Bible is “sufficient” in such wise that we can go by “Scripture alone.” But do you see what has happened? Such Protestants recognize, quite rightly, that a human being cannot claim infallibility for his own interpretive tradition – still less for himself. So they attempt, through these rhetorical devices, to simply bypass the human element altogether, by speaking as though their beliefs are sort of just “downloaded” straight from the Bible – or “telegraphed” to them, as one Reformed blogger recently put it – in a way functionally unmediated by any tradition or interpretive filter at all. And they do it in such a way that if you deny their proposal, it sounds like you’re denigrating the Bible.
But this proposal, too, does not suffice to allay the seriousness of the questions involved. Perspicuous the Bible may be; but that isn’t to say everyone understands it perspicuously. Sufficient the Scriptures may be, in some good sense; but that isn’t to say each reader is a sufficient interpreter unto himself. Inerrant the Bible may be; yet that isn’t to say that any true believer unerringly “gets” what it says. And any tradition must of course be subject to Scripture – but none can pretend that only Catholics have a “tradition” to which their Scriptural understanding pays heed.
Ultimately, in this instance, the Protestant approach leaves us with fallible humans who are supposed to rightly understand what the Scriptures mean – and keep the Church running on course – on their own. To be sure, the Holy Spirit is thought to be involved in some way; but it’s never made entirely clear what this way is. What is clear, however, is that the Holy Spirit doesn’t infallibly guide anybody about this stuff, since that would be to take the Catholic (and therefore man-exalting) position. But what follows inevitably is this: to the extent we have full trust and confidence in our own ability to understand Scripture, or in the deliverances of our theological tradition, to that extent we exalt our ability to figure things out for ourselves – with no guarantee that the Spirit will protect us from error.
Thus the Protestant is assigning a much higher place to the role of human tradition than he ought, at least from the Catholic point of view. For what’s actually happened here is that the Protestant does not eliminate the human tradition, but rather retains the tradition and specifically denies that the Spirit infallibly ensures the tradition will not go astray. Nevertheless, we are still meant to place our faith in this tradition – and therefore at least partly in the wisdom and acumen of some group of men. And that makes Catholics uncomfortable.
This, I think, is really where the rubber meets the road. For the gut response of most Protestants at this point (including my former self) is to assert that they do not put their faith in any “tradition,” but rather in the Scriptures themselves, and that to whatever degree they follow a “tradition” they do so only because it “faithfully reflects” the teaching of the Bible. But everyone can see that this simply pushes the question back a step. For where, exactly, have they come by the crucial information that their tradition is the one which “faithfully reflects” the teaching of Scripture over against all the others, unless they have either accepted this on the authority of their tradition, or accepted it on the authority of themselves?
No, a person cannot maintain this posture forever. At some point any Christian will have to face the discomfiting reality that everyone says precisely the same thing about their own “tradition” and its relation to the Bible, including the Catholics. To be sure, he may feel assured of his own standing as an adopted child of God. He may believe quite reasonably that he has experienced the grace of conversion. He may point to the fruit of the Spirit in his life, and in the lives of those who share his theological outlook. He may feel quite certain, inwardly, about the rectitude of his own theological views. But every Christian in every tradition can do the same thing. So how does that make him right; how does that make his tradition the uniquely privileged one; how does that mean he sees things so much more clearly than everyone who happens to disagree?
Psychologically – and I speak from experience here – the “safest” and most comforting response to this challenge is to recognize one’s own limitations on a theoretical level, but then to dismiss them entirely in real life. That is, one admits to his own fallibility, his own intellectual limitations, and allows for the theoretical possibility that his tradition might not have things right. One admits, moreover, that there are such things as interpretive “filters” through which he understands the Bible, and which could in principle lead him astray without his realizing it, despite his most sincere efforts. Thus one allows, theoretically, for a “gap” between Scripture and his own (or his tradition’s) interpretation of it – indeed, one even insists on this theoretical gap, as proof of his commitment to Sola rather than Solo Scriptura, whenever it seems necessary to draw a distinction between the two. Yet in defiance of these theoretical concessions, there remains in all of us, by God’s own design, a legitimate and by no means quirky need for assurance, for reflective equilibrium; and God does not wish His children to lapse into a skepticism that says we cannot know the truth, or (worse yet) a relativism that makes “truth” so easy to come by that it isn’t even worth the pursuit. So the next step, in the “safe” and “comforting” response, is to take back with one hand what you’d given with the other, and allow, in practice, your own tradition to exercise a controlling influence, whereby the theoretical “gap” between Scripture and your tradition functionally disappears.
What happens then, inevitably, is the critical distance that should exist between your own theological convictions and the Bible itself collapses, with the result that the confidence and certainty that may licitly be directed toward God’s Word is illicitly transferred in its entirety to a particular theological system.
This is a common and commonly unacknowledged trap, and one into which I had fallen in previous years. And the effects of this maneuver became evident in my case, most especially, when I found another person disagreeing with me on matters I deemed essential to the Christian Faith. For when this occurred – since I’d already presupposed that neither I nor my tradition could really be wrong – there was little recourse for me but to assume that this person suffered either from intellectual defects on the one hand, or from moral and spiritual defects on the other. My diagnosis, in other words, had to be that they did not read Scripture carefully enough, or, alternatively, if it looked like they were reading carefully, then they’d been duped by a tradition which had led them into apostasy; and God had allowed this to happen either because they were not “true believers” to begin with, or because they were not being faithful to Him. (Translation: they either were not as smart as me and my friends, or they were not as godly as me and my friends – all thanks to God, of course.)
The upshot, then, was that in the name of exalting Scripture and downplaying tradition, it became impossible for me to submit my tradition to Biblical scrutiny. For to deny the tradition – or even to question the tradition – was nothing other than to deny or question the Bible itself, which only an intellectually or morally deficient person would do: and I most certainly wasn’t deficient on either count.
But do you see what had happened? At the end of this chain – and it is a chain, in more ways than one – everything inevitably terminated with me. To question my own understanding of Scripture was to question that of my tradition. But I’d already decided that my tradition “faithfully reflected” the teaching of Scripture. Thus to question my tradition was to question the Scriptures; and to question the Scriptures was to question God. Hence, in a few short steps I had assumed for myself and for my tradition exactly the kind of sweeping authority I refused to allow any other person or tradition in the world. In the name of upholding Scripture over tradition I exalted my tradition over the Scriptures; and in the interest of humbling the pope I had taken his place. For the fact is that as respects interpretive authority, there is no such thing as a vacuum.
So that was more or less the trap into which I’d fallen. But I think I’d always known deep down that it was only a cheap trick, a frail means of self-defense gained more by theft than honest toil. And after discovering time and again that I didn’t know quite as much as I had thought, it became increasingly hard for me to occupy this stance in good faith.
No, following these recognitions, what I had always known to be true in a theoretical sense would have to make more than a theoretical difference. Neither I, nor my heroes, nor my tradition was infallible; neither I, nor my heroes, nor my tradition, could honestly claim to stand head and shoulders above every other Christian in respect of godliness and intelligence. That much I’d really known all along. But what now? What exactly had I learned about myself, and how exactly should this knowledge be applied? When and how had I come to think I saw things so much more clearly than St. Ignatius when it came to the sacraments? Than St. Irenaeus when it came to succession? Than St. Jerome when it came to the pope? Than St. Augustine when it came to justification? Than Luther when it came to the Immaculate Conception, or the intercessory power of the Mother of God? Before judging them all wrong, had I ever really tried to get beyond the superficial slogans, the bombastic bumper-stickers, the emotionally charged polemics, the mean-spirited sneering, the proud contempt by which I assumed I knew my Bible so much better than any Catholic on planet earth? Had I ever actually been willing to let the Catholics calmly explain in their own terms what they believed, what they didn’t, and why? Had I, in the face of these witnesses, ever honestly grappled with the possibility that I might be the one who had something to learn? Had I ever really earned the right to protest?
I don’t think I ever really did. But from this point I was feeling prepared to allow myself room for the fact that, if I honestly asked these questions, if I tried to push past the psychologically protective maneuvering by which I had unfairly insulated myself from all possible critique, it really wasn’t a matter of questioning the Bible after all. It was simply a matter of questioning whether the tradition through which I’d read the Bible, which disclaimed any sort of infallibility for itself, was necessarily correct. It was not a matter of questioning God. It was not a matter of doubting God. It was a matter of questioning and doubting me. It was sincerely to ask whether my own inward feelings of certainty – which all my detractors seemed equally to share – might owe less to any privileged position I personally held with God, and more to the basic facts of the human condition: facts that apply quite as much to me as they do to anyone else.
It was of course a humbling and discomfiting thing to look at myself in the mirror like that. Yet if I only knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as frightened as I was. For from the Catholic point of view, to be brought to this point is not to lose hope of seeing the light: it is to be drawn that much closer to seeing the Light at the end of the tunnel. It is to remember that God knows our situation; that He knows our frame; and that He has provided, as a loving Father, for all that His family needs. This He does, as always, in and through mere human beings. But this is not after all to exalt human beings as opposed to God. Rather, it is to lay bare the undeniable need each one of us has for something more than himself, and to grasp with all the reckless abandon of faith, hope, and charity the life-giving truth that we are not alone, because our Father has given us a Mother.
Ultimately, Catholics look to the Church because they look to the Spirit. And they look to the Spirit because when they look to themselves they do not find the resources to keep the Church – or even themselves – running on course. For the Catholic, the fundamental reason we must cling to the words of St. Paul and St. John is founded on the fact that God breathed His Words through theirs – even though, left to their own devices, they may well have written things that were false or pernicious. And in the same way, the fundamental reason we must cling to the Church is founded on the fact that God is true, though every man a liar: He will never abandon His Bride. And all the devils of hell will fall flailing and prostrate beneath her, because the Body of Christ casts the Shadow of God.
At the end of the day, then, it is because Catholics believe in God that we believe in the authority of the pope. It isn’t a question of his having more spiritual insight or wisdom than anybody else, or possessing some natural power other people lack. It is a matter of God’s continuing providential and fatherly concern for His family, the pilgrim Church on earth, which He exercises through human beings who are utterly unequal to the task in themselves. No one, I think, has expressed this more powerfully than the present pontiff, Benedict XVI. And it seems only fitting that the final words of this reflection should go to him.
* * *
In order to understand the way in which Peter is a rock, a quality he does not have of himself, it is useful to keep in mind how Matthew continues the narrative. It was not by “flesh and blood” but by the revelation of the Father that he had confessed Christ in the name of the Twelve. When Jesus subsequently explains the figure and the destiny of the Christ in this world, prophesying death and resurrection, it is flesh and blood that respond: Peter “scolds the Lord”: “By no means shall this ever be” (16:22). To which Jesus replies: “Be gone, behind me, Satan; you are a stumbling block (skandalon) for me” (16:23). Left to his own resources, the one who by God’s grace is permitted to be the bedrock is a stone on the path that makes the foot stumble.
The tension between the gift coming from the Lord and man’s own capacity is rousingly portrayed in this scene, which in some sense anticipates the entire drama of papal history. In this history we repeatedly encounter two situations. On the one hand, the papacy remains the foundation of the Church in virtue of a power that does not derive from herself. At the same time, individual popes have again and again become a scandal because of what they themselves are as men, because they want to precede, not to follow, Christ, because they believe that they must determine by their own logic the path that only Christ himself can decide: “You do not think God’s thoughts, but man’s” (Mt 16:23).
We find a parallel to the promise that the power of death will not be able to prevail against the rock (or the Church?) in the vocation of the prophet Jeremiah, to whom it is said at the beginning of his mission: “And behold – I am making you today a fortified city, a pillar of iron, a wall of bronze against the whole land, against the kings of Judah, its officials, its priests and the people of the land. They will fight against you and yet not vanquish you, for I am with you to rescue you” (1:18f).
What A. Weiser writes a propos of this word of the Old Testament can also serve perfectly well as an exegesis of the promise of Jesus concerning Peter: “God demands the entire courage of an unreserved trust in his prodigious power when he promises the seemingly impossible: that he will make this soft man into a ‘fortified city’, an ‘iron pillar’ and a ‘bronze wall’, that Jeremiah will stand alone like a living wall of God against the whole land and those who wield power in it … It is not the inviolability of the ‘consecrated’ man of God that will protect him against harm … but only the proximity of God, who ‘rescues’ him, so that his foes will not be able to prevail against him (cf. Mt 16:18).” However, the promise to Peter is more sweeping that that which was given to the prophet of the Old Testament. Whereas mere powers of flesh and blood were pitted against the prophet, the gates of hell, the destructive powers of the abyss, are ranged against Peter. Jeremiah receives only a personal promise for his service as a prophet; Peter receives a promise for the time-transcendent gathering of the new people – a gathering that stretches beyond his own lifetime. This is why Harnack believed that the Lord’s promise is a prophecy of Peter’s immortality, and in a certain sense this is correct: the rock will not be overcome, because God does not abandon his ecclesia to the powers of destruction.
The power of the keys recalls the word of God to Eliakim recorded in Isaiah 22:22. Along with the keys, Eliakim receives in trust “dominion and control over the dynasty of the descendants of David.” But the word that the Lord addresses to the doctors of the law and the Pharisees, whom he reproaches for shutting the doors of the Kingdom of Heaven to men (Mt 23:13), also helps us to comprehend the content of this commission logion. As the faithful steward of Jesus’ message, Peter opens the door to the Kingdom of Heaven; his is the function of doorkeeper, who has to judge concerning admission and rejection (cf. Rev 3:7). In this sense, the significance of the reference to the keys clearly approximates the meaning of binding and loosing. This latter expression is taken from rabbinic language, where it stands primarily for the authority to make doctrinal decisions and, on the other hand, denotes a further disciplinary power, that is, the right to impose or to lift the ban. The parallelism “on earth and in heaven” implies that Peter’s decisions for the Church also have validity before God – an idea that also occurs in an analogous sense in Talmudic literature. If we bear in mind the parallel to the word of the risen Jesus transmitted in John 22:23, it becomes apparent that in its core the power to bind and to loose means the authority to forgive sins, an authority that in Peter is committed to the Church (cf. Mt 18:15-18).
This seems to me to be a cardinal point: at the inmost core of the new commission, which robs the forces of destruction their power, is the grace of forgiveness. It constitutes the Church. The Church is founded upon forgiveness. Peter himself is a personal embodiment of this truth, for he is permitted to be the bearer of the keys after having stumbled, confessed and received the grace of pardon. The Church is by nature the home of forgiveness, and it is thus that chaos is banished from within her. She is held together by forgiveness, and Peter is the perpetual living reminder of this reality: she is not a communion of the perfect but a communion of sinners who need and seek forgiveness. Behind the talk of authority, God’s power appears as mercy and thus as the foundation stone of the Church; in the background we hear the word of the Lord: “It is not the healthy who have need of the physician, but those who are ill; I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners” (Mk 2:17).
The Church can come into being only where man finds his way to the truth about himself, and the truth is that he needs grace. Wherever pride closes him to this insight, man cannot find the way to Jesus. The keys to the Kingdom of Heaven are the words of forgiveness, which man cannot speak of himself but are granted by God’s power alone. We also understand now why this pericope passes directly over into an announcement of the Passion: by his death Jesus has rolled the stone over the mouth of death, which is the power of hell, so that from his death the power of forgiveness flows without cease …
But the New Testament shows us more than the formal aspect of a structure; it also reveals to us the inward nature of this structure. It does not merely furnish proof texts, it is a permanent criterion and task. It depicts the tension between skandalon and rock; in the very disproportion between man’s capacity and God’s sovereign disposition, it reveals God to be the one who truly acts and is present. If in the course of history the attribution of such authority to men could repeatedly engender the not entirely unfounded suspicion of human arrogation of power, not only the promise of the New Testament but also the trajectory of that history itself prove the opposite. The men in question are so glaringly, so blatantly unequal to this function that the very empowerment of man to be the rock makes evident how little it is they who sustain the Church but God alone who does so, who does so more in spite of men than through them. The mystery of the Cross is perhaps nowhere so palpably present as in the primacy as a reality of Church history. That its center is forgiveness is both its intrinsic condition and the sign of the distinctive character of God’s power. Every single biblical logion about the primacy thus remains from generation to generation a signpost and norm, to which we must ceaselessly resubmit ourselves.
When the Church adheres to these words in faith, she is not being triumphalistic but humbly recognizing in wonder and thanksgiving the victory of God over and through human weakness. Whoever deprives these words of their force for fear of triumphalism or of human usurpation of authority does not proclaim that God is greater but diminishes him, since God demonstrates the power of his love, and thus remains faithful to the law of the history of salvation, precisely in the paradox of human impotence. For with the same realism with which we declare today the sins of the popes and their disproportion to the magnitude of their commission, we must also acknowledge that Peter has repeatedly stood as the rock against ideologies, against the dissolution of the word into the plausibilities of a given time, against subjection to the powers of this world.
When we see this in the facts of history, we are not celebrating men but praising the Lord, who does not abandon the Church and who desired to manifest that he is the rock through Peter, the little stumbling stone: “flesh and blood” do not save, but the Lord saves through those who are of flesh and blood. To deny this truth is not a plus of faith, not a plus of humility, but is to shrink from the humility that recognizes God as he is. Therefore the Petrine promise and its historical embodiment in Rome remain at the deepest level an ever-renewed motive for joy: the powers of hell will not prevail against it …4
- Cf. Pope John Paul II, Ut Unum Sint 95ff.; see also (e.g.) John R. Quinn, The Reform of the Papacy: The Costly Call of Christian Unity Herder and Herder (1999). [↩]
- Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Salt of the Earth: The Church at the End of the Millennium – an Interview with Peter Seewald, Ignatius Press (1996). [↩]
- See my “Calvin on Self-Authentication” for fuller discussion. [↩]
- Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Called to Communion: Understanding the Church Today, Ignatius Press (1996): 61-65, 72-74. [↩]