#210: The Evolution of Hope

This is the second of three pieces I wrote around Benedict XVI's visit to the US in 2008.

 

It is no secret that Benedict XVI has not enjoyed good press.  His speech on Christian-Muslim relations caused trouble for its unflattering references; Bin Laden has recently charged him with leading a “crusade” against Islam; his Easter Vigil baptism of a prominent Italian Muslim raised further suspicions that he sees the Church competing with Islam in a time when, we learned this week, Muslims now (and for the first time in history) outnumber Catholics.

But Easter season is a time for hope, and Benedict’s new encyclical “Spe Salvi” is fascinating for what it says about hope, and even more for what it says more about our time and our world.  Far from suggesting that Benedict is a fearful man who lacks hopefulness, this document reveals him as one who feels called to proclaim hope to a world badly in need of  it.

In this sense, this is very much a new kind of encyclical. To John XXIII’s openness to all humanity, Paul VI’s focus on contemporary issues, and John-Paul II’s sweeping vision of a global culture of life, Benedict adds his own personal urgency rooted in lifelong to scholarship and theological reflection . 

The first section focuses on the treatment of hope in scripture.  Here, says Benedict, we find that hope is virtually interchangeable with faith, since by their faith Christians know they have a future. This knowledge is not just information to be filed away, but it performs a practical function: it changes our lives.  We live differently because our faith gives us hope . 

He then reviews how faith-based hope is presented in both the New Testament and the early Church.  For Benedict, Christ’s teaching about the kingdom of God shows us what it means to be truly human by drawing the future into the present and creating a new foundation for life that puts into perspective our "habitual foundation" of routine daily concerns and crises, and gives a "new freedom" to live life in the light of eternity. 

(About “eternal life” he asks two delicate questions: What is it?  Do we really want it?  He admits the notion of “eternal life” in Catholic tradition has often been unhelpful. After all, if “eternal” means interminable, and “life” means the kind of life we already know--is all there is?  In fact, he says, we are driven beyond the life we know to hope for more, even though we cannot grasp what could be beyond: the "blessed life" in which we are all happy all the time!) 

Benedict then moves to an overview of how the very idea of hope has undergone an evolution. During the Renaissance, he claims, developments in technology and global exploration led to a new kind of faith--a faith in progress. And this, he thinks set in motion the "trajectory of modern times" which has led us, in his view, to a crisis of hope . 

This faith in progress depended on two things: the rise of reason and the rise of freedom.  By the 18^th century both of these took on political meaning, and both were seen in conflict with faith and Church.  In this conflict, hope was "rescued" from the custody of the Church 's faith and transformed into a political notion.  This happened in two stages.

First came the French Revolution, which claimed to liberate the victims of feudal aristocracy and ecclesiastical power on the basis of reason, and offered hope of a better life beyond monarchy and hierarchy. 

A second stage drew its inspiration from Karl Marx , who proposed a new revolution to liberate victims of industrialism by promising to replace the control of owners with a classless society. 

Benedict does not deny the noble aspirations behind these revolutions, but proposes two critiques: a critique of heaven and a critique of earth--that is , a critique of faith-based hope as well as a critique of politically-based hope.

In fact, Benedict does not really complain that both science and politics have progressed so far.  He does not blame either one for the crisis of hope he perceives.  Rather, he says, our spiritual formation has not kept pace.  This is very much the central view of Vatican II, which always argued that the central challenge of our time is to match modernity’s technical and political power with a spiritual wisdom capable of guiding that power into a future that is better and not worse than our past. 

But the basic question that Benedict sees underlying this challenge is: What do we really hope for?  If we hope for political structures or scientific achievements that will produce a happy world, he is convinced we are fooling ourselves.  In his view, freedom always remains freedom for evil as well as for good, and no structure can guarantee peoples’ goodness unless it destroys their freedom do so:

Certainly we cannot “build” the Kingdom of God by our own efforts—what we build will always be the kingdom of man with all the limitations proper to our human nature.

Personally, I have often wondered what it was about the widespread political turmoil of 1968, especially the rioting and revolt of students on campuses throughout Europe, that so altered Joseph Ratzinger’s posture in relationship to contemporary society.  In this encyclical, I believe, he presents his answer. 

For those of us who lived through that period as students, many were caught up in the romantic enthusiasm and euphoria of thinking we could actually change the world.  Some of us, however, managed to enjoy the electricity of the moment without being seduced by it. We recognized how naive it would be to expect the prevailing powers to simply yield to youthful idealism and without a fight.

But Joseph Ratzinger could not enjoy even the electricity, for his skepticism was deeper: he saw such enthusiasm as a dangerous capitulation to a false hope that ignored the reality of human nature and human freedom.  And here his pessimism culminates in his call for a critique of the "ambiguity  of progress."  

He is not against progress nor does he believe that the  Church should be, but he sees the evolution of hope that led to 1968 as duping people into the belief that progress would lead to a kingdom of God on earth.  So he repeats Vatican II’s concern that if technical progress is not matched by ethical formation, disaster can follow.  Reason needs faith, because freedom can never guarantee moral perfection.

But Benedict also has a critique of religion. For he believes Christianity has taken the wrong path of treating faith and spirituality as a purely private matter:

Modern Christianity, faced with the successes of science in progressively structuring the world, has to a large extent restricted its attention to the individual and his salvation. In so doing it has limited the horizon of its hope and has failed to recognize sufficiently the greatness of its task—even if it has continued to achieve great things in the formation of man and in care for the weak and the suffering.

Benedict is wielding two blades at once here.  On the one hand he says all utopias eventually become unmasked, unable to produce the perfect society they promise.  To invest our hope in them is to doom ourselves to despair.  On the other hand, faith that retreats into private personal devotions forgets that our communion with Jesus involves a commitment to living for others and to worldly concerns.  If our drive to hope in something more than what we already have is to avoid despair, then our faith must match the idealism of utopia even while it offers more. 

I find Benedict's view somewhat dark but also quite profound.  I may be more optimistic in my view of hope than he is, but I have absolutely no doubt that the issue he addresses is as important as any issue we face today, not only in the Church but also in the world. 

And I also have no doubt that Benedict is raising this issue with a clarity and a power that no other public figure can offer. 

© Bernard F. Swain PhD 2008