January 18, 2012 Scripture
and Vatican II: A very incomplete journey BRENDAN
BYRNE SJ
Of special relevance in 2012:
Brendan's comments re the Catechism of Catholic Church,in final part of article
This
article is from a public lecture from
Vatican 2: Memory and Hope – 40 Years On,
a conference presented by the Forum of Australian
Catholic Institutes of Theology (FACIT)
with Australian Catholic University,
held at St Patrick’s Melbourne Campus of ACU in
October, 2002.
LET ME BEGIN, if you will
allow, in autobiographical mode. I have long
counted myself very fortunate to belong to a
generation that knew both the
pre-Vatican II and post-conciliar period. I
shivered as an acolyte at a
dawn kindling of the Easter Vigil fire before the
transfer of the
ceremonies to the evening. As a young student for
the priesthood, I was
excited in the early 60’s as cracks were found
in the frozen pre-Vatican
II liturgy for inserting sung Gelineau psalms in
the evocative Grail
translation that we still use today. This was a
musical, imaginative
entrance into the biblical world far more
powerful than purely
intellectual instruction. Later—in the early
years of the Council
actually—the chance to learn Hebrew greatly
deepened that entry and
further studies set me on the path to be a
biblical scholar in the
post-conciliar era.
Of course, well before the Council, Australian
biblical scholars of the
preceding generation—our teachers—were
returning from studies abroad and,
in tandem with new movements in catechetics,
beginning to open up the
Bible to seminarians, to religious sisters and
other groups. Names such as
Harry Davis, Bill Dalton, Jerome Crowe, Campion
Murray, Bob Crotty, Angelo
O’Hagan, Dennis Murphy, John Scullion and
others spring readily to mind.
They had a wonderful, liberating message and, for
the most part, audiences
thirsting for what they had to offer.1 At the
same time, like all
enhancers of life, they met opposition, charges
of disloyalty and even
heresy, some of it quite personal and wounding.
They were worked off their
feet, being rectors, provincials, presidents
betimes. They broke the ice
for scholars of the next generation such as Frank
Moloney, Tony Campbell
and myself. Their contribution to the Australian
Church cannot be
over-estimated. As one of their heirs and
successors, I pay tribute to
them now.
The scholars and teachers of that generation
were, of course, the first
inheritors of the turn-around in Catholic
biblical studies that came,
twenty years before Vatican II, with the
publication in 1943 of Pius XII’s
Encyclical Divino Afflante Spiritu.2 That
biblical encyclical broke the
long winter of repression that had settled upon
Catholic study of the
Bible in response to the Modernist crisis and the
perceived excesses of
Protestant ‘higher criticism’. The
encouragement to study the Bible in the
original languages and not as refracted through
the Latin Vulgate and,
above all, the acceptance that biblical truth
appeared in a variety of
literary forms proved to be immensely liberating.
Divino Afflante Spiritu
really opened up the way for Catholic scholars to
embrace whole-heartedly
the historical-critical approach to the Bible
that had become the dominant
paradigm in Protestant scholarship, with its
roots in the Enlightenment of
the late 17th-18th century. Young Catholic
scholars of that era—the late
40’s—such as Joseph Fitzmyer, Raymond Brown
and Roland Murphy, capped
their ecclesiastical studies at the Pontifical
Biblical Institute in Rome,
with doctoral work under leading Protestant
scholars such as William
Foxwell Albright. Armed with knowledge of the
biblical languages and
immersed in the fray of discoveries such as the
Dead Sea Scrolls, they
became masters of the historical-critical
approach and the relentless
pursuit of the literal sense: to determine as
accurately as possible what
the text meant in its historical context. Their
unassailable scholarship
won for them acceptance and leadership in the
highest levels of the wider
biblical guild, hitherto the preserve of
Protestants alone. Their
monument—and the monument to Catholic practice
of the historical critical
method—is the Jerome Biblical Commentary (in
both its original and New
editions).3
Working, as I did, alongside a leading scholar of
that era, such as Joseph
Fitzmyer, on the Pontifical Biblical Commission,
I was struck by the
tenacity with which he would defend the
historical-critical approach. He
did so with the ardour of a veteran, who had seen
the battle fought long
and hard before finally sheathing his sword. As
is well known, the path
from Divino Affante Spiritu in 1943 to the Decree
On Divine Revelation in
Vatican II was not an untroubled progress. In the
final years of Pope Pius
XII and the early months of John XXIII a strong
reaction against modern
biblical scholarship made a brief but very
wounding appearance,
culminating in the suspension from teaching of
several scholars at the
Biblicum. The crisis came to a head with the
decision as to which
approach—the historical-critical sanctioned by
Divino Affante Spiritu or
the old proof-texting style of the
reactionaries—would be sanctioned in
the Decree on Divine Revelation to be considered
by the Council. As is
well known, in what was probably the most
defining act as regards the
direction the Council was to take, a draft form
of a schema on Revelation
reflecting the reactionary approach was
withdrawn, after vigorous debates,
at the first session by John XXIII, who
commissioned its rewriting, adding
to the commission responsible for the schema
several biblical scholars
reflective of the new approach.4
In the light of that victory and in its spirit,
the Pontifical Biblical
Commission, issued in 1964 an Instruction on the
Historical Truth of the
Gospels.5 Beyond the recognition of literary
forms, this very positive
document accepted that between the life of Jesus
himself and the actual
composition of the written gospels there existed
a considerable period
when the traditions about Jesus, in various
forms, were moulded and shaped
by the new awareness of his status brought
through Easter faith and also
by the variety of forms and contexts in which
they were transmitted in the
teaching and preaching of the Church.6 This
greatly defused controversy
swirling around the delicate area of historicity.
The Vatican II Dogmatic
Constitution ‘On Divine Revelation’ (Dei
Verbum) when at last promulgated
at the final Session in 1965, gave full
endorsement to this document,
taking over its content and much of its language
in its treatment of the
Gospels.7
Officially, then, with the blessing of the
Council, the path was set for
the furthering of the biblical revival in the
Catholic Church. Reversing
centuries of reaction to the Protestant campaign
for the scriptural
empowerment of believers, Vatican II insisted
that the Bible was the
treasure and possession of the entire Church and
encouraged its study and
reading on the part of all the faithful.
I have the good fortune to belong to that
generation of biblical scholars
who emerged from graduate studies in this new era
of acceptance and
ecumenical cooperation. We have never lacked
employment—not only in
positions of formal teaching but for occasional
lectures, workshops, and
other modes of biblical study. I feared at one
time that the biblical wave
might peter out, that other areas of theological
interest would rise and
eclipse interest in scripture. This has not
happened. Thirty years on, a
major in biblical studies still seems to be the
norm in the construction
of theological degrees; the lay people who now
make up the vast majority
of students show no less enthusiasm for biblical
studies than the
seminarians who once outnumbered them. In the
glory days of the mid-80’s,
institutions such as Catholic Theological College
and Yarra Theological
Union had nearly five hundred students taking
biblical courses. This means
that out there in the parishes and schools of
Australia there are tens of
thousands of scripturally literate
Catholics—literate in the sense of
knowing the kind of literature they are dealing
with when handling the
Bible, and having some knowledge of the world and
cultures from which the
texts come. Beyond mere knowledge, the scriptures
are nourishing and
energising the lives and spirituality of such
people to an extent
unthinkable before Vatican II.
All well and good, but shadows have gathered as
well as light. It is
sometimes said that it has been the misfortune of
the Catholic Church
that, after long struggle, it opened itself up to
the modern world at
Vatican II just as the world itself was rejecting
modernity—the legacy
above all of the scientific revolution and the
Enlightenment—in favour of
that somewhat amorphous but much-appealed-to
construction known as
‘post-modernity’. The Church, in other words,
decided finally to get on
the bus and take the trip just as everyone else,
intellectually and
culturally, was beginning to get off. We are
witnessing in recent times a
curious alliance between forces of reaction that
would have been at home
in the theological climate of the Modernist
repression and post-modern
tendencies that in other respects endorse a
highly relativised view of
truth that questions the validity of any kind of
over-arching grand
narrative such as Christianity would appear to
presuppose. There is also
the dispute over the legacy and meaning of
Vatican II itself. Was the
Council primarily an opening out to the modern
world and an endorsement of
the autonomy and value of the world—the kind of
endorsement characterised
above all by the ‘Pastoral Constitution on the
Church in the Modern World’
(Gaudium et Spes) and the ‘Declaration on
Religious Liberty’ (Dignitatis
Humanae)—in theological terms the Rahnerian
vision? Or was it a
rediscovery on the part of the Church of her full
biblical and patristic
patrimony, a reprising of the richness of her own
tradition, whose beauty
above all she could hold up before the world for
its chastening and
(hopefully) its captivation—in theological
terms the von Balthasar
vision?8 It is surely no secret that, during the
present pontificate and
under the current President of the Congregation
of the Doctrine of the
Faith, it is the latter, rather than the former
that has been officially
in favour.9
At one level, it might be supposed that the
biblical movement would
flourish in such an atmosphere. But the matter is
more complex than that.
As I noted earlier, the biblical movement since
Divino Affante Spiritu has
been largely the promulgation of the
historical-critical approach to the
Bible. The Jerome Biblical Commentary is its
monument. In accordance with
the post-Enlightenment ethos, history has been
the dominant paradigm. Such
an approach is very good at telling you what a
biblical text meant in its
original context—an informative and salutary
exercise, liberating
scriptural interpretation from literalist
constructions and challenging
outdated paradigms and prejudices, notably
anti-Jewish ones. It can often
be very enriching. It does demand, however, that
one enter the biblical
world on its own terms and, for a time at least,
remain there. It is not
so good at telling how to return to your own
world—the modern world—with
the riches you have gained. In other words, while
it’s good at telling you
what the text meant, it’s not so helpful in
regard to what it might now
mean.
If in this connection I might lapse back into
autobiographical mode for a
moment, my period of tenure as a member of the
Pontifical Biblical
Commission, beginning in 1990, was dominated by
the preparation of the
document, promulgated by Pope John Paul II in
April 1993, The
Interpretation of the Bible in the Church.10 On
the whole, the sessions
devoted to the composition of this document were
a rewarding experience
and, as most of you are probably aware, the
document was by and large well
received and praised for its basically positive
tone and openness to new
developments. It was interesting, however, to
observe the currents running
during its preparation. On the one hand, older
scholars such as Joseph
Fitzmyer were determined not to yield an inch of
the hard-won high ground
in regard to the primacy of the
historical-critical method, virtually to
the exclusion of everything else; on the other
hand, there were those who
felt it was time to recognise that the historical
critical method had its
limitations, that it had limited appeal in many
pastoral and homiletic
contexts, and needed to be supplemented by other
approaches and methods of
interpretation. At one stage, too, it had more or
less been agreed upon to
omit the virtually compulsory salute in church
documents on Scripture to
the ‘treasure-house’ of Patristic
interpretation. Then, not without some
encouragement from the Cardinal President, back
came a ‘patristic
paragraph’ (III, B, 2), albeit, to my mind,
very well composed by one of
the French members of the Commission. So the
document emerged, with the
historical-critical method still enjoying a
certain primacy but having to
make room on its perch for several other methods
and approaches—literary
and structuralist, canonical, social scientific,
liberative (liberation
theology and feminist theology)—all critically
reviewed, to be sure, but
none rejected or regarded as totally without
merit. Needless to say, too,
the document totally endorsed and urged still
further the promotion of
knowledge and use of the Bible in all aspects of
Church’s life, as Vatican
II had already commended.
But what is the reality regarding that desiratum
when we look at life in
the Church some sixty years after the movement
set in motion by Divino
Afflante Spiritu in 1943? I can speak only for
the Church in
Australia—though I suspect that it is typical
of the situation in Western
Christianity as a whole. Doubtless there is a
minority—I think we have to
call them an elite—who have, through courses,
reading, and workshops,
become highly scripturally literate; they derive
nourishment and strength
from their reading of scripture; many put into
practice a biblical vision
of social justice, often at considerable personal
cost. Beyond this
minority, however, I think we must reckon a far
greater number who, if
still ‘churched’ in any sense, regard the
Bible as mysterious and alien.
The passage from a literalist understanding of,
say, the accounts of the
Ascension of Jesus (Luke 24:50; Acts 1:9-11), to
an appreciation of its
expression of truth in symbolic form, is not an
easy one—certainly not one
that can be successfully achieved in one sermon
or instruction. Those of
us who are teachers know that many students in
introductory biblical
courses wrestle for months to grasp that biblical
truth is not the same as
historical exactitude and that, just as we
don’t have to believe that the
whale swallowed Jonah, so we don’t have to make
one continuous historical
reconstruction from the four gospels of all that
happened on the first
Easter Sunday. There is moreover, the legacy of
the historical-critical
approach that suggests that, if you are going to
really appreciate this
particular biblical episode or parable, for
example, you’re going to have
to come with me on a journey back into the
biblical world and its culture.
To grasp the message of the more familiar New
Testament at any depth,
you’re going to need to have some awareness of
the Old Testament texts and
traditions which it is constantly evoking. We
almost have to ask people to
become 1st Century believers in order to become
21st century believers
with complete biblical enrichment.
For most people today—apart from the dedicated
inner circle—that is a big
ask. It is becoming a bigger ask day by day as
biblical literacy in the
wider cultural sense diminishes more and more.
How many people stopped in
the street or coffee shop could tell you who came
first: Abraham or
Moses—or Charlemagne, for that matter? Or
whether the Flight into Egypt
took place on a donkey—or on El Al or Egyptair?
In short and, more
seriously, the movement for biblical renewal in
the Church is asking
ordinary members of the Church to incorporate
into their sense of
religious identity a whole new biblical
culture—the kind of biblical
culture Protestants have had for
generations—just when the sense of
belonging to a Christian, let alone Catholic
culture, ethnically imbibed
in one’s mother’s milk is rapidly waning.
Unlike the United States, the
Australian national myth lacks biblical
foundation. Our catechists and, in
particular, our liturgists have a grave challenge
on their hands when they
try to find a bridge between the symbols and
stories encased in the great
biblical narratives and the myths that stir and
resonate in the wider
popular culture. Fundamentalists in any of the
Christian denominations
and, to a lesser degree, Evangelicals and
Pentecostals will require an
entrance into a biblical world that virtually
cuts off their adherents
from the wider secular culture—even if they
readily employ features of
that culture, e.g., its rock music or marketing
techniques, to some
effect. The Catholic way—going right back, I
would maintain, to the great
project of Luke-Acts—has ever been to seek to
bridge the gap: to
inculturate the Gospel without losing its vital
challenge. Since Western
civilisation is now so far removed from its
historically Judeo-Christian
roots, that task is now immeasurably more
difficult.
So, while applauding the achievements of biblical
renewal in the years
since Vatican II, I feel obliged to acknowledge
that they have been
largely confined to an inner elite rather than
diffused among the masses
of believers. In no small degree are our labours
of Sisyphus-like
proportions.
I think, too, it has to be said that the task of
promoting the kind of
biblical literacy asked for at Vatican II has
received little help and no
small degree of hindrance from prevailing
tendencies in the Roman Curia.
The 1993 document of the Biblical Commission
stands on a lonely eminence
in this regard—and even it could have been
negative in tone had not
several of the members of the Commission fought
long and hard to exclude
gratuitous judgements in many areas. The handling
of scripture in the
Catechism of the Catholic Church (1994) is simply
disgraceful and in many
respects regresses not merely behind Vatican II
but Divino Affante Spiritu
itself.11 When I asked at a session of the
Biblical Commission why that
Commission was not being employed or at least
consulted during the
preparation of the Catechism, my question was
received in sullen silence;
I had ventured upon some inter-Curial turf war.
Moreover, when one teaches New Testament within
the Catholic tradition,
with complete loyalty and appreciation of that
tradition, including such
things as the primacy, the distinct presbyteral
and episcopal ministry, a
high christology and deep sacramentality, one can
only become more and
more aware of the gap between the Gospel as Jesus
appears to have
proclaimed it and required it to be lived in the
community, and the
policies, edicts, appointments and decisions that
have emanated from Rome
in recent years. There is no need for me to
catalogue such things now.12
Let me simply say that, having resisted for years
the application of the
strictures of Jesus against the scribes and
Pharisees in Matthew 23 to my
own Church, I find myself unable to do so any
longer:
The scribes and the Pharisees occupy
the chair of Moses. You must
therefore do what they tell you and
listen to what they say; but do not
be guided by what they do since they
do not practise what they preach.
They tie up heavy burdens and lay
them upon people’s shoulders, but will
they lift a finger to move them? Not
they! (vv 2-4).
If any good at all can come from the extremely
painful situation that so
many church leaders finds themselves in as a
result of failure or alleged
failure to take action in the matter of sexual
abuse, it may be in the
area of being forced to return to such passages
of the Gospel and to ask
whether the age-old refusal to apply them
‘domestically’, so to speak,
needs some reassessment.
I am concluding, then, on a rather sombre note. I
am happy in my
scriptural work and will beaver on, knowing that
other sons and daughters
of Vatican II have much harder and more risky
roads to traverse and much
greater disappointments to confront. I can
identify with the wistful
comment of the two disciples on the way to
Emmaus, ‘We were hoping ...’
(Luke 24:21). I know that the risen Lord still
accompanies us, expounding
the Scriptures, instructing us, perhaps, that our
earlier Vatican II
vision was too simple, too optimistic in a
worldly sense; that we need to
grasp again and again how it is through
suffering, diminution and death
that redemption, little by little, is achieved.
Let us keep on going along
the road on which he has been and remains our
Companion.
NOTES
1 On this era see B Rod Doyle, Biblical Studies
in Australia: A Catholic
Contribution: A Short Survey and Bibliography,
(Melbourne: David Lovell,
1990), esp. pp. 6-10.
2 A most useful anthology of official Catholic
Church documents on
Scripture, from Trent to the present day has
recently appeared: Dean P
Béchard (ed.), The Scripture Documents: An
Anthology of Official Catholic
Teachings (Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical Press,
2002). A translation of
Divino Afflante Spiritu (DAS) appears on pp.
115-36.
3 R E Brown, J A Fitzmyer, R E Murphy (eds.), The
Jerome Biblical
Commentary (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall,
1968); The New Jerome
Biblical Commentary (Englewood Cliffs, NJ:
Prentice-Hall, 1990).
4 A brief account of these developments is given
by R E Brown in New
Jerome Biblical Commentary 1167-68 (‘Church
Pronouncements’ 72:6-7).
5 Text in Béchard, Scripture Documents 227-34.
6 See esp. ibid. §VIII (Béchard 229-30).
7 Relevant portion (esp. §19) in Béchard 19-31.
8 On the distinction, see John L Allen, Jr.,
Cardinal Ratzinger: The
Vatican’s Enforcer of the Faith (New
York/London: Continuum, 2000) 57.
9 Cf. Allen, Ratzinger 141-42, 272.
10 English Translation, Rome: Libreria Editrice
Vaticana, 1993; also in
Béchard 244-315.
11 While the Catechism’s express treatment of
the place of Scripture in
the deposit of faith (§§101-33) largely derives
from Vatican II, Dei
Verbum, the actual citation of texts throughout
the document reverts to
the old ‘proof-texting’ approach, neglectful
of context, variety of
literary form and genre (especially apocalyptic
in regard to
eschatological statements); see esp. the teaching
on Hell (§§ 1033-35).
Most notorious perhaps is the section on Original
Sin (§390, where the
Tridentine expression of the doctrine is
reiterated with scant regard to
exegesis of Genesis 1-3 and Rom 5:12-21 that has
been mainstream for
generations. The sustained presentation of the
life of Christ
(§§1351-1411) reflects a similar exegetical
naivety in regard to the
Gospels.
12 What I have in mind are such measures as the
refusal to listen to
pastoral experience in regard to the Third Rite
of Reconciliation; the
stubborn retention (or indeed reimposition) of
non-inclusive language in
liturgical and other official texts; the ever
more restrictive edicts in
regard to the participation of lay-people,
especially women, in liturgical
and other sacred functions; the unjust and
insensitive treatment of loyal
theologians such as the venerable Jacques Dupuis;
the refusal to allow any
relaxation in the rule of priestly celibacy in
the face of glaring
pastoral need and deprivation of the sacraments
to vast numbers of people.
Is not this a ‘tithing of mint and dill and
cummin’ to the neglect of the
‘weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy
and faith’ (Matt 23:23)?