This is the second in a series of posts on Professor Nicholas Wolterstorff's book, The Mighty and the Almighty: An Essay in Political Theology. In the first post, I described what might be meant, and what Wolterstorff means, by "political theology," and Wolterstorff's project to arrive at a distinctly Christian political theology. Here I want to lay out the core thesis of that political theology.
That thesis can be summed up in the phrase, "dual authorities." Christians, Wolterstorff writes, are subject to the dual authority of Christ and the civil power. And these dual authorities mediate one another.
These are deep waters and Wolterstorff explains and helps the reader by considering an ancient example--that of Polycarp, Bishop of Smyrna, who was martyred in 156 A.D. Polycarp is sought out, arrested, and haled into a stadium filled with people where he is urged by the Roman proconsul to renounce Christ and swear by the genius of Caesar in order to save himself from execution. Polycarp refuses in these words: "For eighty and six years have I been his servant, and he has done me no wrong; how can I blaspheme my King, who has saved me?" Later in the exchange, Polycarp tells the proconsul: "[W]e [Christians] have been taught to render honour, as is meet, if it hurts us not, to princes and authorities appointed by God."
Wolterstorff's thesis depends on a close reading and interpretation of these statements. Unlike those who resist government's coercive power as having no authority at all over them, "Polycarp's resistance was different":
He did not declare that obeying his own interior conscience had higher priority for him than obeying the proconsul. He did not declare that loyalty to his group had higher priority for him than whatever loyalty he might feel toward Caesar, the proconsul, and the people in the stadium....[T]he explicit ground of his resistance was heteronomous. He had a sovereign distinct from Caesar, namely, Christ. The proconsul was demanding that he renounce that sovereign. That he would not do, for his sovereign had saved him. (13)
But Polycarp is not implying that the civil power is not his sovereign, or that Christ is his sovereign instead of the civil power. "No," says Wolterstorff, "he was a citizen of Smyrna; and the proconsul had political jurisdiction over Smyrna. Polycarp was under dual authority. In his person, the authority of Christ and the authority of the emperor intersected. Given the command of Caesar's proconsul to renounce Christ, these two authorities had now collided." (14-15)
What makes the conflict even more complex and more difficult is the existence of other conflicting dualities beneath the surface. For one, Polycarp believed that the princes of the civil authority are appointed by God; yet now those self-same civil authorities demanded that he renounce God (that is, Christ). And for another, there was an institutional conflict at work: Polycarp was a bishop of the church, exercising Christ's authority over the church. His exchange with the proconsul was not merely a personal conflict but represented a collision of institutional authorities. He was one person with dual membership in two authority structures that intersected in him. The key to Wolterstorff's political theology is in understanding the nature of these dual authorities and the depth of their conflicts--dualities which affect everyone (political authority mediating divine authority and yet also being limited and judged by divine authority) and Christians in particular (being citizens of some state and under its authority, while that state is always under God's authority; being members of the church and under the authority of Christ, who in turn is divine).
Finally, it is interesting to read Wolterstorff's comments about the alien quality of all of this to American sensibilities, in which the language of religious liberty has the effect of effacing the problem of dual authority:
Some will find it strange to think of the church in terms of authority. They think of the church as a voluntary organization devoted to sponsoring religious activities. A group of us find ourselves interested in religion, in particular the Christian religion; so we get together and set up an organization for holding worship services and for engaging in a bit of social action. We put in place some organizational structure, call a minister, place ads in the local press, welcome neighbors. We are off and running.
Everything about religion in America conspires to make one think of the church along these lines. Christ as king and the church as an authority structure are nowhere in view. The local government may decide to clamp down on our group for one reason or another--it doesn't like the architectural plans, doesn't like the fact that wine is served to minors, doesn't like the traffic jams. We may resist. But if we do, our resistance will be in the name of religious freedom. We will not declare that Christ is our king and that loyalty to our king requires that we not concede to the government's demands. No Polycarps among us. (16-17)
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
"Case could destroy pillar of union power," reports this piece in The Hill. I have not done so yet, but I feel pretty confident that if I made a tour of the leading blogs dealing with Catholicism, politics, social teaching, and so on, I would find an argument to the effect that Catholic Social Teaching supports labor unions and, therefore, a First Amendment ruling that the Constitution limits the ability of government to require employees to join (and support financially) unions and their activities would be (whatever its legal merits) inconsistent with that Teaching.
Now, this case (Harris v. Quinn) -- SCOTUSBlog (natch) is a great resource for leaning more -- does not seem to present the usual agency-shop situation: We are not talking about free-riding employees at a large company or business. Instead, this case is about home-health-care workers -- who do their work in the home of those they serve (in some cases, family members). A while back, Illinois decided that these home-health-care workers were, for purposes of unionization, public employees.
It is, obviously, a crucial aspect of the Church's social teaching that work and workers must be treated in accord with their dignity and that workers have a right to, among other things, associate so as to promote and protect their rights and interests. None of this means that labor unions are always on the side of the angels -- too often, especially in the education context, they are not -- but it certainly means that, again, the right to form labor unions must be protected and respected. But, it seems to me, this does not necessarily mean that home-health-care workers, simply because they are paid through Medicaid, constitutionally may or morally should be required to support financially a public-employee union. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 20, 2014
In reading Dr. King's Letter from a Birmingham Jail earlier today, I took note of something that I had not previously noticed before. The letter is from one minister to others. It is not a speech or an essay, but a letter addressed to "Fellow Clergymen." And an important theme of the essay is the failure of "white moderates" and of the "white church":
I suppose I should have realized that few members of the oppressor race can understand the deep groans and passionate yearnings of the oppressed race, and still fewer have the vision to see that injustice must be rooted out by strong, persistent and determined action. I am thankful, however, that some of our white brothers in the South have grasped the meaning of this social revolution and committed themselves to it. They are still all too few in quantity, but they are big in quality. Some -such as Ralph McGill, Lillian Smith, Harry Golden, James McBride Dabbs, Ann Braden and Sarah Patton Boyle--have written about our struggle in eloquent and prophetic terms. Others have marched with us down nameless streets of the South. They have languished in filthy, roach infested jails, suffering the abuse and brutality of policemen who view them as "dirty nigger-lovers." Unlike so many of their moderate brothers and sisters, they have recognized the urgency of the moment and sensed the need for powerful "action" antidotes to combat the disease of segregation. Let me take note of my other major disappointment. I have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. Of course, there are some notable exceptions. I am not unmindful of the fact that each of you has taken some significant stands on this issue. I commend you, Reverend Stallings, for your Christian stand on this past Sunday, in welcoming Negroes to your worship service on a nonsegregated basis. I commend the Catholic leaders of this state for integrating Spring Hill College several years ago.
But despite these notable exceptions, I must honestly reiterate that I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.
When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.
In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. I had hoped that each of you would understand. But again I have been disappointed.
I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: "Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother." In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: "Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern." And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.
Nestled in the middle of this indictment of the white church, King commends "the Catholic leaders of this state for integrating Spring Hill College several years ago." According to the Spring HIll College website:
Spring Hill College, Alabama’s oldest institution of higher learning, was founded in 1830 by Michael Portier, Mobile’s first Catholic bishop. Spring Hill is also the first Catholic college in the Southeast, the third oldest Jesuit college and the fifth oldest Catholic college in the United States.
Bishop Portier originally purchased 300 acres of land to establish a seminary and boarding school. The site sat on a hill six miles west of Mobile and afforded panoramic views of the city and its harbor. Portier recruited two priests and four seminarians from France to staff the school. He originally intended the boarding school to provide students under the age of 12 with an education in classical and modern languages, mathematics, geography, astronomy, history, belles lettres, physics and chemistry. Portier soon relaxed the age restriction, and the boarding population increased from roughly 30 students the first year to almost 130 by 1832. Initially, the bishop himself taught Greek at the school and, due to the lack of priests, pressed seminarians into service as teaching assistants or monitors. Difficulties staffing the school persisted until 1847, when Portier recruited French Jesuits from Lyon to take over.
Like other Jesuit colleges, Spring Hill followed a European model in which students began attending at age 9 and studied subjects at both the secondary and collegiate levels. The sons of Mobile’s established families – Catholic or otherwise – attended Spring Hill High School and the college. The high school persisted until its closing in 1935.
In 1932, the college launched an extension program with Saturday classes aimed at adults. For the first time women were admitted as full-time students to the program. Successive presidents of Spring Hill, Patrick Donnelly, S.J., and Andrew Smith, S.J., brought landmark changes to the college after World War II. Both men viewed racial segregation as an ethical and moral dilemma, and in 1954 Smith presided over the enrollment of nine African-American students to the college. For 10 years Spring Hill was the first and only integrated college in the Deep South.
