My Brother, the Pope

by Georg Ratzinger

  Yet of course I was there and helped energetically when he brought our parents to Freising. The two of us had deliberated about it for a long time and considered it the best solution. As I already told you, they lived at that time in an old farmhouse surrounded by as much land as could be worked in a day, which was being used for agriculture. As the years went by, it became too much work for our father. Then, too, it was over a mile to church, and you had to walk a distance to go shopping, and all that was rather tiresome for our parents. My brother’s colleagues were urging him at the time to set up a household, and so we decided that if he had a residence, we would bring our parents, for in that case they could live with him from then on. When the time finally came, we sold their house in Traunstein. At that time I went back home again to help them pack. There is a photo that shows my parents and me standing for the last time in front of the house that had been our beloved home for so long (see photo on page 128). As you can imagine, the move was very difficult for our parents, especially for our father. He had grown up as a farm boy, and a farmer always takes a certain delight in his property, even though in this case it was only a small one, for he was actually a civil servant. But even so, it was difficult for him to part with it, although we sold the house at a good price to our neighbor.

  Father and Mother then moved to Freising. They had some difficulties getting settled there, although from the start my brother made every effort to prepare a nice home for them. At first our sister remained in Traunstein, where she had an office job. Not until February of the following year did she give it up and move in also with my brother, so as to be able to care for our parents.

  In every respect, they strove to support him in his work. In those days, my brother also had to administer examinations—there were many exams each semester—and he preferred to do that in his residence. So our father then invited the theologians in and led them into the living room where they could wait. Our mother brewed a cup of tea for each one and offered a few cookies with it, so that everything went smoothly and humanely. For our parents, in turn, it was good they had a task and could take care of these young gentlemen, future priests. Our father looked after them; our mother even cooked for them.

  Once there was a young priest—my brother told me this story—who had already studied in Rome and was very gifted. He had written an interesting doctoral dissertation and frequently visited Joseph. So my brother told our parents that that priest could someday become Archbishop of Munich and Freising, he thought so much of him. Our parents welcomed him with the utmost reverence from then on, for they really thought he was the future archbishop. In reality, he later became, not the archbishop, but only the vicar general: I am talking about Gerhard Gruber (b. 1928). At first he became the secretary and advisor of Cardinal Döpfner at the Second Vatican Council, because he spoke perfect Italian, and then dean of the cathedral chapter and vicar general.

  For two semesters Professor Ratzinger, as he was now called, remained in Freising. He was considered “the youngest theology professor in the world”, and as a “theological wunderkind” he received offers from the most famous academic institutions. One of them came from Bonn, the destination of which his teacher Professor Söhngen had always dreamed and which eventually became Joseph’s dream also. For a few weeks the young professor wavered about whether or not he should accept it. As far as his parents were concerned, he had soon found a solution for them. His brother Georg had completed his studies at the Munich College of Music in 1957 and was now supposed to return as choir director to his home parish of Saint Oswald in Traunstein. He would also take on the music director’s duties at the minor seminary in Traunstein. A pretty little house in the middle of the city was assigned to him for his lodgings; it was big enough for three. Whereas it was unthinkable to take his aged parents with him to the city on the Rhine, a return to their beloved Traunstein seemed entirely feasible. Georg immediately agreed with this plan and urged his brother to accept the offer from Bonn. Then they spoke with their father, who did not find it altogether easy to accept but absolutely wanted his son to avail himself of this new opportunity. So the family parted ways. For the last time, Joseph had the privilege of sensing the security of being at home with his parents before a new adventure began. On April 15, 1959, he gave his inaugural lecture as a professor of fundamental theology at the University of Bonn. The topic was “The God of Faith and the God of Philosophy”.

  I still remember it well: at that time I was already living in Traunstein, when he visited me and told me he had received an invitation to teach in Bonn. What should he do now? How should he respond? After all, exactly one year before that he had brought our parents to Freising, and for that they had given up their property, their house in Traunstein. Then I said it was no problem, since I was living all alone in a benefice house in Traunstein that was big enough for all of us. I had to start a household anyway, and so I would be happy to have them move in with me: “They know Traunstein, and so they will be happy to come back. Take this opportunity. You must not let it pass you by: take it! Our parents will come stay with me; I look forward to having them come.” With that, the matter was settled for both of us; now he just had to convince our parents, too. He then moved in April 1959. Maria went with him to keep house for him in Bonn, while our parents came to live with me in May.

  Joseph Ratzinger loved the Rhineland, its openness and tolerance. Whereas Bavaria was rather conservative and had a rural character, here one sensed how the river united nations and cultures, mutually enriching them. His first semester in the Rhineland university city was for him like “an ongoing honeymoon” with “wonderful memories” (M 118). But soon the cheerfulness of the new beginning was overshadowed.

  Christmas of 1958 was once again an especially harmonious celebration. Our father gave expensive presents to all of us—to each one of us, to the extent his means allowed. Of course, we did not yet suspect that this would be our last Christmas together.

  After their move, my brother and our sister spent their vacation in Traunstein, and it was a magnificent summer, that August of 1959. Eight days before Father’s death, Mother came to me one night and said that Father was sick, and would I look in on him. I then went downstairs to their room and gave him a few drops of Karmelitergeist,4 which did him some good. We also called a doctor, who could not find any cause for concern. On the day when he finally suffered a stroke, he was actually quite himself. That morning he walked up to the seminary, which was a distance of over a mile, because my brother was preaching there. In the afternoon, he took a long walk with our mother—one that I at that age would not have been able to manage at all. Later Mother told us how they went by the parish church on their way back. They went in, and Father prayed with special intensity. Actually, he was always someone who prayed devoutly, yet she noticed then a particular fervor about his prayer that for us was a sign he must have sensed already that death was drawing near. That same evening, then, he had the stroke and lost consciousness and collapsed as though dead.

  We three siblings had traveled that day to Tittmoning and toured the city of our childhood. It was a wonderful excursion; we were quite happy and had no idea that the end of the day would be so sad and upsetting. Two days later, on August 25, 1959, our father died as a result of that stroke.

  For us it was a crushing blow. Of course then the four of us dealt with all the formalities; there are always so many technical things to do when someone you love has died that at first they keep you from surrendering to your feelings. He left us so quickly, so unexpectedly, and suddenly our life together as a family was over. It had begun with the birth of my brother, which brought us to our full number, and lasted until that August day in the year 1959. After that, a pillar was missing from our family life. Someone who had always belonged to it, indeed, who was the head of that family, was no longer there. Yet as sad as we were, we knew, on the other hand, that he had died a good death, which in such cases is always a consolation. He did not suffer; everything happened ve
ry quickly. And at least we all had the opportunity to be present at his death and to say goodbye. Above all, though, we knew and trusted that although Father was in another world, he was still with us somehow and united with us.

  The fact that Joseph Ratzinger had accepted the invitation to go to Bonn proved in retrospect to be one of the most important decisions of his life—and really a providential act. There he met a man who was to become for him a new father figure—and who ultimately opened for him the doors leading to Rome.

  Joseph Cardinal Frings, Archbishop of Cologne, was the most impressive and most influential personage in the German episcopate during the postwar period. His mixture of warm humor, roots in the Rhineland, deep faith, and wisdom was legendary. From the very beginning, the tall, gaunt son of a manufacturer from Neuss, who inscribed the motto “Appointed for the People” on his episcopal coat of arms, was beloved by believing Catholics. In 1946, when Pope Pius XII conferred the rank of cardinal upon him and two other German bishops—Konrad Graf von Preysing and Clemens Grafvon Galen, who had distinguished themselves by their extraordinary resistance to the Brownshirt regime—this was considered a special sign of confidence in the German Church. From 1945 to 1965, Frings was president of the conference of German bishops. He preached an unforgettable sermon on New Year’s Eve 1946, in which he referred to the looting of coal trains during a particularly harsh winter: “We are living in times where the individual in need ought to be allowed to take what he needs to preserve his life and health if he cannot obtain it in some other way, by working or asking for it.” From then on, at least in the Cologne region, the verb “to frings” [fringsen] became the popular term for the “procurement” of food and pressed coal.

  When he and the other cardinals elected John XXIII the new pope in 1958, he remarked in passing that he “had the feeling that now a general council should take place soon”. Almost one hundred years had passed since the First Vatican Council, and so Frings believed that it was once again time to listen to the bishops. The new pope enthusiastically adopted the idea, announced a general council, and appointed Frings to the preparatory commission.

  We all held Pope Pius XII in very, very high esteem, for everyone knew he had not only a great mind but also spiritual greatness. In those days, there were no anti-papal impulses; he was simply revered; he was our pope. Naturally, we were happy and a little bit proud to have an extraordinarily gifted pope of that caliber. But we also knew he was an old man who already suffered from various health problems. It was rumored that he had allowed a doctor to inject him with fresh cells so that he could remain healthy and active as long as possible, but, nevertheless, we were not all that surprised in October 1958 to learn of his death, as much as we regretted the loss.

  His successor, John XXIII, was so different that you had to get used to it at first. He lacked the saintly majesty of a Pius XII, yet instead he radiated humanity all the more. He was a pope of the people, whom everybody actually liked; even Protestants raved about him.

  Conciliar theologian Professor Joseph Ratzinger (right) with the Archbishop of Cologne, Joseph Cardinal Frings

  In 1961, the Catholic Academy in Bensberg invited the “theological wunderkind” Ratzinger to share his thoughts about “the theology of the Council”. Cardinal Frings made a special trip from Cologne to listen to the comments. Through his secretary, Doctor Luthe, who had studied theology with Ratzinger in Munich, he had become aware of the Bavarian priest. When Ratzinger had finished, the Cardinal invited him to have a conversation. He told him that he had rather carelessly accepted an invitation to give a lecture in Genoa that was supposed to be about “the Council against the background of the current situation in contrast to the First Vatican Council”. Meanwhile, he was seventy-four years old, almost blind, and therefore simply in physical terms no longer capable of completing such a demanding task. Could he help him with it? The young doctor of theology gladly consented.

  The outline he submitted shortly thereafter was so good that Frings had to correct it at only one point. The speech itself was impressive and became the theological clarion call; it seemed as if the Cardinal had announced the theological program for the whole Council. Shortly thereafter, Frings was invited to a private audience with John XXIII, who greeted him enthusiastically: “Last night I read your lecture in Genoa and wanted to express my thanks to you.” When the Cardinal pointed out to him that the lecture was not by him but by a certain Joseph Ratzinger, the Pope dismissed the remark. He, too, had to let others draft documents for him; hence the only thing that mattered was finding the right advisors. From that moment on, it was clear that Ratzinger would continue to be Frings collaborator, the “best horse in his stable”, so to speak. The Cardinal, though, was appointed by the Pope to be one of a ten-member central preparatory commission for the Council. As such, he received copies of all the drafts and suggestions that were composed by the individual commissions in advance and were to be presented to the bishops at the Council for a vote. One after the other, he presented them to Ratzinger for his expert opinion.

  Then the great day came. On October 11, 1962, with a solemn Mass in Saint Peter’s Basilica, Pope John XXIII opened the Second Vatican Council, at which 2,800 bishops from all parts of the world were to shape the future of the Church. Cardinal Frings had not traveled to it alone. He was accompanied by the thirty-five-year-old Joseph Ratzinger, who had now officially become his theological advisor. It was the latter’s first experience with the universal Church—and his great opportunity to help shape her future. Here Ratzinger became acquainted with some of the most important theologians of his time—Henri de Lubac, Jean Daniélou, Yves Congar, Gérard Philips. At the end of the first session, he was even appointed an official conciliar theologian, a peritus. Even before the Council started, he had lamented the fact that the Church had “reins that are too tight, too many laws, many of which have helped to leave the century of unbelief in the lurch, instead of helping it to redemption” (SE 73). Now it was time to make a leap forward and to dare to try something new. Faith, Ratzinger said, must “get out of its armor; it also had to face the situation of the present in a new language, in new openness. So a greater freedom also had to arise in the Church” (SE 73).

  Cardinal Frings planned to exert his influence at the Council with almost military precision. At his initiative, all the German and Austrian bishops met every Monday at 5:00 P.M. in the seminary of Santa Maria dell Anima near the Piazza Navona to discuss the course of the Council and its results. Skilled theologians, including Ratzinger, regularly commented on the events and developed strategies. Although it was a small group, it was extremely influential. Frings himself was one of the most respected personages in the Catholic world. As co-founder of the bishops charitable organization Misereor, he was very popular, especially among the bishops from the Third World. Thus his circle managed to write conciliar history.

  In 1962, my brother and I traveled for the first time together to Rome. I still recall that we rode the “Rapidissimo”, the supposedly high-speed train, and marveled at its name, which it did not deserve at all since it stopped at practically every station. Of course then we went sight-seeing and visited the most famous churches, Saint Peter’s Basilica, for example, and Santa Maria Maggiore, and were profoundly impressed by the Eternal City.

  Later, Joseph used to tell stories about the Council. I think it was 1964 when the dean of Traunstein was able to persuade him to give a lecture at the seminary for the clergy of the deanery and to give an eyewitness report, so to speak, on the events and discussions in Rome. The whole seminary was full, and the courtyard was full of automobiles, because all the priests from the entire region had come to hear my brother’s lecture about the Council. I knew most of what he talked about already from private conversations, but the lecture was very appealing and led to an animated discussion afterward. Above all, he emphasized at that time the great vivacity at the Council and the fact that even in clerical circles there was a certain lack of unity, that there w
ere different opinions about clerical matters and articles of our faith, about which people were having free and open discussion—and he was very pleased with that.

  Very soon it became clear that the Council in Rome had been a cause not only of joy. Whereas the Pope spoke about “aggiornamento”, bringing the Church up-to-date, conservative churchmen feared too many innovations. Their spokesman was Alfredo Cardinal Ottaviani, the Prefect of the Holy Office, the dicastery that succeeded the infamous Roman Inquisition. As president of the theological commission, he did everything he could to impede reforms.

  In June 1963, Pope John XXIII succumbed to cancer. The Council, which had only just begun, seemed to have run aground. Yet against all opposition, the new pope, Paul VI, continued it. Finally, when it became known that Ottaviani’s commission intended to declare a vote by the bishops invalid “because the questions were inadequately framed”, Frings ran out of patience. In what was perhaps the most sensational speech of the whole Council, he not only criticized the subterfuges of the prefect, but also directly attacked his Office and described it as a “stumbling block”: its method of condemning people without giving them a hearing no longer suited today’s world. Although Ottaviani venomously retorted that Frings obviously knew nothing about the work of the Holy Office, he had nevertheless lost that battle. The bishops were on the side of the prelate from Cologne, and their thunderous applause vindicated him. On that same day, the Pope summoned Frings, who had to fear the worst. He drily noted in the Cologne dialect to his secretary, Doctor Luthe: “Hängen Se m’r noch ens dat ruude Mäntelche öm, wer weiss, ob et nit et letzte Mohl is.” (Put that little red robe on me once again; who knows, it might be the last time.) Yet as he entered the audience chamber, the Pope hurried over to him and embraced him: “Dear Cardinal, you said everything that I thought and wanted to say but could not say myself.” When the Council ended in 1965, Paul VI declared that the Holy Office was deprived of its authority. It would now be replaced by the “Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith” and was to lose its status as an absolute authority. The new dicastery applied democratic principles for the first time. It did not condemn; it issued warnings and invited troublesome theologians to a dialogue. The Vatican had entered the modern era.