Lost Shepherd

by Philip F. Lawler

  1 Numbers in parentheses refer to the numbered paragraphs in the quoted document.

  2 The German Brandmüller, a Church historian, was appointed a cardinal by Benedict XVI at the age of eighty-one and thus was never eligible to vote in a papal conclave. Burke, an American, was the prefect of the Apostolic Signatura until Francis removed him in 2014 in a striking gesture of disfavor. Caffarra, the founder of the Pontifical John Paul II Institute for Studies on Marriage and Family, retired as archbishop of Bologna in 2015 and died in September 2017. Meisner, who was close to John Paul II and Benedict XVI, retired as archbishop of Cologne in 2014 and died in July 2017.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Allies and Enemies

  By 2016, as the debate on Amoris Laetitia intensified, clear lines of division had become visible within the Catholic Church. The pope’s critics were more outspoken, and his defenders were more acerbic in response.

  In October, Vatican Insider published a troubling article by the Italian journalists Giacomo Galeazzi and Andrea Tornielli under the inflammatory headline “Catholics Who Are Anti-Francis but Love Putin.” “The attack against Francis is global,” they warned breathlessly. Treating groups and individuals with very different ideas and priorities as if they formed a united front of opposition to the papacy, the authors depicted anyone who has questioned public statements by Francis not as a loyal critic but as an “enemy.”

  Galeazzi and Tornielli are respected reporters for La Stampa with solid sources, Tornielli in particular enjoying extensive access to insiders in Francis’s Vatican. As they are not ordinarily prone to sensationalism, the charge that the pope’s critics are more supportive of a Russian strongman than of the Vicar of Christ probably reflects what they had heard from their contacts inside the Vatican. If so, then some of the people surrounding Francis have come to believe that the pontiff is the target of a budding conspiracy. Having adopted a paranoid style, they see enemies wherever there is resistance to their agenda. Or still worse, they simply find it useful, for their own Machiavellian purposes, to broadcast the conspiracy theory.

  Francis undoubtedly has his critics, as does any public figure, but the Vatican Insider article fails to distinguish among them. Such an analysis, ignoring the differences not only in their tone (some harsh and hostile, others cautious and respectful) but also in their prescriptions, collapses under its own weight. After suggesting the existence of a conspiracy, Galeazzi and Tornielli quote the sociologist Massimo Introvigne as saying that the effort against Francis “is not successful because it is not united.” Indeed, it is not. Someone worried about the pastoral consequences of Amoris Laetitia is not likely to repudiate the Second Vatican Council’s stand on religious freedom. Someone with reservations about open borders does not necessarily long for the return of Benedict XVI. The conspiracy is in the minds of Galeazzi and Tornielli—and perhaps their sources inside the Vatican.

  The most curious entry in the list of the papal “enemies” identified by Vatican Insider might be the Chinese Catholics worried about the state of negotiations between the Vatican and Beijing. The negotiations were designed, from the Vatican’s perspective, to end the division of the Chinese Church between an “official” Church recognized by the government and the “underground” Church, which enjoys no legal protection and is subject to government restriction and harassment. (In practice the line between the two groups is often blurred, but the division is real.) It is difficult to see how these Chinese Catholics could be numbered among the “enemies” of the Holy Father, since Francis has made only a few circumspect comments about the negotiations. Nevertheless, someone inside the Vatican seems to be unhappy.

  The Vatican’s negotiations with China have been secret, and no official stands have been taken except in the most general terms. Why would urging the negotiators to be mindful of the concerns of Chinese Catholics, who have already suffered so much for their faith, be seen as a sign of opposition unless the negotiators were, indeed, prepared to sell out the interests of the underground Church? And why would such cautions be seen as opposition to the pope, who has not spoken on the issue and has presumably not been presented with an agreement to approve or reject, unless the negotiators were wrapping themselves in the mantle of papal authority?

  Father Bernardo Cervellera, the director of the Church’s AsiaNews service, who had served in China before being declared persona non grata there, appeared on the Vatican Insider enemies list. Responding with his own essay, “The ‘Enemies’ of Pope Francis,” he defended the attention that his agency had paid to the Catholics who are acting outside the law in China:

  If I were Pope Francis I would appreciate my Cardinals telling me about the problems that these Christians suffer who are … very much on the peripheries, the face of the suffering Christ, part of my flock for which I have to give my life… . Unfortunately, Pope Francis has few friends of this caliber.

  The pope, Father Cervellera noted, “does not need public defenders.” Still less did he need supporters who would dismiss all critics as hostile and presume all reservations about papal statements and initiatives as motivated by hostility. As Father Cervellera wrote in the ringing conclusion to his defense, “You can also betray a person with too much applause.”

  The St. Gallen Mafia

  Any powerful leader in any institution runs the risk that he will become the captive of his own Praetorian Guard, the trusted aides who tell him only what he wants to hear (or what they want him to hear) and exclude all discordant voices. For Francis, that danger apparently arose even before his election.

  Late in 2015, in an authorized biography of the Belgian cardinal Godfried Danneels, Jürgen Mettepenningen and Karim Schelkens revealed that a cabal of “progressive” cardinals had begun maneuvering for the election of Jorge Bergoglio long before the conclave of 2013. The group had formed years earlier, during the pontificate of John Paul II, to discuss how to resist what they saw as the unhealthy influence of Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger. Along with Danneels, the group included the late Carlo Martini of Milan, the veteran Vatican insider Achille Silvestrini, England’s Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, and the Germans Karl Lehmann and Walter Kasper.

  Upon the publication of his biography, Danneels referred to this group as a “mafia club,” an obviously imprudent choice of words suggesting a sinister conspiracy rather than a simple meeting of like-minded prelates. But the authors of the biography went considerably further, reporting that members of the group—dubbed the “St. Gallen mafia” in reference to the Swiss town where they had met—had worked against Cardinal Ratzinger during the conclave of 2005 and, after their failure to stop his election, began planning a campaign for Bergoglio in the next conclave.

  If that report were accurate, it would constitute a major scandal. The rules of papal conclaves include a stern moral injunction against lobbying, and John Paul II had prescribed the penalty of excommunication for any prelate who sought to influence the vote of another cardinal. When the implications of the report were pointed out, Mettepenningen and Schelkens backtracked, saying that they had been misunderstood. The St. Gallen mafia had not formed a lobbying bloc during the 2005 conclave, they now said, and shortly after the election of Benedict XVI the group had stopped meeting.

  But if this version of the story were accurate, it would really be no story at all. A few cardinals meeting to discuss their shared concerns about Vatican affairs would be an everyday event. Why would the authors bother to mention it? Why would Danneels make his odd, lighthearted reference to a “mafia club”? The authors had worked closely with Danneels, whose presence at the launch party signaled his approval of the work. So it seemed unlikely that the authors had been entirely mistaken about the nature and purpose of the St. Gallen group.

  Then more fuel was added to the fire. In a biography of Francis, Austen Ivereigh wrote that Cardinal Murphy-O’Connor, whom Ivereigh once served as a close adviser, had been asked by “progressive” cardinals to sound out Bergoglio about the plan to promote his candidacy at
the conclave of 2013. Murphy-O’Connor, who was then above the age of eighty and thus ineligible to participate in a papal election, approached the Argentine cardinal before the conclave and secured his assent to the plan. As Ivereigh reported:

  [I]f he was willing, he said that he believed that at this time of crisis for the Church no cardinal could refuse if asked. Murphy-O’Connor knowingly warned him to “be careful,” and that it was his turn now, and was told “capisco”—“I understand.”

  That “capisco” spoke to the possibility that Bergoglio realized there was a move afoot to promote his election and consented to the campaign—which, again, would have been in grave violation of the canons governing the papal election. And although the campaign may not have been organized by the St. Gallen mafia, the cast of characters—the “progressive” European prelates represented by Cardinal Murphy-O’Connor—looked remarkably similar. With his one-word assent, Cardinal Bergoglio appeared to be putting himself in the hands of the conspirators, indicating that he was prepared to act under their direction.

  One other senior prelate spoke openly about his involvement in the St. Gallen campaign. Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, the retired archbishop of Washington, D.C., was also too old to participate in the 2013 conclave, but he did meet with the other cardinals in the “general congregations” that preceded the elections. In a surprisingly candid address to students at Villanova University in October 2013, the elderly cardinal recalled the preparations for the election.

  “Before the conclave, nobody thought that there was a chance for Bergoglio,” McCarrick told his student audience. But then one evening he received a visit from “a very interesting and influential Italian gentleman,” who asked him for a favor. The mysterious guest spoke highly of Bergoglio, said that the Argentine cardinal would bring reforms to the Church, and urged McCarrick, “Talk him up.” As he recounted this intriguing story for the Villanova audience, McCarrick said that he had given a noncommittal answer. When his turn came to address the general congregation, however, he urged the election of a cardinal from Latin America.

  Maybe there was no active conspiracy or illicit campaign for the election of Bergoglio. Maybe three different cardinals—Danneels, Murphy-O’Connor, and McCarrick—exaggerated their own roles in the process for the sake of a good story. But there can be little doubt that a group of liberal prelates saw the Argentine cardinal as their best hope for changes in the Church. They encouraged his candidacy, and the new pontiff, an outsider now thrust into the top spot at the Vatican, quite understandably would be inclined to look to these same men for advice. Before his election, Bergoglio, an unknown entity in Rome, had not been identified as a leader of the progressive bloc in the College of Cardinals. Now he had emerged from the conclave as the Roman pontiff, and as time passed it became increasingly clear that he intended to carry out the program that was favored by the prelates who had promoted his election.

  Intolerance for Criticism

  If the newly elected pope saw the members of the St. Gallen mafia as his natural allies, he could also easily be persuaded to see their rivals within the Roman Curia as his rivals too. Within a few months after his election, Francis had moved Cardinal Mauro Piacenza out of his post as the prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy, making him head of the Apostolic Penitentiary, where he would have less influence. Cardinal Raymond Burke, an outspoken defender of tradition who would become the key player in the presentation of the dubia, was removed from the Congregation for Bishops—the body that recommends episcopal appointments worldwide—and later from his post as prefect of the Apostolic Signatura. The American cardinal was given the largely ceremonial role of chaplain to the Knights of Malta—and then, months later, even that job was stripped of what little authority it entailed.

  Piacenza and Burke at least retained their rank as cardinals. Outside Rome other bishops were removed from office altogether. Within eighteen months of his accession to the See of Peter, Francis had accepted the resignations of Bishops Rogelio Livieres Plano in Paraguay, Mario Oliveri in Italy, Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst in Germany, and Robert Finn in the United States. Each of these bishops resigned under fire, having been accused of some form of personal misconduct or administrative malfeasance. But was it a coincidence that they were all perceived as conservatives? John Allen of Crux noticed the ideological imbalance in the list of ousted prelates. In a column with the provocative title “Does Pope Francis have an enemies list?” he remarked that even if the pope were merely enforcing Church discipline without regard to the views of the bishops who turned up in his crosshairs, it might be wise to offer an explanation. “Otherwise, the risk is that a good chunk of the Church may conclude that if the pope sees them as the enemy, there’s no good reason they shouldn’t see him the same way.”

  Oddly enough, many of Bergoglio’s fellow Jesuits once looked upon him as an enemy. Unpopular as the Jesuit provincial in Argentina, he was seen as arbitrary and authoritarian, criticisms that he himself has acknowledged were valid. After his term as provincial, he was given routine assignments—effectively sent into institutional exile—until 1992, when Cardinal Antonio Quarracino of Buenos Aires arranged for him to be appointed an auxiliary bishop. After he became a cardinal and traveled to Rome regularly for meetings, Bergoglio spent little time at Jesuit headquarters. His choice of the name Francis upon his election to the papacy spoke to a Franciscan rather than Jesuit sensibility.

  In the papacy, however, Francis soon surrounded himself with Jesuit aides, most notably Antonio Spadaro. Perhaps he felt the need to build strategic alliances to carry out the program of reform that he (and his St. Gallen supporters?) saw as the purpose of his pontificate. He began meeting frequently with Father Adolfo Nicolas, who until 2017 was the superior general of the Jesuits, and he embarked on a program that was certain to please the solidly left-leaning majority within the Society of Jesus.

  For a pope bent on change, the Jesuits would be a bulwark. And Francis was bent on change. Father Nicolas recalls that in a conversation about the possibility of yet another papal resignation, Francis told him, “I ask the good Lord to take me once the changes are irreversible.” Resistance to such an agenda was inevitable, but Nicholas noted that “for me it was obvious that the criticisms did not remotely bother him.”

  And yet as the months went on, Francis became increasingly strident, even insulting, in his public utterances. In his homilies at daily Mass, he reproached the “Pharisees,” the “doctors of the law,” and all who were “rigid” in their interpretation of Church teaching. In language that no one expected from a Roman pontiff, he denounced the “careerist bishop,” the “sourpuss,” the “smarmy, idolater priest,” the “moralistic quibbler,” and the “people without light: real downers.” Some members of the flock, it became clear, particularly get under the papal skin—the “starched Christian,” the “bubble Christian,” the “long-faced, mournful funeral Christian,” and the “parrot Christian.” In a particularly vivid rebuke, he accused journalists who report on conflicts and scandals of “coprophilia” (an “abnormal interest in fecal matter”). Rarely did the pope identify the objects of his ire by name, but from the frequency of his attacks on “rigid” Christians, it seemed clear that he was talking about those who did not accept his calls for change in the Church.

  The Gospels’ depiction of Christ’s frequent confrontations with Pharisees and doctors of the law made them bywords among Christians for sanctimonious legalism, but they are nevertheless important figures in the Jewish tradition. Francis’s habitually disparaging use of “Pharisee” and “doctor of the law” eventually drew widely reported protests from an Italian rabbi, Giuseppe Laras, who complained that it belittled the Jewish faith and reflected the influence of Marcionism, a second-century heresy that rejected the Old Testament and denied that the stern God of the Hebrews was the same Deity as the merciful God of the New Testament. Observing that since Vatican II, the Church’s official statements have reflected a keen appreciation for the heritage
of Judaism, Laras exclaimed, “What a shame that they should be contradicted on a daily basis by the homilies of the Pontiff!”

  No one suggested that Francis was actually anti-Semitic, but since he never identified his targets, a wide range of people assumed he was talking about them and took offense. Francis had developed an odd style, emerging as a scold. His rhetoric was radically at odds with his public statements about the need to “accompany” sinners, to tolerate disagreements, to reach out to new constituencies. In his own preaching he hectored his listeners, denouncing more than encouraging.

  In a memorable homily delivered in May 2017, Francis argued that an excessive concern with doctrine is a sign of ideology rather than faith. Reflecting on the day’s Scripture reading from the Acts of the Apostles, which recounted the debate over enforcing Mosaic Law on Gentile Christians, the pope said that the “liberty of the Spirit” led the disciples to an accord. The dispute, however, he said was caused by “jealousies, power struggles, a certain deviousness that wanted to profit from and to buy power,” temptations against which the Church must always guard.

  The disciples who insisted on the enforcement of Mosaic Law, the pope said, were “fanatics.” They “were not believers; they were ideologized.” Thus he appeared to suggest that the early Church leaders who disagreed with St. Paul on the enforcement of Mosaic Law—including St. James and, before the Council of Jerusalem, which settled the question, even St. Peter himself—“were not believers.” The Scriptural account of that council offers no evidence that those on opposite sides of the question rendered harsh judgments of one other. They met, argued vigorously over a point that was not yet clear, and with the help of the Holy Spirit reached a decision that resolved their differences. Francis acknowledged that it is “a duty of the Church to clarify doctrine,” as the apostles did at the Council of Jerusalem. But he did not acknowledge that his critics within the hierarchy were calling for precisely the same sort of clarification with respect to papal teaching on marriage and the Eucharist.