William Frazer’s
Golden Bough begins with an account
of the priesthood of Diana of the Woods at Nemi, near Castelgandolfo, a
priesthood one attained by killing the incumbent and a priesthood in which one
was succeeded by the man who managed to kill you. The prophecy of Malachi ends
with the prediction that Elijah will come before the great and terrible day of
the Lord to turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of
children to their fathers (Mal 4:6). The angel Gabriel quotes this when he
tells Zechariah that he is to be the father of John the Baptist, the Elijah who
was to come, one of whose tasks is to turn the hearts of the fathers to the
children (Luke 1:17). Why would it need to be done? Ought it not to happen
naturally, that the hearts of fathers and sons should be turned to each other?
One reason, we
can speculate, is because a father’s children represent his mortality as well
as his potency. He brings them to be but in doing so is preparing the way for
his own demise: to paraphrase John the Baptist at another moment, ‘the children
must increase as the father decreases’.
Where the
fathers are celibate and do not have natural children of their own this
situation is likely to be more fraught. The fact that these are one’s own sons
and daughters helps to temper the normal handing over from one generation to
the next: in some way one continues to live on in them. But where the
succession is celibate then this natural consolation is not present – the
threat remains, the reminder of mortality is there, but without the consolation
of knowing that these replacements, these successors, are the fruit of your own
body. Even if they are not out to kill you off physically (although what
restrains them?!) they will want to kill you off in other ways. And it seems
right, only natural, that it should be so.
So what happens?
Well hatred is one of the things that can happen, in stronger or milder forms.
There are likely to be difficulties in relating easily, in working together,
and in sharing responsibility. On the other hand people may attempt to
establish something like the relationship of natural fathers and sons in this
celibate succession. Because it is not natural, this can take strange forms:
sponsorship and patronage as older men try to ensure that their particular way,
their preferred ideas, and their approach to living our life, is sown in the
minds and hearts of the next generation.
It can happen
(so my experience tells me) that those who are two generations apart can
establish easier relations than those who are just a generation away from each
other. Those who are two generations apart have a common enemy, I suppose, the
generation in between, whose limitations, weaknesses, compromises and general
mediocrity they are each well positioned to appreciate. The grandfathers will
be happy to see their sons experiencing some of the problems from the grandsons
that they had experienced from them. The laws of action and reaction that seem
to govern human life generally, not least in ecclesiastical affairs and
theological preferences, will ensure that grandsons will sometimes feel more at
home with those two generations away than they will with their own ‘fathers’.
These thoughts
come to me in reflecting on my reaction to comments about the 1970s, that most
ridiculous of decades. There was a feature in one of the Sunday magazines this
week that described the 1970s in just such terms, as the most ridiculous decade
of the past fifty years. It was referring to the fashions, music, and general
cultural preoccupations of those years. Within the Church you find a similar
analysis of the contribution of the 1970s. Naturally I am a bit sensitive about
this, since these were the years when I was a student in Tallaght, formed
during the second half of the pontificate of Pope Paul VI. Just a year or so
after our ordination in 1978, when Pope John Paul II was beginning to show his
hand, one of our teachers at Tallaght apologised to a classmate and myself for
having prepared us for ‘the wrong church’.
Since I’ve come
to live here at Blackfriars (Oxford), comments made in passing, or even directly to me,
by clerical students, not all of them Dominicans, nourish my thinking about
this. These have included references to the 1970s as the time when things ‘went
to pot’, and as a kind of silly season in liturgical and other theological
matters. People nod with sad, knowing smiles when the preoccupations of that
time are recalled. I know that men from that generation and the one just before
are experienced in some places as completely set in their ways, intolerant
liberals, obstacles now to progress. ‘Thank God’, one student said to me some
years ago, ‘good priests are beginning to be ordained again’. I wasn’t sure how
far back the ‘bad priests’ went and may have simply been paranoid in assuming
that he included all of my generation in his condemnation!
Where does it
leave us? Well, it leaves us where the human race has always been, I suppose,
living with the same realities, the same questions, except that we must face
them in the form in which they present themselves to us. I can remember when
the 1950s was regarded as the most ridiculous of decades so the day may come
when people will be nostalgic for the 1970s. Those who imagine that life before
Vatican II was some kind of ecclesiastical paradise are as much out of touch as
some of the people who taught me and for whom life before Vatican II seemed to
be unrelieved and unmitigated nonsense.
I think the
1970s, coming after the 1960s, raised questions and difficulties particularly
about authority. All authority and
leadership came to be regarded as flawed, ambiguous and invariably
self-serving. The revolting students of Paris had obliged General de Gaulle to
come to the television screens and explain to France what was going on. Nixon
was exposed as a crook and a liar. The reaction to Humanae vitae opened questions about authority in the Church that
rumble on to this day.
A film that
captures the concerns and problems of the 1970s very well is The Ice Storm, with Kevin Kline and
Sigourney Weaver. Made in 1997, it is set in 1973. The pullovers are
ridiculous, the music is sad, and the teenagers are obnoxious. The adults are
appalling: they seem unable or unwilling to grow up, they want to be as young
as their children, they have become self-conscious about authority and any
exercise of it, and so find it impossible to become adults. It seems like a
generation that wants to be teenage forever. You are probably in a better
position than me to talk about the impact of that period on later generations
and to assess how much truth there might be in what I am saying.
We live from the
Word of God in the first place, finding our foundation and our bearings from
there. But the history and texts of our own and recent times help us to put
shape on the ways in which we must live out some perennial questions: about
fatherhood, about authority, about leadership, about relating across
generations, about understanding, about love. If I end by quoting Scripture it
is not to suggest that our recent experience and the questions it raises are
simple to understand or to answer, but simply to point to what ought to be the
foundation of our lives and the guiding criterion of our judgements. In the
sermon on the mount Jesus says, ‘you have heard that it was said to the men of
old, ‘you shall not kill, and whoever kills shall be liable to judgment. But I
say to you that every one who is angry with his brother shall be liable to
judgment, whoever insults his brother shall be liable to the council, whosever
says ‘you fool’ shall be liable to the hell of fire’ (Matt 5:21-22). Whatever
we find ourselves thinking about people of another generation, or people of
different styles and preferences, we need always to submit our thoughts to the
refining judgement of Our Lord’s teaching.
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