The Ecological Crisis: Desire, Mourning and Language

A recently published report on scientific climate data constitutes a dire warning. 2023 was the hottest year on record, and scientists say that we are on the brink of an apocalyptic disaster that “has profound consequences for … all human endeavors.”

But vital though it is, scientific data alone cannot motivate the necessary changes in human behavior, collectively or individually. In her book, Meditations on Creation in an Era of Extinction, Kate Rigby draws on ancient theological writings on the biblical account of the six days of creation (the Hexaemeron), as a resource for reflecting on the ecological crisis.  She suggests that such stories are not rendered redundant by modern science, for they are concerned “not so much with the physical processes of cosmogenesis as with questions of meaning, value and purpose—questions that properly lie outside the remit of the natural sciences.”  

Scientific facts need to be incorporated into stories that give meaning to our lives, and this entails delving deeply into the psychological and linguistic influences that shape us. If, as Martin Heidegger, we inhabit the house of language, then we need to change our ways of speaking about “our common home” if we are to inhabit it differently.

Pope Francis is leading by example. He pays close attention to the science of climate change, but his prose shimmers with a poetic vision that weaves together the contemplative and the active, the mystical and the conceptual. In his November 2023 Motu Proprio, Ad Theologiam Promovendam, he calls theological reflection “to a turning point, to a paradigm shift, to a ‘courageous cultural revolution’” (quoting Laudato Si’). It is regrettable that, as Callie Tabor argues, his language about women remains mired in sometimes “hopeless romanticism” and “misogynistic stereotypes.” The gendering of nature as feminine has profound ecological implications, and it’s a pity that Pope Francis hasn’t engaged more closely with eco-feminist thinkers who might alert him to the need for a paradigm shift in how we talk about gender and nature. But setting aside that not-insignificant concern, his call for a transformation in theological language and methods is fundamental to a wider revolution in the ethos and practice of the Catholic faith.

In the face of alarming news, we can be gripped by a frenetic desire to act, but for those of us who live in the richest and most environmentally destructive nations, might we be called to a counter-intuitive response: instead of doing more, should we be doing less? In Laudato Si’, Pope Francis coined the neologism “rapidification” to describe the ways in which our accelerating lifestyles contribute to the environmental crisis. In the aftermath of the Second World War, German Catholic philosopher Josef Pieper writes about the importance of leisure, not in the sense of the commodified leisure activities that even in his time, and vastly more so in our own time, have displaced the Sabbath rest, but as deep contemplation that allows us to “listen to the essence of things.” He writes, “In leisure, man … celebrates the end of his work by allowing his inner eye to dwell for a while upon the reality of the Creation. He looks and he affirms: it is good.” Rigby includes the seventh day in her Hexaemeron, “the Sabbath day, in which we, too, are invited to join with the creator in celebrating the communion of all creatures.”

This indwelling in creation entails a process of mourning as well as celebration. Rigby writes of the dark night, the via negative, that is part of the contemplative experience, which “can deepen your anguished awareness of harm, suffering and wrong.” In her book, The Psychological Roots of the Climate Crisis, psychoanalyst Sally Weintrobe sees the denial of sorrow and mourning as part of neoliberalism’s “culture of uncare”—“Care is under attack here, as to feel grief about the world is to care about it.” Mourning is a necessary aspect of our reimagining ourselves in relation to nature, for much that has been lost will never be recovered. In a beautiful section from his homily on Psalm 37 in the Office of Readings for the third Friday of Advent, St. Augustine writes about what it means to pray without ceasing, as an expression of “the desire of the heart.” He writes, “Whatever else you may be doing, if you but fix your desire on God’s Sabbath rest, your prayer will be ceaseless. Therefore, if you wish to pray without ceasing, do not cease to desire.” He goes on to explain that our groaning is an expression of our desire, for our anguish is not concealed from God.

The flowering of a new eco-consciousness has its roots deep in our desire and its distortions. That is where we must begin the process of sorrow, repentance and transformation. If, as Pope Francis says, theology is called to “transdisciplinarity,” drawing on different sources of knowledge in the light of revelation, then we must forge a new understanding of spirituality that draws discerningly on theories of language, psychoanalysis and gender. We must learn to speak of our desires and sorrows in the language of poets and mystics—language that breaks open our imagination and calls us to new ways of understanding and caring for this fragile, beautiful world.

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Tina Beattie is professor emerita of Catholic Studies, University of Roehampton, London.

“Viva il Papa!”

Pope Francis, like his most recent predecessors, has two fixed appointments each week—his general audience on Wednesday mornings and his Angelus address and apostolic blessing on Sundays at noon. At both of these weekly gatherings someone in the crowd will inevitably shout out at a certain point, “Viva il Papa!” Everyone else then repeats the phrase with a full-throated, “Viva!” Those of us who have covered the Roman papacy for many years take this for granted. But the stadium-like cheer for “Papa Francesco” at a recent general audience suddenly caused me to pause and take a different look at his pontificate. I got somewhat emotional as I watched the 87-year-old pope hobble slowly with his cane into the Paul VI Hall. The audience gave him a standing ovation as he struggled with determination to move his physically impaired and overweight body to his chair at center-stage, reminding me just how much ordinary people really love and appreciate this man.

I, too, have greatly admired so much of what Francis has done these past nearly 11 years to try to revitalize and give new momentum to a Church that looked so tired and on the point of collapse in 2013, when he was elected Bishop of Rome. But I've not always liked the Jesuit pope’s bedside manner. I’ve criticized his sometimes-harsh treatment of Vatican aides and employees, most of all the way he publicly embarrassed Cardinal Angelo Becciu by abruptly stripping him of his conclave voting rights. Francis never informed the cardinal of the exact charges against him or allowed him the opportunity to defend or explain himself. The pope’s shocking defenestration of this lifelong papal diplomat was done in a way similar to how the former Holy Office used to silence and punish errant theologians. Can you imagine if Benedict XVI had done something similar? Or what if he had publicly equated surrogate motherhood with human trafficking, or likened having an abortion to hiring a hitman as Francis has? The mainstream media would have crucified the Bavarian theologian-pope who was once called “God’s Rottweiler.” But they usually give Francis a pass.

In any case, my criticisms of the current pope have been more about his governing “style,” not his theological views, pastoral or social priorities, teachings or reforms. But sometimes, even here, one can lose sight of the bigger picture. I was reminded of this after reading a long article that appeared several days ago in the Rome daily, La Repubblica. Its main author was Iacopo Scaramuzzi, a friend and colleague whom I consider to be one of the most astute observers of the Vatican. The piece gave a broader perspective of what has happened since March 2013, when Jorge Mario Bergoglio became the first Jesuit and the first person born in the New World to become pope. He was also the first one to take the name Francis after the saintly friar from Assisi who’s often been called “the second Christ” because of his radically evangelical way of life. The La Repubblica article conceded that the Argentine pope has had to act in an almost dictatorial manner at times to deal with internal opposition and even corruption. It also conceded that not all of his personnel choices or policy moves have been successful. But it noted that this was just one side of a complex personality that has also displayed genuine acts of benevolence, openness, mercy and patience. Though it was not exactly spelled out in black and white, the piece reminded me of what I first found so encouraging and attractive about Francis in the early weeks and months of his pontificate—he is someone extremely comfortable in his own skin and is not embarrassed to let people know that he is a sinner like everyone else. The pope is not afraid to let the mask slip because—as far as I can tell—there is no mask.

Now the old pope is on the last stretch of his pontificate. No one can say how much time he has left, but it is clear that his energies are diminishing almost as fast as he’s trying to complete his Church reforms. He has become, at times, both wistful and whimsical in a grandfatherly like way that makes him even more likeable and sympathetic to many of us than ever before. This is especially true at a moment when doctrinally rigid clerics, including bishops and even a few cardinals, are intensifying their attacks against him. The pope has exposed the legalistic and judgmental attitudes that gird their professed defense of Catholic teaching. They’ve brutally accused Francis of making a “mess” of things in the Church. But there is no doubt that things needed to be shaken up. The synodal project, as nebulous as it may seem even to his fans and supporters, is the pope’s way of trying to open up and expand an imploding Church so that the fewest number of people get crushed by its steady collapse.

Pope Francis will probably not succeed in completing the much-needed reform of the Church. What individual could? But he is laying the firm foundation for that project, one that will have to be left to his successor(s) to continue building upon. But for whatever time is left in this pontificate, you can be sure that the elderly pope will continue to provoke criticism from clericalists and traditionalists through his efforts to make the Church more welcoming to all. And for that we can only say: “Viva il Papa!”

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Robert Mickens is the English editor for La Croix International website.

A Paradigm Shift for Theology?

On November 1, 2023, Pope Francis issued a motu proprio to revise the statutes for the Pontifical Academy of Theology. Not a very exciting sounding development for sure, though hidden in the document is a clear call to all theology “to a turning point, to a change of paradigm, to a ‘courageous cultural revolution’ that commits it, in the first place, to be a fundamentally contextual theology, capable of reading and interpreting the Gospel in the conditions in which men and women daily live.” Francis called on scholars, “like good shepherds,” to “smell of the people and the street and, with their reflection, pour oil and wine on the wounds of men.” As a synodal, missionary and outgoing church, he proclaimed, we need a correspondingly “outgoing” theology, which will be a product of “an epistemological and methodological rethink.” One that adopts an inductive method. Theologians will need to commit to doing theology “in a synodal form, promoting among themselves the ability to listen, dialogue, discern and integrate the multiplicity and variety of the demands and contributions.” Not a dismissal of theology, to be sure, but a wake-up call to many.

Reflecting on this, a lot of different thoughts came together for me this week. There were the magi, of course, heading from nowhere in particular in search of something they knew not quite what. There was also a phrase that has been bugging me, from Jorge Bergoglio’s address to the gathered cardinals before the consistory that elected him pope, when he called on Christians to reach out to the periphery with the good news and listed “intellectual currents” among the target groups. What on earth did that mean? And by happenstance, reading of Christian Wiman’s latest book, Zero at the Bone: Fifty Entries Against Despair, pushed me to think about the relative inadequacy of theology to do justice to religious experience, compared to the stimulus to the imagination afforded by poetry. One question becomes clear: what use is theology anyway, or perhaps more accurately, what kind of theology is it that Pope Francis values? And one answer stands out: it all depends on how imaginative you are prepared to be in bringing together two loci, namely, the everyday experience of ordinary people and the word of God in Scripture. On January 5 in America magazine, John Martens suggested that Pope Francis’ emphasis on scripture is one source of the disquiet expressed about him by many Catholics because the message of unlimited love and unfettered mercy breaks away from comfortable boundaries. It’s scary. That’s why the grand inquisitor and his pals theologized Jesus into incarceration, and his response, to kiss his jailer, blew the gates off the prison. Not that over-cautious ecclesiastics and more than a few theologians haven’t been trying to shore up the fortifications ever since, with considerable success until the present papacy.

Francis clearly does not want to abolish theology, but he evidently thinks it should be conducted out in the open and in concert with the daily experience of all Christians, “outgoing” and not self-absorbed, dedicated to the primary task of Christians, which for Francis is evangelization. But being evangelical means being an outward-looking community of love and mercy. This requires in its turn, I think, creating a theology that explains and justifies exactly why the work of the church is nothing more nor less than love and mercy. And that, to return to Martens, is a deeply scriptural theology that keeps its distance from the metaphysical death by a thousand qualifications. So, when this week in church we celebrated the Epiphany, the magi exemplified Francis’ words that “paradoxically, those who claim to be unbelievers can sometimes put God’s will into practice better than believers.” While you can express dubia about the words of Francis, you are on shaky ground if your reservations extend to the clear message of scripture. Like the Samaritan in the gospel parable, these wise men are models for Christians and Jews, though they stand outside the traditions themselves. The call of God is not just extended to all but perhaps heard by all, which is uncomfortable to anyone who wishes to celebrate the good luck of Christians. Theology’s role is not to put this into question, but to start from this point and move forward. And that means that boundless love and mercy are unquestionable fundamentals.

So, what then about the church’s responsibility to reach out to those who follow other “intellectual currents”? How can you evangelize those who have their own intellectual and moral convictions and no space for the Christian story? Don’t we just have to respect their difference? Evidently, if we put Jesus Christ front and center in our outreach, we will not get far. But if we put the message of Jesus Christ in evidence through our practice of boundless mercy and love, while we may make no converts to the church, we may very well help build up the people of God. As the 14th century mystical treatise, The Cloud of Unknowing, proclaimed, “by our love the divine may be reached and held, by our thinking, never.” Theology is a rational activity, clearly, but can it find a way to abandon prescription and proscription? Its future role may be the profoundly important but second-order activity of description of the works of love and mercy.

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Paul Lakeland is emeritus professor of Catholic Studies at Fairfield University.

New Possibilities Rising from the Ashes

The release of Fiducia supplicans and the resulting lively discussions about what the declaration means, especially for same-sex couples, was the topic front of mind for many Catholics in the days leading up to Christmas. It certainly drew attention away from the guidelines the Vatican offered less than two weeks earlier on the handling of cremated remains and the permissibility of keeping a small portion of a deceased loved one’s ashes. The two sets of messages feel connected, though, in that they seem to reflect an effort on the part of the Church to find pastoral compromises when faced with the reality of people’s lives. 

The key takeaway on cremation is that, while the scattering of ashes or placing them in items such as jewelry remains forbidden, Rome now says a small portion may be stored in “a place of significance” instead of a cemetery. This acknowledges that for many families – including mine – having ashes at home can help them come to terms with the reality of death and encourage prayer and reflection on the meaning of life and what lies ahead. Many good, faithful Catholics have been keeping ashes reverently at home for some time. Rome’s clarification acknowledges that reality and removes stigma or judgment on well-meaning people. 

 As with so many issues, from artificial birth control to the frequency of attending confession, for example, this message tells us there are faithful Catholics for whom certain long-standing traditions can be rethought or reworked. Sometimes we forget that a well-formed conscience not only includes but extends far beyond reproductive and sexual matters. 

The Vatican’s update on the placement of ashes made my pastoral side feel just a tad smug. When my husband died a few days before the pandemic lockdown began, our family was free to operate outside of Catholic practice because Mike was a non-observant Jew. In conversations I had with our four adult children, it became clear that cremation was the most appropriate choice for us, with Mike’s urn remaining in our home. 

While Rome’s clarification did not apply to the decisions we made, it still left me hopeful that my Church is beginning to be more clearly supportive and understanding of a practice many Catholics embrace. As with same-sex couples receiving blessings, I am hopeful that these new efforts to work with people’s deeply held emotions and needs spread to other aspects of Church life as well.  

One of the realities of what some still call a “mixed marriage” is a desire to respect and learn about what is acceptable and appropriate for the spouse’s tradition. I checked with theologian friends who are knowledgeable on the subject and who knew our family dynamic, and they noted that while much of Judaism still rejects cremation, its use is growing in some of the more liberal Jewish movements. Given Mike’s lack of engagement with his faith, I was comfortable we were making an appropriate decision. 

And so, in good conscience, we opted for cremation and brought Mike’s urn home, placing it on the living room piano, in the heart of our family space. There simply was no space more sacred to him, or more appropriate to the rest of us. 

Having his ashes with us means so much more to us than interring him in a place far from home. My youngest daughter begins each day by blowing the urn a kiss, a custom her sister adopts when back at home. My sons always have a moment of communion when visiting, laying a hand on the urn and offering a few quiet words. These moments are among the most prayerful I’ve seen from my children since they left parochial school; these customs matter to my children and to me. I can also say with confidence that, for a man who eschewed religious practices, they would be sacred to Mike, too. 

The Church’s decision to weigh in on this now suggests an increasing trust in the faithful, an awareness that engaged Catholics have an innate notion of the sacred. With fewer Catholic families opting for funeral masses, it indicates a desire to work with people to achieve a compromise. And in what might be its most significant impact, it demonstrates that concepts like life after death and the raising of the dead might be more nuanced and less literal than many of us had been raised to believe. 

Mike’s ashes are a constant reminder of the gift of life, the sanctity and mystery of it. We are humbled by the presence of his remains in our lives, and we have had endless discussions about what it all means. I realize that our choice was easier because Mike was not a Catholic and that it is a decision that is not for all. I know the solace his ashes have brought us, though, and I am thankful that the Vatican is allowing my fellow Church members to know this solace, too.

The opportunities for similar decisions across Church life present rich and encouraging possibilities. May the momentum continue. 

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Catherine Mulroney is a communications officer at the University of St. Michael's College in the University of Toronto.