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"Introduction to Christianity": Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow | Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger |
Preface to the Second Edition (2004) of
Introduction To Christianity
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Since this work
was first published, more than thirty years have passed, in which world history
has moved along at a brisk pace. In retrospect, two years seem to be
particularly important milestones in the final decades of the millennium that
has just come to an end: 1968 and 1989. The year 1968 marked the rebellion of a
new generation, which not only considered post-war reconstruction in Europe as
inadequate, full of injustice, full of selfishness and greed, but also viewed
the entire course of history since the triumph of Christianity as a mistake and
a failure. These young people wanted to improve things at last, to bring about
freedom, equality, and justice, and they were convinced that they had found the
way to this better world in the mainstream of Marxist thought. The year 1989
brought the surprising collapse of the socialist regimes in Europe, which left
behind a sorry legacy of ruined land and ruined souls. Anyone who expected that
the hour had come again for the Christian message was disappointed. Although
the number of believing Christians throughout the world is not small,
Christianity failed at that historical moment to make itself heard as an epoch
making alternative. Basically, the Marxist doctrine of salvation (in several
differently orchestrated variations, of course) had taken a stand as the sole
ethically motivated guide to the future that was at the same time consistent
with a scientific worldview. Therefore, even after the shock of 1989, it did
not simply abdicate. We need only to recall how little was said about the
horrors of the Communist gulag, how isolated Solzhenitsyn's voice remained: no
one speaks about any of that. A sort of shame forbids it; even Pol Pot's
murderous regime is mentioned only occasionally in passing. But there were
still disappointment and a deep-seated perplexity. People no longer trust grand
moral promises, and after all, that is what Marxism had understood itself to
be. It was about justice for all, about peace, about doing away with unfair
master-servant relationships, and so on. Marxism believed that it had to dispense
with ethical principles for the time being and that it was allowed to use
terror as a beneficial means to these noble ends. Once the resulting human
devastation became visible, even for a moment, the former ideologues preferred
to retreat to a pragmatic position or else declared quite openly their contempt
for ethics. We can observe a tragic example of this in Colombia, where a
campaign was started, under the Marxist banner at first, to liberate the small
farmers who had been downtrodden by the wealthy financiers. Today, instead, a
rebel republic has developed, beyond governmental control, which quite openly
depends on drug trafficking and no longer seeks any moral justification for
this, especially since it thereby satisfies a demand in wealthy nations and at
the same time gives bread to people who would otherwise not be able to expect
much of anything from the world economy. In such a perplexing situation,
shouldn't Christianity try very seriously to rediscover its voice, so as to
"introduce" the new millennium to its message, and to make it comprehensible as
a general guide for the future?
Anyway, where
was the voice of the Christian faith at that time? In 1967, when the book was
being written, the fermentation of the early post-conciliar period was in full
swing. This is precisely what the Second Vatican Council had intended: to endow
Christianity once more with the power to shape history. The nineteenth century
had seen the formulation of the opinion that religion belonged to the
subjective, private realm and should have its place there. But precisely
because it was to be categorized as something subjective, it could not be a
determining factor in the overall course of history and in the epochal
decisions that must be made as part of it. Now, following the council, it was
supposed to become evident again that the faith of Christians embraces all of
life, that it stands in the midst of history and in time and has relevance
beyond the realm of subjective notions. Christianity—at least from the
viewpoint of the Catholic Church—was trying to emerge again from the
ghetto to which it had been relegated since the nineteenth century and to
become involved once more in the world at large. We do not need to discuss here
the intra-ecclesiastical disputes and frictions that arose over the
interpretation and assimilation of the council. The main thing affecting the
status of Christianity in that period was the idea of a new relationship
between the Church and the world. Although Romano Guardini in the 1930s had coined
the expression, Unterscheidung des Christlichen [distinguishing what is
Christian]—something that was extremely necessary then—such
distinctions now no longer seemed to be important; on the contrary, the spirit
of the age called for crossing boundaries, reaching out to the world, and
becoming involved in it. It was already demonstrated upon the Parisian
barricades in 1968 how quickly these ideas could emerge from the academic
discussions of churchmen and find a very practical application: a revolutionary
Eucharist was celebrated there, thus putting into practice a new fusion of the
Church and the world under the banner of the revolution that was supposed to
bring, at last, the dawn of a better age. The leading role played by Catholic
and Protestant student groups in the revolutionary upheavals at universities,
both in Europe and beyond, confirmed this trend.
This new
translation of ideas into practice, this new fusion of the Christian impulse
with secular and political action, was like a lightning-bolt; the real fires
that it set, however, were in Latin America. The theology of liberation seemed
for more than a decade to point the way by which the faith might again shape
the world, because it was making common cause with the findings and worldly wisdom
of the hour. No one could dispute the fact that there was in Latin America, to
a horrifying extent, oppression, unjust rule, the concentration of property and
power in the hands of a few, and the exploitation of the poor, and there was no
disputing either that something had to be done. And since it was a question of
countries with a Catholic majority, there could be no doubt that the Church
bore the responsibility here and that the faith had to prove itself as a force
for justice. But how? Now Marx appeared to be the great guidebook. He was said
to be playing now the role that had fallen to Aristotle in the thirteenth
century; the latter's pre-Christian (that is, "pagan") philosophy had to be
baptized, in order to bring faith and reason into the proper relation to one
another. But anyone who accepts Marx (in whatever neo-Marxist variation he may
choose) as the representative of worldly reason, not only accepts a philosophy,
a vision of the origin and meaning of existence, but also and especially adopts
a practical program. For this "philosophy" is essentially a "praxis," which
does not presuppose a "truth" but rather creates one. Anyone who makes Marx the
philosopher of theology adopts the primacy of politics and economics, which now
become the real powers that can bring about salvation (and, if misused, can
wreak havoc). The redemption of mankind, to this way of thinking, occurs
through politics and economics, in which the form of the future is determined.
This primacy of praxis and politics meant, above all, that God could not be
categorized as something "practical." The "reality" in which one had to get
involved now was solely the material reality of given historical circumstances,
which were to be viewed critically and reformed, redirected to the right goals
by using the appropriate means, among which violence was indispensable. From
this perspective, speaking about God belongs neither to the realm of the
practical nor to that of reality. If it was to be indulged in at all, it would
have to be postponed until the more important work had been done. What remained
was the figure of Jesus, who of course no longer appeared now as the Christ,
but rather as the embodiment of all the suffering and oppressed and as their
spokesman, who calls us to rise up, to change society. What was new in all this
was that the program of changing the world, which in Marx was intended to be
not only atheistic but also anti-religious, was now filled with religious
passion and was based on religious principles: a new reading of the Bible
(especially of the Old Testament) and a liturgy that was celebrated as a
symbolic fulfillment of the revolution and as a preparation for it.
It must be
admitted: by means of this remarkable synthesis, Christianity had stepped once
more onto the world stage and had become an "epoch-making" message. It is no
surprise that the socialist states took a stand in favor of this movement. More
noteworthy is the fact that, even in the "capitalist" countries, liberation
theology was the darling of public opinion; to contradict it was viewed
positively as a sin against humanity and mankind, even though no one,
naturally, wanted to see the practical measures applied in their own situation,
because they of course had already arrived at a just social order. Now it cannot
be denied that in the various liberation theologies there really were some
worthwhile insights as well. All of these plans for an epoch-making synthesis
of Christianity and the world had to step aside, however, the moment that that
faith in politics as a salvific force collapsed. Man is, indeed, as Aristotle
says, a "political being," but he cannot be reduced to politics and economics.
I see the real and most profound problem with the liberation theologies in
their effective omission of the idea of God, which of course also changed the
figure of Christ fundamentally (as we have indicated). Not as though God had
been denied—not on your life! It's just that he was not needed in regard
to the "reality" that mankind had to deal with. God had nothing to do.
One is struck by
this point and suddenly wonders: Was that the case only in liberation theology?
Or was this theory able to arrive at such an assessment of the question about
God—that the question was not a practical one for the long-overdue
business of changing the world—only because the Christian world thought
much the same thing, or rather, lived in much the same way, without reflecting
on it or noticing it? Hasn't Christian consciousness acquiesced to a great
extent—without being aware of it—in the attitude that faith in God
is something subjective, which belongs in the private realm and not in the
common activities of public life where, in order to be able to get along, we
all have to behave now etsi Deus non daretur (as if there were no God)? Wasn't it
necessary to find a way that would be valid, in case it turned out that God
doesn't exist? And, indeed it happened automatically that, when the faith
stepped out of the inner sanctum of ecclesiastical matters into the general
public, it had nothing for God to do and left him where he was: in the private
realm, in the intimate sphere that doesn't concern anyone else. It didn't take
any particular negligence, and certainly not a deliberate denial, to leave God
as a God with nothing to do, especially since his Name had been misused so
often. But the faith would really have come out of the ghetto only if it had
brought its most distinctive feature with it into the public arena: the God who
judges and suffers, the God who sets limits and standards for us; the God from
whom we come and to whom we are going. But as it was, it really remained in the
ghetto, having by now absolutely nothing to do.
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Yet God is
"practical" and not just some theoretical conclusion of a consoling worldview
that one may adhere to or simply disregard. We see that today in every place
where the deliberate denial of him has become a matter of principle and where
his absence is no longer mitigated at all. For at first, when God is left out
of the picture, everything apparently goes on as before. Mature decisions and
the basic structures of life remain in place, even though they have lost their
foundations. But, as Nietzsche describes it, once the news really reaches
people that "God is dead," and they take it to heart, then everything changes.
This is demonstrated today, on the one hand, in the way that science treats
human life: man is becoming a technological object while vanishing to an
ever-greater degree as a human subject, and he has only himself to blame. When
human embryos are artificially "cultivated" so as to have "research material"
and to obtain a supply of organs, which then are supposed to benefit other
human beings, there is scarcely an outcry, because so few are horrified any
more. Progress demands all this, and they really are noble goals: improving the
quality of life—at least for those who can afford to have recourse to
such services. But if man, in his origin and at his very roots, is only an
object to himself, if he is "produced" and comes off the production line with
selected features and accessories, what on earth is man then supposed to think
of man? How should he act toward him? What will be man's attitude toward man,
when he can no longer find anything of the divine mystery in the other, but
only his own know-how? What is happening in the "high-tech" areas of science is
reflected wherever the culture, broadly speaking, has managed to tear God out
of men's hearts. Today there are places where trafficking in human beings goes
on quite openly: a cynical consumption of humanity while society looks on
helplessly. For example, organized crime constantly brings women out of Albania
on various pretexts and delivers them to the mainland across the sea as
prostitutes, and because there are enough cynics there waiting for such "wares,"
organized crime becomes more powerful, and those who try to put a stop to it
discover that the Hydra of evil keeps growing new heads, no matter how many
they may cut off. And do we not see everywhere around us, in seemingly orderly
neighborhoods, an increase in violence, which is taken more and more for
granted and is becoming more and more reckless? I do not want to extend this
horror-scenario any further. But we ought to wonder whether God might not in
fact be the genuine reality, the basic prerequisite for any "realism," so that,
without him, nothing is safe.
Let us return to
the course of historical developments since 1967. The year 1989, as I was
saying, brought with it no new answers, but rather deepened the general
perplexity and nourished skepticism about great ideals. But something did
happen. Religion became modern again. Its disappearance is no longer
anticipated; on the contrary, various new forms of it are growing luxuriantly.
In the leaden loneliness of a God-forsaken world, in its interior boredom, the
search for mysticism, for any sort of contact with the divine, has sprung up
anew. Everywhere there is talk about visions and messages from the other world,
and wherever there is a report of an apparition, thousands travel there, in
order to discover, perhaps, a crack in the world, through which heaven might
look down on them and send them consolation. Some complain that this new search
for religion, to a great extent, is passing the traditional Christian churches
by. An institution is inconvenient, and dogma is bothersome. What is sought is
an experience, an encounter with the Absolutely-Other. I cannot say that I am
in unqualified agreement with this complaint. At the World Youth Days, such as
the one recently in Paris, faith becomes experience and provides the joy of
fellowship. Something of an ecstasy, in the good sense, is communicated. The
dismal and destructive ecstasy of drugs, of hammering rhythms, noise, and
drunkenness is confronted with a bright ecstasy of light, of joyful encounter in
God's sunshine. Let it not be said that this is only a momentary thing. Often
it is so, no doubt. But it can also be a moment that brings about a lasting
change and begins a journey. Similar things happen in the many lay movements
that have sprung up in the last few decades. Here, too, faith becomes a form of
lived experience, the joy of setting out on a journey and of participating in
the mystery of the leaven that permeates the whole mass from within and renews
it. Eventually, provided that the root is sound, even apparition sites can be
incentives to go again in search of God in a sober way. Anyone who expected
that Christianity would now become a mass movement was, of course,
disappointed. But mass movements are not the ones that bear the promise of the
future within them. The future is made wherever people find their way to one
another in life-shaping convictions. And a good future grows wherever these
convictions come from the truth and lead to it.
The rediscovery
of religion, however, has another side to it. We have already seen that this
trend looks for religion as an experience, that the "mystical" aspect of
religion is an important part of it: religion that offers me contact with the
Absolutely- Other. In our historical situation, this means that the mystical
religions of Asia (parts of Hinduism and of Buddhism), with their renunciation
of dogma and their minimal degree of institutionalization, appear to be more
suitable for enlightened humanity than dogmatically determined and
institutionally structured Christianity. In general, however, the result is
that individual religions are relativized; for all the differences and, yes,
the contradictions among these various sorts of belief, the only thing that
matters, ultimately, is the inside of all these different forms, the contact
with the ineffable, with the hidden mystery. And to a great extent people agree
that this mystery is not completely manifested in any one form of revelation,
that it is always glimpsed in random and fragmentary ways and yet is always
sought as one and the same thing. That we cannot know God himself, that
everything which can be stated and described can only be a symbol: this is
nothing short of a fundamental certainty for modern man, which he also
understands somehow as his humility in the presence of the infinite. Associated
with this relativizing is the notion of a great peace among religions, which
recognize each other as different ways of reflecting the One Eternal Being and
which should leave up to the individual the path he will grope along to find
the One who nevertheless unites them all. Through such a relativizing process,
the Christian faith is radically changed, especially at two fundamental places
in its essential message:
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