Why are priests called 'Father'?

I was in a local pub recently – yes, really – and someone asked me why some parishes call their priests ‘Father’ whereas it’s not the custom everywhere.  I explained it to him and he was very happy with the explanation.  The conversation, like other conversations I’ve had with people outside the worshipping community about other things, made me wonder about the extent to which people within the worshipping community know about our practices and customs.

One might trace the origins of this particular custom right back to the holy scriptures.  In his First Letter to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 4: 14-17), St Paul refers to himself as the ‘father’ of the believers; but, being too distant both in time and context, this can’t really be used as a basis for contemporary usage.  Prior to the Reformation, it was customary to call priests ‘Sir’ (meaning ‘senior’ or ‘elder’) followed by the priest’s Christian name (see, for example, The Voices of Morebath by Eamon Duffy, 2001, a book which traces the history of the church in one English parish through the turbulent events of the sixteenth century).  In some countries, notably Italy, the common title was ‘Dom’, from the Latin Dominus or ‘Master’; those who like champagne are probably familiar with ‘Dom Perignon’, bearing as it does the name of bubbly’s Benedictine inventor!

Prior to the 1800s, the title ‘Father’ was largely reserved to priests who belonged to religious orders, where it was sometimes rendered in its French form Pere or Italian Padre, the latter in general use in the British armed forces today.  It was only during the nineteenth century that the Roman Catholic Church in England adopted ‘Father’ as its preferred form of address for priests generally; and then it became gradually adopted by some parishes and institutions within the Church of England, too, as we see from accounts of church life in the decades following the beginning of the Oxford Movement in 1833.

The title ‘Father’ can, of course, be used in conjunction with the priest’s Christian name or surname.  The latter is more formal and it was the custom in the parish in which I served after my ordination in Birmingham.  It’s probably more common nowadays used in conjunction with the priest’s Christian name, which I personally prefer, at least among people who are familiar to me.

But to return to the question posed by my hostelry inquisitor: why do we have this custom?  There are two quite valuable factors in its favour.  Firstly, it is a title which can and should be used by everyone – young and old.  It has an objectivity about it which ensures that there is no ‘pecking order’ in a parish community based on age, social class or any other kind of status among the laity.  Secondly, it reminds the priest of his responsibilities in a way that is analogous to the father of a family; just as a father has no favourites among his children (or shouldn’t have), so the bit of distance that the title allows the priest to have from any and every individual ensures that he is not more distant from anyone, and that he can have an equal relationship with all his parishioners.  In parishes where the priest is not called ‘Father’, it’s common for different people to have a different kind of access to their priest – so, you’ll often find that the children address the priest differently from the way in which the adults do; which is undesirable in a parish community as it introduces distinctions based on status, thus undermining the common baptismal status which makes Christian people equals.

The title ‘Father’ has never conveyed to me a sense of superiority, as some people might argue that it does.  It reminds me of my responsibilities, not of my rights.  It helps me to bring to mind some words of St Peter, addressed to the elders of the fledgling Church: ‘Be the shepherds of the flock of God that is entrusted to you; watch over it…Never be a dictator over any group that is put in your charge, but be an example that the whole flock can follow (1 Peter 5: 1b-3).

CHRIST CHURCH CARNFORTH Lancaster Road (A6)
LA5 9LD

ORGAN RECITAL Sunday 23rd June @ 3.00pm

Do come and support Lancaster Priory's talented organ scholar, Javier Moral Agaso.

Javier is entering two international organ competitions, and this gives him a trial run! 

Free parking, free admission, voluntary collection.

An Easter Message

It was the sheer enthusiasm and commitment of the earliest Christians that drew people to join them in such large numbers.  We see this during Eastertide especially clearly, because we read through the Acts of the Apostles at Mass on the Sundays and weekdays of this most special season.  People were drawn by the preaching and proclamation of the apostles – those same apostles who had hidden themselves away fearful that they, too, might be made to suffer for their faith in Christ; those same apostles who must have felt shattered and let down at the ultimate failure of Jesus’ earthly life, as they would no doubt have seen it at the time of his crucifixion.  St Luke tells us, in the Acts, that on the strength of Peter’s preaching to the Jews ‘on the day of Pentecost’ that they ‘must repent’ and ‘be baptised in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of [their]sins’  on ‘that very day, about three thousand were added to their number’ (Acts chapter 2, read at Mass on Tuesday of the Easter Octave).

I sometimes wonder what would be the effect if we and Christians more generally could display this kind of boldness and confidence today.  I wonder whether the reason why the Church in the West is declining numerically is because we do not actually believe firmly and fervently enough.  What is our attitude to Jesus and his saving work?  Do we believe that he is the incarnate Son of God who, having been put to death, was raised bodily to new and eternal life for the forgiveness of sins and so as to be able to open up to us the fullness of life?  Do we really believe this?

If you stop and think about the central Gospel claims, which I’ve just set out, it’s hard to see how we can be lukewarm or indifferent to them.  There is no halfway house.  Either these claims are true, or they are a grotesque delusion which have led many people down the ages and across the world to what could only be described as pointless deaths.  Here is what the well-known Christian writer, C.S Lewis wrote on this theme, back in 1952:

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic…or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to (Mere Christianity).

With all good wishes and prayers for a joyful fifty days of Eastertide. 

A Message for Holy Week and Easter

We are about to celebrate the very heart of our faith as we reach Holy Week and Easter.  The liturgies of Holy Week make present the events that redeemed us and which make it possible for us to lay hold of the gift of everlasting life.  We follow the events through as companions of Christ.  

Sometimes, we might wonder why Jesus had to suffer and die; and, indeed, God could of course have chosen to redeem us by some other means.  But the reason Jesus suffered and died is because that is what people did to him.  He accepted upon himself all that the world could possibly do to him and, in doing so, showed us that love is stronger than death and will always triumph over it.  But, yes, God could have redeemed us without all that.  He could, presumably, have forgiven us for our own sins and the sins of the world and simply bestowed eternal life upon us automatically.  But that would have rendered us powerless; we would have been reduced to a kind of robotic status; and that would have offended against the genuine free will with which God had endowed us in the first place. It would have rendered us incapable of making a loving response to him.

The medieval theologians made a helpful distinction between God’s absolute power (potentia absoluta), the power he could exercise; and his ordered power (potentia ordinata), the power he chooses to exercise.  This distinction helps us to see that, whilst God could have redeemed us any way he chose, he chose to do so by freely limiting the power he exercises.  This latter way was essential if our freedom to act is to be honoured.  Whilst this means that bad things can happen in the world, our freedom is safeguarded and we can therefore enter (freely) into a loving relationship with him and which has salvation as its proper end.

So, God’s exercise of his potentia ordinata meant that Christ might suffer the Passion and that God would choose to redeem us through the infinitely more difficult and costly way of love, inviting (not forcing) people of every time and place to respond to Christ’s Passion, Death and Resurrection freely and taking hold of the gift he offers.

We might say, then, that a world in which bad things can and do happen is the best of all possible worlds; since the alternative is a world in which we have no freedom at all.  And, of course, bad things do happen.  Just last month, 49 people lost their lives in a terror attack in New Zealand.  Many more people have been left bereaved or injured.  The attacker was a far-right, Hitler-admiring extremist who hated Muslims and anyone whom he perceived to be somehow ‘other’ than himself.  His psychological make-up is very similar to that of the Islamic extremists we hear about.  What they have in common is a sense that they are absolutely right, and that there is no doubt whatsoever as to the justness of their cause.  Only someone with such a mindset can become a murderous terrorist or a suicide bomber.  Thankfully, the vast majority of people, even those with very strong convictions - be those convictions political or religious - are balanced enough to see that others have insights to offer and that we can learn from those others through a healthy interchange with them.

So as we prepare for Holy Week and Easter, pray for those who have suffered as a result of terrorism, pray for the conversion of the hearts of terrorists and extremists of any kind; and pray that, as we celebrate the heart of our faith, others may be moved to make a free and loving response to the God who chooses to honour our freedom by merely inviting us to respond to him.  The message of Easter is that, no matter what happens here and now and no matter what our sufferings, his love will always triumph.

 A homily for the Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C 3/3/19

Today’s scripture readings, or the first reading and the Gospel anyway, teach us that our words and actions reveal the truth about ourselves.  We might say that they invite to ask ourselves the question: What sort of person am I?

It’s a good question to ask ourselves right now, as we stand again on the threshold of the great season of Lent.  For Lent is about the purification of our hearts.  Originally, Lent grew out of the final weeks of preparation spent by adult converts to the Christian faith prior to their baptism at Easter. The word ‘Lent’ itself derives from the Old English ‘lencten’, which means ‘spring’.  In Middle English is derived the words ‘lenten’, ‘lente’ and ‘lent’.  The word appears to come from the same root as the word ‘long’, referring as it does to lengthening days as the earth moves from the winter solstice to the spring equinox.  So, as we are getting ready for the new life of the season of Spring, we are also preparing for the new life of Easter.  And just as those early converts prepared for their new life of faith, so we look to the Lord to renew us in faith as we open ourselves to his grace. During Lent, we seek to re-order our priorities again so that we can see the call of God afresh as the primary call of our lives.

This is why Lent is a penitential season.  It’s time to put in their proper place those things which so easily come to dominate us and enslave us.  It’s time to seek purification of heart and mind; to discipline ourselves so that we can be renewed in discipleship and address the sloppiness which affects us all and which diminishes the quality of our lives of faith.

So, today’s readings, although not set for Lent, are so apposite.  Our speech reveals the state of our hearts; as do the ways in which we relate to others. The authors of the book of Ecclesiastes and of St Luke’s Gospel convey the same message.  It’s not so much a time to watch what we say that bit more carefully, try to be less judgemental of others, or try by our own efforts to be better.  It’s time, rather, to seek interior renewal through prayer and through renewed discipline so that our hearts are changed.  Then, and only then, will our words, our dispositions towards others and our actions really change for the better.

Strangely, the ancient Greeks understood this, although they would have expressed it differently.  When we think of sin, for example, we tend to think of particular offences we and others commit, or might commit.  We address wrong action in a quite isolated way – ‘I did this, or I did that, and I shouldn’t have done’.  But the ancient Greeks and, implicitly, today’s scriptures, see the problem differently.  They seem to see it like this: that the reason I did this or that when I shouldn’t have done as being because my heart is not at rights – the individual wrong action is not so much something in itself, but a consequence of what’s inside me, the state of my heart.  The ancient Greeks thought of it as being to do with ‘character’ – the sort of person I am.  The biblical writers speak in terms of the heart.  In other words, if bad things are in my heart, or if I’m a certain sort of person with particular character defects or weaknesses, it is inevitable that I will say and do things I shouldn’t.

This means that the fundamental problem is an interior one, and not simply a matter of a particular wrong action, or word, or thought committed on a particular occasion.  This is not, of course, to argue that one shouldn’t confess particular sins – we should – but rather to say that, without a true conversion and purification of the heart, it is inevitable that we shall repeat that particular sin over and over again.  And, in fact, even when our hearts are purified, they need to be purified constantly through repentance – through turning again and again back to the Lord, seeking to begin to travel in a different direction.

So, as we stand on the threshold of Lent once again, let each of us commit ourselves to seeking a fruitful Lent.  There are lots of suggestions in the Parish Magazine for March to help.  Let our prayer be that during the holy season of Lent, our hearts be truly purified so that we can enter unencumbered by the baggage of sin that we all accrue, into the joy of Easter and the new life it brings.

A NEW RAISON D-ETRE NEEDED 

In his piece entitled ‘Marginalising Catholicism’ in the November 2018 edition of New Directions, Edward Dowler reflected upon the theme of ‘Catholic Mission’, Fr Dowler set out two ‘guiding principles’ which inform his ongoing reflection about our current missionary task.

I wish to leave aside his second guiding principle (with which, incidentally, I concur), about the use of resources from beyond the parameters of the Church of England; but I offer a brief reflection on the first.

Fr Dowler reminds us that the catholic tradition, far from being ‘an increasingly marginal subset of the Church of England’, is in fact ‘the mainstream of Christian life and faith throughout history and all across the world’.  Citing John Shelby Reed, he then proceeds to outline the loss of this sense.  He tells us that Reed argues that, as a result of ritual persecutions carried out under the 1874 Public Worship Regulation Act, Anglo-Catholics gave up the original vision of the Oxford fathers, which was to raise awareness in the Church of England generally of its inherent catholic nature, settling instead for ‘tolerance and forbearance’ for themselves. As Reed states, Anglo-Catholics abandoned their goal of ‘a unified, “Catholic” Church of England’ and ‘had become content to see [their beliefs] tolerated as the mark of a party’.  In fact, Newman had already identified this phenomenon, writing in his Apologia of his thoughts as early as 1843: ‘Men of Catholic views are too truly a party in our Church’.  Fr Dowler then proceeds to outline the way in which Anglo-Catholics have ‘colluded’ in this ‘marginalisation’ of Catholicism within the Church of England.  He is right to argue that this reductive self-understanding has had the effect of implying that Catholicism is merely one strand among others within Anglicanism, rather than the Christian norm.  It is precisely the antithesis of the original vision of the Oxford fathers, as Catholics in the Church of England have been content to occupy a niche within an ecclesial community which has a generally different self-understanding, simply making our distinctive contribution.  In short, we have become domesticated, partly as a result of our own actions.

This marginalisation, collusion, domestication – call it what you will – has reached its apogee in our embracing of the Five Guiding Principles and the notion of ‘mutual flourishing’, along with the novel and uncatholic ecclesiology this embrace entails. It  is a million miles away from the original vision of what came to be known as the Catholic movement in the Church of England; and it represents an almost complete abandonment of the raison d’etré which has inspired and energised generations of laypeople and clergy.

The most pressing need for our movement now, I believe, is to find a new raison d’etré and a new articulation of our place and purpose, since it is now apparent that the vision with which our movement began in 1833 has been abandoned, or at least lost by default as something no longer attainable.

Sartre and Teleology - who'd have thought it?

One of the journals I read regularly is a rather geeky one called Philosophy Now.  It’s not exactly mass-market: I think Smith’s in Lancaster have about two copies, and it comes out every two months.  So I have it on subscription.  In the present issue, the focus is on the notion of consciousness, and there is a piece on the significant twentieth century philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-1980).

 

At the heart of Sartre’s philosophy is the apparently paradoxical notion that humanity’s freedom is a burden, because of the responsibility for self-determination it brings.  This is explained by a present-day commentator as follows:

 

When we make something – a clock, an engine, a butter knife – we begin with an idea of what that thing will do, so that the purpose of that thing is built into it.  In other words, we start out with the idea of its purpose before even we begin to make it.  But human beings are not like that.  We come into the world without a purpose.  We first come into being, and then must decide for ourselves for what purpose we exist.  We cannot ascribe our actions to some pre-existing human nature, in the way that we can explain a clock’s actions by virtue of its nature…Sartre says that we must accept responsibility for who we are and what we do.  It is our fate to create ourselves through the choices we make (Terence Green).

 

We can see straightaway that Sartre is working with a modern, secular idea of humanity as being in some sense self-sufficient and self-determining.  Humanity (not God) is placed the very centre of reality in this scheme of thought.  It is a million miles away from the idea of humanity which our Catholic faith gives to us; as is Sartre’s contention that we come into the world without a purpose and that, by implication, there is nothing distinctive or God-given about human nature as such.

 

By contrast, Christians do not believe that we have simply come into being by chance and with no purpose.  We have been created in the image and likeness of God with the purpose of entering into a free relationship with God so that he can share with us the fullness of his life.  We are not compelled, of course, to respond to his gracious invitation nor to his desire that we be at all; but we do believe that this is the purpose set out for human beings.  This conviction lies at the heart of the Church’s life and the imperative we have for mission to the world; it is our responsibility to help others to share this conviction, so that they begin to see that there is a transcendent purpose to our lives, and which lies profoundly beyond the desire for material affluence or well-being in this world.  Jesus’ claim to have come so that people may have life to the full is an objective claim about what that fullness consists in, namely communion with God.  It’s a far more exciting prospect than Sartre’s mundane view that we have to find a purpose for ourselves, with the miserable implication that if we fail, there is no point in our existing at all.  I wonder how many people in our society operate with that model without even realising it.

 

Sartre’s atheism is well known but, reflecting on himself shortly before his death he made this remark: ‘I do not feel that I am the product of chance, a speck of dust in the universe, but someone who was expected, prepared, prefigured.  In short, a being whom only a Creator could put here; and this idea of a creating hand refers to God.’  I wonder if, in a strange kind of way, Sartre came to some appreciation of his true (inherent) purpose, and of how this purpose, far from being something of his own creation, was actually bestowed upon him as a gift, from the very first moment of his existence.