WALKING WITH CHRIST IN SYNODALITY FROM THE EMMAUS OF COMFORT AND SECURITY TO THE JERUSALEM OF MOCKERY, SHAME AND DEFEAT
Address delivered by Msgr Lope C Robredillo, SThD, on the 32nd Commencement Exercises at the St John the Evangelist School of Theology, Palo, Leyte, May 4, 2023
Let me begin this address with a story by a Filipino Bishop who toured the Holy Land in 2018. When his group went to Caesarea Maritima, the tour guide showed them an ancient Roman public toilet. To relieve himself, one has to sit between two slabs of stone. A slave stands by to wash his rear end by means of a sponge wrapped at the end of a stick. When the user is done, the slave soaks the sponge in water to clean his butt. The tourists burst into laughter when the tour guide demonstrated the ritual. But when he added that that was what a Roman soldier exactly did when Jesus cried out from the cross, “I thirst,” they were shaken up.
I have not encountered this interpretation in any biblical commentary, but from historical criticism, this perfectly makes sense. Though it is true that the gospel accounts are colored by theological interest, yet the historical context of the crucifixion is one of mockery, as biblical scholars William David Davies and Dale Allison in their International Critical Commentary on Matthew and Joel Marcus in his Anchor Bible Commentary on Mark point out. It coheres well with the ridicule that the chief priests, elders, scribes and Roman soldiers treated him. That is probably why, in the synoptic gospels, we are not told that Jesus drank the sour wine from the sponge. Jesus expired, humiliated by men. He died insulted, maltreated, abused, degraded and shamed.
Why did I mention this? I brought this up because it is in the mockery and degradation of Jesus that we know God and come to the knowledge of his wisdom. And if we wish to walk in synodality in the wisdom of God, or walk with others enlightened by the wisdom of the risen Lord, as happened to Cleopas and his companion on the road to Emmaus, we need to live through ignominy and humiliation.
Let me explain.
Synodality has become a byword to Roman Catholics around the world, ever since Pope Francis called for a synod on synodality. Since 2021, probably almost all parishes were involved in its preparation. For those who have never heard of it, synodality simply means walking together. It is a way of listening to each other in order to discover and understand how God speaks to us. Hence, it refers to the involvement and participation of the whole people of God in the life and mission of the Church. Synodality is captured by three theologically loaded words: communion, participation and mission.
It is not my purpose at the moment to explain to you what synodality is all about, though. My aim is much more marked off. I wish to explore a fundamental concept of synodality contained in Luke 24:32, on which the present theme of the graduation is based: “Were not our hearts burning within us, while he spoke to us on the way and opened the scripture to us?” In the Vatican document entitled, “Synodality in the Life and Mission of the Church,” no.16, the walk of Jesus with the two disciples to Emmaus is portrayed as an icon of the people of God, guided on its way by the Lord, who lights it up by his Word. If the Lord were not a partner in their conversation, they would have ended staying at Emmaus for the night. There they would have found Emmaus the place of security and comfort over their disillusionment that their expectation of Jesus throwing off the Roman yoke over the land of Israel and putting them, his apostles, in high places of authority has been shattered. But because the Lord was with them, they hearts were burning, as Jesus explained to them that the Messiah, far from demolishing the Roman political power, must walk the path that wound up in shame and humiliation on the cross, a symbol of which is the offering of a sour wine by a soldier through a sponge that was probably used to clean their butts after defecation.
But it may be asked, why would a synodal walk with Jesus end that way? The logic is simple, though its implications are not immediately apparent. In the same Vatican document cited earlier on, a study by the International Theological Commission, we are told that Christians must walk with Christ, through Christ, and in Christ. We are reminded to retrace his footsteps until he returns. But here is the rub. Walking with Christ, as we very well know, is always transformative. It makes us, or rather, it must make us, into different persons. It must transform us. That is why, speaking of the identity of the ministerial priesthood in Pastores Dabo Vobis as standing in persona Christi capitis, meaning, in the person of Christ the head, St John Paul II explains that by virtue of the sacrament of holy orders, the priest is configured in his being to Jesus Christ, head and shepherd.
But make no mistake about it. This configuration to Christ is not simply ontological, that is to say, not merely at the level of being--a level, by the way, often appealed to when we explain why a sacrament celebrated by a sinful priest remains valid. The configuration—and I wish to stress this—this configuration is also existential. Our life should be a reflection of the life of Christ. That is why, St Paul says in his letter to the Romans, “put on the Lord Jesus Christ and make no provision for the desires of the flesh” (Rom 13:14). Such transformation finds a perfect example in the life of St Paul himself who says in his letter to the Galatians, “I have been crucified with Christ. Yet I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me” (Gal 2:19b-20a). Take note, however. As the experience of St Paul shows, the transformation that is asked of us is not simply in terms of imitation of the virtues and deeds of Jesus, much as many teachers would like us to believe. More than that, we are asked to live the truth of his death in our lives.
What do I mean by living the truth of his death?
Perhaps, I can explain this better by using some concepts in Sociology that are relevant to our purpose. The first one, proposed by Thomas Kuhn, a philosopher, in his book, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, is paradigm. Simply put, paradigm refers to a way of looking at the world that guides our thinking and acting. But when one changes his way of looking at the world and replace it with a new one, we call the alteration paradigm shift. The paradigm of life that the disciples of Jesus were born to was conceived in terms of power. Power resided in the ruling class consisting of the representatives of the Roman empire, the government officials who served as clients of Rome, and the religious leaders. They were the big shots, the great men, the most important who were exceedingly powerful, very rich and with enormous privileges and happiness. The rest of the population in Jerusalem and the peasants in the countryside who produced for and served the desires of the ruling class were separated from the ruling class by power, wealth and privileges.
In the Gospels, however, Jesus presented to his disciples a paradigm shift. The paradigm that Jesus brought from the Father is sharply in contrast to what his disciples assumed. For him, the world has to be interpretated not in terms of power but in terms of God’s love. The big shots are those who serve, not those who are served; happiness is found not in wealth, but in the absence of it; the first are the last. The blessed are the poor, not the rich. Enemies are treated not with violence, but with forgiveness. Power is faced not by violently destroying it, but by being victimized by it. In short, Jesus came to present to us a different way of looking at the world; he provided his disciples and us a paradigm shift.
But the paradigm shift was only prefatory. Jesus perfected the new paradigm by living his death. To understand what I mean, we use another term in sociology: vertical mobility. In his book, Power and Privilege: A Theory on Social Stratification, Gerhard Lenski refers this to a change in the political, religious or occupational status of a person that causes a change in his position in society. When the change results in higher status, this is called ascending mobility, as when a janitor becomes a chief executive officer (CEO). The opposite change is known as descending mobility, as when a five-star general is totally stripped of his rank. In his book, The Selfish Way of Christ, Henri Nouwen prefers to call them upward mobility and downward mobility respectively.
Speaking of vertical mobility in our world, ascending mobility continues to be the primary drive among individuals and nations that has become out of control. It is a part of every culture, whatever might be the political, economic and religious philosophy behind them. Nations and almost all people want to be most powerful, to be the richest, to lord it over others, to be the best. Thus, America and China compete, nations fight over natural resources and sphere of influence, politicians jockey for positions. The unbridled ambition for power, prestige and wealth is a coveted virtue. Our culture has conditioned us to highly regard those at the top and those who succeed, even if the means they used are immoral and unacceptable; we easily overlook them. Since being at the bottom of the ladder is shameful, we tend to hide every sign of failure and defeat. No wonder, during alumni homecoming, those who failed to finish their schooling or have no occupational chest tend to decline invitations to attend. They think they have nothing to show off. That is the human way. That is the way of the world.
In the paradigm shift that Jesus lived, however, he chose to swim against the cultural current and pursued the opposite: the descending mobility. His synodal walk with God the Father is best captured by a hymn included by St Paul in his letter to the Philippians: “Though he was in the form of God, [he] did not deem equality with God something to be grasp. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming in human likeness; and found human in appearance, he humbled himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross” (Phil 2:6-8). In his synodal path, Jesus descended from being divine to being human, from being the powerful God of the universe to a helpless child in Bethlehem, from a mighty God who controls the wind to a weakened slave on the cross, from the glory of heaven to the degradation of a toilet sponge.
In his life, he always refused every opportunity for ascending mobility. In the temptation stories in chapter 4 of the gospels of Matthew and Luke, we find Jesus refusing to use power for his selfish ends, for fame, fortune and political domination. When the people, having witnessed his power to feed thousands of hungry individuals, wanted to carry him off and make him a king, he escaped from them and went to the mountain (John 6:15). When he was arrested, he refused to call upon his Father to provide him more than 12 legions of angels to defend him from his enemies (Matt 26:53).
It is interesting to note that in the three accounts on Jesus’ prediction of his passion, Jesus taught his disciples the descending mobility that he and his followers must traverse, to counter the disciples’ desire for ascending mobility. In the first prediction, when Peter recognized him as the Messiah, Jesus corrected him that he was not the victorious Messiah, but the Son of Man-Messiah who must suffer greatly and be rejected. That is why he taught them the descending mobility--whoever wishes to follow him must deny himself and take up his cross; he must lose his life, not save it (Mark 8:27-36). In the second prediction when the disciples were arguing among themselves who of them was the greatest, he instructed them on the descending mobility by saying that the greatest is the servant of all and the first is the last of all (Mark 9: 30-37). In the third prediction, when James and John wanted to sit in the highest positions in the kingdom, Jesus taught them the descending mobility--not to imitate Gentile rulers who lord it over their subjects, but to be servants and slaves of all, like the Son of Man (Mark 10:32-44).
To sum up, then: When I say Jesus lived the truth of his death, I mean that the whole life of Jesus was characterized by descending mobility.
This descending mobility is God’s mobility. It is the way of God, and, I believe, it is the only way of life that Jesus taught us.
If priests are configured to Christ, then this must also be our priestly movement—descending mobility. It is a synodal walk with Christ from the glory of ordination to the crucifixion of every day life. It is a synodal walk from the comfort of Emmaus to the rejection in Jerusalem. This, I believe, is the core of the spirituality of the priesthood. Without it, priesthood is always in danger of being a wolf in sheep’s clothing. That is why, once you become priests, I advise you not to secretly aspire to become a bishop or even a monsignor. But should you be appointed bishop or named monsignor, I think the first step concerns the correct use of words. Refrain from thinking and therefore refrain from saying that you were promoted or elevated to become a bishop or monsignor. Once you accepted that, the rest of your thinking and doing will follow. If by accident or by design you were put on top of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, do not relish with the idea that you are better than other priests, that you are now on the road to beatification, almost incapable of wrong decisions, error and sin, and have become separate from other mortals. Hypocrisy may not be far off. Scandals arise in the Church, but according to the Bible, the greatest sin is not about sex, though that is what most people think. The biggest sin is about power, a sin attendant upon ascending mobility.
It is a good thing that St Paul VI simplified ecclesiastic vestures in 1963, and that Pope Francis abolished a number of titles for the clergy outside Rome, and decreed that the title Monsignor can only be given when the candidate reaches the age of 60. At that age, probably, one would have less talk about power, prestige and privilege, and more about the high cost of medicine, hospitalization and, possibly, the importance of a happy death! I think it is within this context that one should interpret Pope Francis in his Apostolic Exhortation, The Joy of the Gospel, when he says, “I prefer a Church which is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a Church which is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security” (n.49).
If we look at it seriously, living the death of Jesus changes the way we satisfy our yearning to be happy. In our current paradigm of happiness, its achievement though ascending mobility seems to be always identified with success and prosperity. That is why we take so much effort to be successful, on the belief that the more powerful, more famous and richer we are, both as a nation and as individuals, the happier we become. But there is happiness, too, in being at the bottom, in descending mobility, though this is not easily discernible because it is at a deeper level. For Jesus himself says, “Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you [falsely] because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven” (Matt 5:11-12). In the Gospel of John, we are told that if his disciples love him, they ought to rejoice that Jesus goes to the Father through the cross (John 14:28). In his first letter to the Thessalonians, Paul commends the Christians who in their great affliction receive the word of God with joy and became models for Christians in Macedonia and Achaia (1 Thess 1:7-8). In his first letter, Peter says that we must rejoice to the extent that we share in the sufferings of Christ (1 Pet 1:13). In his second letter to the Corinthians, Paul himself reveals his overflowing joy because of all his afflictions (2 Cor 7:4). No wonder that he invites the Philippians to rejoice and share his joy in the shedding of his blood (Phil 2:13). This, of course, is not masochism. No, it is not.
I think that the best commentary on happiness that one experiences at the descending mobility comes from one of the stories in book, Fioretti or The Little Flower of St Francis. To the question, what is perfect joy? The answer is: perfect joy does not lie in being a famous saint, or a miracle worker, or a fiery charismatic or a talented professor or a missionary who converts all the pagans to Christianity, but in accepting the bickering in the community, in welcoming with pleasure every insult that is thrown at you, in loving negative experiences, yes, including mockery and calumny, that come from members of your very own community or parish. What does this tell us? It tells us that our happiness should go beyond the epicurean philosophy of comfortable living, summed up in the motto of eat and drink and be merry for tomorrow we die. We go beyond the happiness that somersault in Boracay, shopping spree in Paris and tour in Montenegro have to offer. We aspire for the happiness of the spirit. We should be at home with and find happiness in descending mobility.
Precisely because happiness, for one who follows the mobility of God, resides not so much in being at the top as in the terminus ad quem or destination of descending mobility, it is perfectly understandable that Jesus chose to live the life of those at the margins of society, and lived in company with them. There is no theological hindrance if Jesus were born to a rich family and lived in Jerusalem and rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous. God could have done that. But he chose to be born to an unknown girl in Nazareth, lived in that small town from which nothing good, it was thought, could come out, lived the life of a poor man and took the insecure job of a carpenter. As an adult, he was a homeless man, without political power or social standing or material wealth. The people he was usually in company with are described in the gospels by various names: people who failed to observed the law of Moses, those engaged in despised trade, the economically deprived such as beggars, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the widows, the orphans, the prostitutes, the demoniacs, the rabble who knew nothing of the law, all vulnerable to exploitation and degradation. Logically enough, he was derided in an epithet that comes from the Q document, “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Matt 11:19; Luke 7:34). In other words, Jesus, in his descending mobility, adopted the social position of those in the fringes of society. It was his class identity, the identity of God.
The implication of living the death of Jesus in our synodal walk has enormous implications for priestly ministry, but I cannot go into them. It is time to conclude this piece. Today, we are caught up in a secular society where ascending mobility, the drive to be successful, promoted and on top of the world, is almost a religion in the sense that it has become the stuff of our dreams and consumes almost the entirety of our life. If in the colonial days, people ask how can I get to heaven, today, the question is: how could I get fame and fortune, how can I get hold of power and wealth and become a part of the ruling class, how can I obtain high-end possessions that will identify me with rich and famous? If, before the Second Vatican Council, Christians, in imitation of Medieval saints’ spirituality, were taught to flee from the world because it is or has evil, today, we are told to embrace the world to free it from evil, but often winding up engulfed by the evil we intended to eliminate. No wonder, Christians copy what the secular world has to offer. One might ask whether how we run our parishes can still be distinguished from how municipal officials run their local government, except that we say Mass, we pray the rosary and practice abstinence. It would appear that the expectations, the means and results we are after are almost exactly the same. Even our values are no different. We are in the world, but contrary to what Jesus said, we have become at home with it.
It is time that we walked from our Emmaus of comfort zone and our Emmaus of refuge from almost unbearable plight to our Jerusalem of derision, shame and persecution under the light of the Risen Lord. It is time we imitated him who traversed from the top of divinity to the bottom of inhumanity, who made descending mobility the way of God. The synodal path to him cannot but involve a descending mobility; otherwise, it is not God’s. If priesthood is a vocation of following Christ, obviously it cannot be a call to a worldly advancement, a social promotion, a personal success. But we can only adopt descending mobility if we are prepared to change our worldview, if we are ready to change our theological, philosophical and social paradigm, where there is a shift in outlook in which the first is last, the smallest is the greatest, and failure is success. It is in embracing this paradigm shift that we can know God and the ways of God. As Jesus himself said in the Gospel of John, “when you lift up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I AM” (John 8:28a).
To put it differently, we know God in the crucified Jesus and from that knowledge, we can engage in a synodal walk. In the words of St Peter, we walk as aliens and sojourners in the world (1 Peter 2:11). What St Paul says about his ministry is very relevant: “We are always carrying about in the body the dying of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body. For we who live are constantly being given up to death for the sake of Jesus so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh” (2 Cor 4:10-11). In theology, we are taught that there are three offices of Christ—priest, prophet and king. I am convinced that if we need an image of Christ as an exemplar in our synodal walk, the image of Christ the Priest should be inextricably joined to the image of Christ as Son of Man in the synoptic gospels and as Suffering Servant of the Lord in Deutero-Isaiah. Why? My reason for this is that the image of Christ as Son of Man and Servant of Yahweh serves well as corrective of how we concrete live our priesthood. On the other hand, if we separate them, the danger that we might become wolves in sheep’s cloth always lurks. There is the danger that we might fail to recognize Jesus as the Crucified God.
I began my address with a story. Let me end it with another one, but this time, from a book entitled, Night, by Elie Weisel, which tells of the author’s experience in the German concentration camp during the Second World War. After the electric power was blown up, some German soldiers in charge of the extermination of the Jews eventually put three suspects on the gallows, two adults, and one child. The head of the camp read the verdict. Long live liberty, said the two adults, but the child was silent. After the three necks were placed within the nooses, someone said, “Where is God? Where is he?” Finally, the two adults died, their tongue hung swollen, but the third rope was still moving. Being so light, the child was still alive. “Where is God now?” the same man asked. Then, Weisel heard a voice within him answering the man: “Where is God? There he is—he is hanging on the gallows.”
