One more time, we are invited to think about “humility,”
The question raised often during this most recent papacy has been: What does it mean to be “humble?”
From the old Catholic Encyclopedia:
The virtue of humility may be defined: “A quality by which a person considering his own defects has a lowly opinion of himself and willingly submits himself to God and to others for God’s sake.” St. Bernard defines it: “A virtue by which a man knowing himself as he truly is, abases himself.” These definitions coincide with that given by St. Thomas: “The virtue of humility”, he says, “Consists in keeping oneself within one’s own bounds, not reaching out to things above one, but submitting to one’s superior.”
Willingly submits himself to God and to others for God’s sake.
The death of Pope Francis, and particularly his funeral, sheds more light on this, I think.
Face it: when a pope dies, the world is going to come.
They’re going to come from all over the world, they’re going to come from all walks of life. They’re going to come for all sorts of reasons, from curiosity to grief.
When a pope dies, the world is going to come, and its leaders are going to come, leaders of countries at peace, at war, in a state of hot or cold friction, as is the way of the world. But they’re going to come.
And the world is going to pay attention to the death of a pope. And it is going to be a big deal.
A portion of that interest is rooted in affection for a particular individual pope. But the foundational energy is not. That energy is drawn to Rome because of what Rome is and who the pope–any pope–is.
The attention is an acknowledgment of Jesus Christ and his living presence on earth, the Church. It’s an interest–perhaps inchoate, perhaps even unconscious–in the message and purpose of this living Body of Christ.
And, it’s not hard to see, an openness to that reality. An openness grounded in part in the fact that this is, in fact, a big deal.
The question lingers: Why is it a big deal?
Only because of the particular identity of the person in the coffin? Or something else?
When I went to Rome for the first time in 2005, I wasn’t a particular Pope Benedict devotee. A few years into his papacy, I admired him, but I had not yet done the deep dive into his writings that I would a bit later. Also,am I am generally a complete cynic about church structure and leadership, a student of history and ecclesiastical politics, so when it came time for the General Audience, I was sure that it would not be a big deal to me.
Narrator: It was a big deal.
It was really nothing, from the outside. No direct contact, not even eye contact. I had a baby on my hip, but as the Popemobile passed, I was immediately overwhelmed by the realization: It’s the Pope. In Rome. Where Peter was. And, 2000 years later, here we are. Still.
The question is, then, what to do with that?
It’s the same question, in a way, that any teacher faces. You are, say, a history professor, and you know that some in your class will be there out of obligation, others will have a mild interest, and a few might have the potential of being as passionate as you are.
What do you do with that moment?
Do you turn that potential interest into an opportunity to elevate yourself and draw your students’ interest to you as a person, as a guru, or do you try to guide them into the fascinating deeps of the subject at hand? Will you resist the temptation to be Miss Jean Brodie?
The world looks to Rome, whether it wants to or not. The world sees Catholicism as the default Christianity, whether it wants to or not. The Pope holds the oldest continuing public office in the world.
What do you do with that moment?
The point is: the papacy is a gift, a part, an office. A man is given and accepts that office. And when he dies, the world will come, as I said, partly to pay homage to the man, but mostly because the office and the Body that office serves, which means the Lord that office serves.
And the more you center that moment on the individual qualities or desires of the individual holding the office, the temptation grows to focus less on Christ.
For that is the purpose of all the ceremony, symbolism, and ritual. It is “designed”—in its organic, twisty way over the centuries— to turn our mind to the thing symbolized—in this case, Jesus Christ and his Body through space and time—the Church. As well as the kind of life he calls each of his disciples to and, finally, the purpose of Creation itself, rooted in God, fallen, called to re-creation in Christ and the hope of life eternal with Him.
They are going to come. And they did come. From all over the world, from all walks of life. Global leaders of countries at war, cold or hot, or at least in the normal way of nations, which is a continual state of friction, came.
And yes, the personality of the deceased, the particular attraction he held, will draw some.
But the truth is, it doesn’t matter who the pope is—when the pope dies, everyone will come.
So here, it seems to me, is the lesson in humility—for future popes, for all church leaders at every level of ministry, for every Christian who seeks to grow in the virtue of humility: To know that the temptation to make idols is always present in human life: to honor the one who has brought us closer to Christ and then to simply stop there—and to do everything we can, as we serve, to help others resist that temptation.
The question of a papal death and a funeral, it seems to me, poses a particularly interesting angle to this. I am going to die. Millions–in fact, the eyes of much of the world will be on my funeral. They will be watching and listening.
What should they see and hear about life and death?
What opportunity does this moment provide?
The “regal” aspect of the papacy, from election to death, should, ideally, serve to bury, as it were, the individual in the role. Of course, given human pride, there’s always the possibility of this not…working in an ideal way. Any person in power will have to do battle, every day, against that power going to his or her head. That’s why, as I say often, in different contexts, it’s so important to recognize these temptations and tensions—to be honest about them, and not pretend that any quality or virtue—even humility—cannot be twisted into its opposite. To decide every day:
It’s not about me. So I’m going to do what I can to ensure that no one mistakenly thinks that it’s about me at all, and make sure that in this moment, whatever I do or effect turns eyes and hearts, not to me, but to Him.
When Paul and Barnabas heard this, they ran among the people. They tore their clothes and cried out, “Why are you doing this? We are only men with feelings like yours. We preach the Good News that you should turn from these empty things to the living God. He made the heavens and the earth and the sea and everything in them. Long ago He allowed all people to live the way they wanted to. Even then God did not leave you without something to see of Him. He did good. He gave you rain from heaven and much food. He made you happy.” Even with these words it was hard for Paul and Barnabas to keep the people from burning cattle in an act of worship to them.
(Editor’s note: This essay was posted originally at Charlotte Was Both in slightly different form and appears here with kind permission of the author.)
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Humility may be just virtue signalling, holiness is unambiguous.
True humility is an integral component of holiness. I think we can be fooled either way. I dont read hearts and like to leave that part up to God.
Christ commanded His apostles to proclaim the Gospel to all peoples, not only by word but by the witness of their lives.
In the Greek tradition, preaching was closely tied to rhetoric, which stands on three pillars: pathos (the appeal to the heart and beauty), logos (the clarity and truth of the message), and ethos (the credibility and virtue of the speaker).
In recent times, these dimensions have found remarkable embodiment in the successors of Peter: Saint John Paul II captured pathos with the beauty and emotional power of his message; Benedict XVI shone in logos, through the luminous clarity of his teaching; and Pope Francis, in a profound and humble way, embodies ethos, through his kenosis — a self-emptying love that bends toward the most vulnerable and unconditional among us.
This ethos of Francis resonates with the words of Saint Paul: “So death is at work in us, but life in you” (2 Cor 4:12). Perhaps it is no accident that the popular acclamation of “Santo subito” heard at John Paul II’s funeral was absent at Francis’s predecessors’ passing — a paradoxical sign that true humility often leaves no trumpet behind it.
In Pope Francis, the Church is offered not a triumphal figure, but a living Gospel written in the language of service, poverty of spirit, and mercy.
Actually, in Pope Francis, the Church is offered not a triumphal figure, but a psuedo-marxist written in the language of climate change, mass immigration, homosexuality,the protection of sexual predators, and silencing critics. None of this is part of the gospel.
He was an embodiment of mixed qualities like we all possess. I’ve been hard on him because he did massive objective hard to the Church’s witness from what was probably a significant pride problem, always willing to penetrate areas no previous pope did for good reasons. Only God knows the extent of his pride. Sadly, he gave the world what it wanted. The impression that Catholic witness was a set of arbitrary manmade rules like we give to children so you don’t really have to take its authority seriously. And those who surrounded him were the most guilty for their cowardice in sustaining a false image of “humility” irrespective of tragic consequences.
In the face of the criticisms voiced here, I would like to offer a modest reflection—not as a partisan, but as a Catholic striving to love the Church more than my own preferences.
Pope Francis was not perfect—no Pope is. Yet to say he “gave the world what it wanted” is to overlook the paradox of his pontificate: he was loved by those far off and resented by some of the devout not because he changed the doctrine (he didn’t), but because he changed the tone.
His missionary priority—reaching the distant first—may have made the already-faithful feel sidelined, as in the parable of the prodigal son. But that is not betrayal; it is a biblical tension. Yes, it has provoked division. But division in the Church is not new. The question is: how do we heal it?
We will need a Pope who unites strength in governance with interior faith, who can speak both the language of tradition and of today. Someone capable of guarding the Church’s doctrine—not as a gatekeeper fearful of contamination, but as a shepherd guarding a living fire.
It is not merely a matter of media impression or policy. The central crisis is not “Francis vs. the faithful” but the deeper drift of faith in many parts of the world. That is the battle line Pope Benedict once drew: between faith and loss of faith. And in this battle, Francis did not abandon the Church’s teaching on abortion, women’s ordination, or the reality of sin—though some media impressions suggested otherwise.
What he tried to show, perhaps imperfectly, is that truth without charity hardens, and charity without truth dissolves.
That is why we must now pray not for the return of a preferred style, but for the emergence of a Josephine figure: someone who can hold doctrine and mercy together in silence, vigilance, and humility.
I’ve chosen to withdraw from public debate these months out of love for Saint Joseph, “the saint of hiding,” as he’s been called. But perhaps it is time to recall what Saint Ambrose said of him in his Commentary on Luke (Book II, §1): Joseph is a figure of the pastors of the Church, a spouse to the Church not in power, but in fidelity—called to guard, not physical integrity, but the integrity of faith.
May the future Pope, like Joseph, guard not his own name, but the mystery entrusted to him—silently, steadfastly, and with the love of one who knows that what he protects is not his, but God’s.
You argue from the baseless premise that criticism of Francis stems entirely from resentment over his alleged concern for the marginalized. What an insulting thing to suggest, especially while taking refuge in rhetoric that claims to be motivated by Christian kindness.
The criticisms of Francis were valid, and they were for his trivializations of the darker side of human nature, not the virtuous side. Prodigal son? In the Gospel the prodigal son was remorseful, not arrogantly defiant in his sins. Criticism of Francis involved the shallowness of how he invoked mercy and charity, which were more often used as platitudinous weapons to insult those who argued for the traditional Christian understanding of personal virtue. Charity is personal, which does not involve making the downtrodden utilitarian instruments of the impersonal Marxist tyrannies he held as superior examples to the free economies of the West, oblivious to their monumental crimes against humanity. His distorted ideas about compassion, which means to suffer with someone, during his preaching for pragmatic action, often reduced it primarily to either a state function, or in the case of dealing with a would be prodigal soul, he could emphatically insist to seminarians that they were committing a sin if they held expectations that encouraged actual repentance before giving absolution. Authentic healing of a broken soul was as easily trivialized as any article of faith when his primary concern was to be perceived as having greater magnanimity than any pope in history, no matter the destructive consequences to God’s immutable truth, the existence of which he denied, or the tragedies inevitable from ignoring the victims of sin.
Thank you. Popes, like all Christians, should repent of their sins, taking their faith relationship with Christ very seriously, just not themselves so seriously as His Vicar. Denying rigorism does not mean denying repentance from sin. Enabling others to remain in sin is never the charity of Christ.
After Jesus Christ taught us how to pray (not Franciscus!), Christ told us how He would be the Guarantor of His Mystical Body, the Church:
“Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jona! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock, I WILL build MY church, and the powers of death shall not prevail against it. I WILL give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” (Matthew 16:17-19)
So who doesn’t like humble? It’s a great way to gain esteem. That said, Amy Welborn answers with the only honest response possible, In this moment, whatever I do or effect turns eyes and hearts, not to me, but to Him.
When huge crowds of Romans turned out fora victory parade for a triumphant general, one of his attendandants standing behind him on the chariot was supposed to whisper Monento Mori.Or was it Sic Transit Gloria Myndi? No matter how humble personally a Pope may be some such warnings might be good for him in the popemobile to deflect what must be a temptation to bask in the Church’s worldly glory or at least to keep him from taking himself too sersiously and losing a sense of humor.
For weighty thoughts on humility one might try “Humility of Heart” a true treasure by FR Cajetan Mary de Bergamo especially article 74.
You did nothing to bring yourself out of nothingness.
Anything you are or have may be taken from you.
It is worth reading over and over again,