The Work of Mercy: Instruct the Ignorant, Part 2

The notion that Jew or Gentile can claim to be top dog in the pedagogy of salvation is like the idea of patients in a cancer ward squabbling about who is the least terminal. Our position, under God, is that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). And that’s the problem when it comes to instructing the ignorant. For just as the ignorant can be proud of their ignorance, so the learned can be even prouder of their learning. Indeed, that was the problem that had come to poison Israel’s relationship with the Gentiles. As Paul put it:

But if you call yourself a Jew and rely upon the law and boast of your relation to God and know his will and approve what is excellent, because you are instructed in the law, and if you are sure that you are a guide to the blind, a light to those who are in darkness, a corrector of the foolish, a teacher of children, having in the law the embodiment of knowledge and truth—you then who teach others, will you not teach yourself? While you preach against stealing, do you steal? You who say that one must not commit adultery, do you commit adultery? You who abhor idols, do you rob temples? You who boast in the law, do you dishonor God by breaking the law? For, as it is written, “The name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles because of you.” (Romans 2:17–24)

In short, the problem facing us in instructing the ignorant is not the arrogant ignoramus versus the virtuous teacher. It is the arrogant ignoramus versus the arrogant teacher. And the teacher’s arrogance can be even more deeply sinful than that of the ignoramus, because he ought to know better. That’s why Jesus, like the prophets, has more words of rebuke for the prideful scribes and teachers of the law than he has for the Gentiles who worship stars or rocks. Indeed, Jesus warned strongly against this temptation, going so far as to say:

The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; so practice and observe whatever they tell you, but not what they do; for they preach, but do not practice. They bind heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with their finger. They do all their deeds to be seen by men; for they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long, and they love the place of honor at feasts and the best seats in the synagogues, and salutations in the market places, and being called rabbi by men. But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brethren. And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven. Neither be called masters, for you have one master, the Christ. He who is greatest among you shall be your servant; whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted. (Matthew 23:2–12)

These words are not to be read in a literalist fashion, any more than the command to “call no man your father on earth” means that sending your dad a Father’s Day card is a sin. Jesus’ point is not to erect some absurd taboo against calling people “teacher.” We can know this because Paul specifically tells us that God’s “gifts were that some should be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ” (Ephesians 4:11–12).

Rather, Jesus means we cannot imagine that our knowledge of some particular field—and above all, our knowledge of the revelation entrusted to the Church—is our property or the fruit of our genius or personal sanctity.We are forbidden to see our knowledge as a sign of our spiritual superiority. As Paul says, “‘Knowledge’ puffs up, but love builds up” (1 Corinthians 8:1).

So knowledge in the service of love, not pride, is the goal of instructing the ignorant. This is a work that is demanded of all of us sooner or later. The world groans for those with competence in an area of knowledge to impart that knowledge to those who lack it. That’s because humans are not insects or horses, born with enough knowledge to take care of themselves within seconds or hours. Beyond the swallow reflex, virtually every human activity is taught us by somebody, and we are therefore all raised as debtors to a civilization we shall never be able to repay. Each of us has had a thousand teachers, not merely at school but from myriad other backgrounds and vocations. Each of us can point to people who taught us every- thing we know, who showed us the ropes about our jobs, our passions, our relationships—and about God.

The interesting thing is that, when it comes to the office of teacher (and, in particular, that teacher who is given to us by Christ himself, our bishop), Christ chose to distinguish the holder of that office from those whom we call “saints.” Indeed, he seems to have gone out of his way to do so. As Chesterton remarked concerning the establishment of the office that, above all others, is the supreme teaching office in the Church:

When Christ at a symbolic moment was establishing His great society, He chose for its corner-stone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystic John, but a shuffler, a snob, a coward—in a word, a man. And upon this rock He has built His Church, and the gates of Hell have not prevailed against it. All the empires and the kingdoms have failed because of this inherent and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men and upon strong men. But this one thing––the historic Christian Church––was founded upon a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no chain is stronger than its weakest link.

Over the past several years we have heard a massive amount of nonsense spoken in the media about how bishops “lose their moral authority to teach” when it turns out that they are sinners, fools, or failures. But this is not so, for the gospel never derived from their “moral authority” in the first place. Indeed, the choice of Simon Peter for first pope makes it screamingly clear that no bishop derives the gospel from his personal “moral authority.” All—and I mean all—a bishop does when he teaches is to hand down a body of doctrine that he did not invent, that he cannot subtract from, that he cannot add to—and that does not depend one iota on his personal “moral authority.” A saint teaches by personal moral authority. A saint’s essential teaching is this: “Imitate me as I imitate Christ” (see 1 Corinthians 11:1). People are attracted to his personal charisma and the way he or she embodies the message of Christ. When by happy chance a bishop is also a saint, his sanctity certainly sweetens the message that he transmits. But the truth of that message no more depends on his moral authority than the truth that two plus two equals four depends on the personal holiness of your math teacher. Likewise, as Peter made clear by his rash promise, his cowardly betrayal, his vacillating wimpiness, and his general thickheadedness, the truth of his message did not depend on his personal qualities of heroism.

Paradoxically, this is why the Church has always insisted on the unity of truth and holiness even as she likewise has always warned against predicating our faith in the gospel on the relative sanctity of the episcopal messenger who proclaims it. To be sure, bishops, priests, and lay evangelists should be holy. But if they are not, this does not affect the truth of what they say one bit, for the truth is found in Jesus Christ and not in the extremely frail members of his body. The danger of ignoring this warning is quickly seen whenever some factional fanboy arrives on the scene shouting, “I am of Paul! I am of Apollos!”

Different factions in the Church tend to anoint different celebrities as the real teachers of the faith, owing to a perception that their hero(es) are holier and more competent to teach than “the bishops” (the vague plural is essential to such rhetoric). It might be a fave rave apologist. It might be Speaking-Truth-to-Power Peace ‘n Justice Guy. It might be Pure and Perfect Liturgy Guy. It might be Theology of the Body Guy. It might be Angry Nun With a Conscience. It might be some other celebrity popular with half a dozen other little subcultures in the Church who work to trump the teaching of the Church with their favorite pet theory. But the fact remains, the primary teachers of the faith are (and always will be) the bishops. Hive off after your favorite hero and elevate him or her above the full-orbed teaching of the Church articulated by the Magisterium and you will, it is absolutely guaranteed, wind up with a mere fragment of the faith instead of the full-meal deal Jesus intended. In short, you will wind up ignorant, not fully Catholic.

Instructing the ignorant (particularly with respect to the faith) is, like all things pertaining to the faith, risky business. Knowledge puffs up, and knowledge of holy things puffs way up. The gratifying thought “Get me! I am instructing the ignorant” can steal in very subtly. Exasperation with those who are proud of their ignorance can be a fine catalyst for pride in one’s knowledge, puny though it must always be when it comes to God. But the thing, nonetheless, must be done and can be done with the help of Christ.

For the layperson to whom the task of teaching falls, what must always be held in mind is that we are, at best, merely helpers of the bishops and never their replacements. For the ordained, the grace to teach, sanctify, and govern places them, as our Lord said, in the position of the servant and not the master. And for all of us, the fundamental reality remains that we are—every last one of us—the ignorant whom the Divine Instructor is patiently teaching till the school bell rings on that Day and we enter into the greatest summer vacation of all time.

(For more information, see my book THE WORK OF MERCY: BEING THE HANDS AND HEART OF CHRIST (available here, signed by me, or in Kindle format here, or as an audiobook here).