Pope Francis with Pope Benedict XVI in 2019
Early on in the lovely new film, “The Two Popes” we see cardinals Joseph Ratzinger and Jorge Bergoglio (played by two fine actors) encounter one another before either one of them has become pope. They are at a sink, washing their hands, in a men’s room in the Vatican, at the outset of the conclave to elect a new pope, following the death of John Paul II. Bergoglio is humming a tune that is familiar to many of us. Ratzinger turns to the Argentinian cardinal and asks him in Latin, “Quid est nomen carminis quod cantas?” (“What is the name of the song you are singing?”)
In Latin, Bergoglio responds, “Regina Saltans.”*
Sub-titles provide the interpretation, but most viewers will not have needed any translation at all, since we knew all along what the tune was. The subtitle informs us: “Dancing Queen.”
In the screenplay, the directions read that “Ratzinger looks slightly puzzled. Bergoglio goes into detail.”
“Cantant Abba,” Bergoglio says. (By Abba.) But this additional information does not prove to be clarifying for Cardinal Ratzinger. The directions continue, “As Ratzinger leaves, Bergoglio carries on whistling.”
The film, which in my opinion is warmly sympathetic to both men, albeit in different ways, explores, among other things, the question of whether or not God can change; or at least whether or not the church can change. These are really two different questions, but the way the film wraps them up together is not troubling.
Ratzinger, the guardian of the old ways, insists on the very ancient and orthodox theological assumption that God is changeless. “We need… one unchanging truth,” he declares. “Without God, humanity has no agreed reference point, no axis mundi.” Later on, when he has become Benedict XVI, he argues with Bergoglio, insisting that “God does not change!”
“Yes he does,” the Argentinian retorts. “He is evolving. He moves towards us as we…”
But the pope interrupts him: “I am the way! The truth! And the life! [Jesus said,] Where should we find him if he is always moving?”
In a way, this tension between the way things used to be and the way things will be from now on lurks beneath the surface of Christmas. The Incarnation of Jesus looks discontinuous to us, as though God has adopted a new strategy in dealing with his wayward creatures on earth, as though God has moved to a new place, a new method, a new mode, a new personality. The grumpy old man in the sky, or on the mountain, has been replaced with the sweet, newborn baby. We tend to over-simplify things this way, imagining that before Jesus was born, God was a stern and chilly father, a cold-hearted school master, a Rottweiler. But Jesus comes to us like a Labrador puppy at Christmas: small, and warm, and cuddly, very much in need of us to take care of him, making no more demands of us than a puppy does.
Delightful though it is to welcome a puppy at Christmas, we might ask ourselves whether or not the implications of this holy night go deeper, and demand more of us than the eleven-week-old puppy that is snoozing next door in the Rectory tonight. I know how Benedict XVI would answer that question. Of course, Christ demands more of us than a puppy does! Everybody loves a puppy. But not everyone is so crazy about Jesus. Every pope, like every parish priest these days, is aware that across much of the globe, fewer and fewer people have time for the Baby of Bethlehem, let alone the Man on the Cross. And Jesus is not simply the puppy-version of God, made for a new demographic. He is the Word of God made flesh. He was there in the beginning of all things and will be there at the end of all time. He is God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God. He is neither the way things used to be, nor the way they are now; he is the Way that things have always been, and the Way they will always be.
In the film, the two popes serve as stand-ins for the way things used to be and the way might be from now on. And in a sense it is the tension that exists between a puppy and a Rottweiler. They can both happily co-exist, but some people are always going to be more attracted to one than the other.
As the film continues, Benedict, toward the end of his papacy, asks Bergoglio to visit him at Castel Gondolfo, where the genial cardinal quickly and easily wins the affection of the staff. Noticing how easily people take to Bergoglio, Benedict says to him, “It must be very useful, this popularity of yours. Is there a trick to it?”
Bergoglio replies, “I try to be myself.”
Hmm,” says Benedict, “when I try to be myself, people don’t seem to like me very much.” You can almost hear the bearded figure of God painted on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel saying the very same thing, wrapped in his cloak, surrounded by angelic attendants, deigning to reach out one solitary finger toward Adam, who will have to contend with all kinds of challenges that he is not really ready for. But no one ever has a harsh word to say about the Baby Jesus: he’s easy to like.
We sometimes talk as though Christmas definitively resolves the tension between the way things used to be with the way things will be. Which is to say that we sometimes talk as though the puppy has triumphed, and the Rottweiler has been banished to go sleep under a rock somewhere. We present Christmas as a cuddlier portrait of God, and we invite everyone to snuggle up to it. But of course, this way of seeing things is a bit misguided, and not what the scriptures tell us. More likely, we are told, Christmas shows us precisely the thing that Benedict found so hard, but at which his successor is more adept. Christmas shows us God being God’s self: powerful yet fragile; endearing yet infuriating; tender yet strong; loving yet demanding; changeless yet new.
God carries all these paradoxes within God’s self without any confusion or conflict, in the heights of heaven, as well as in the manger in Bethlehem, and on the Cross at Calvary. God is just being God’s self; and we are sometimes confused. But on Christmas it would be nice to be not so confused.
And although I have no idea how likely it is to be the case, having seen “The Two Popes,” I find myself sort of wishing that Benedict XVI and Francis might be spending a part of this Christmas Eve together. Benedict is, of course, significantly older and more frail these days. He has become forgetful, and a little hard of hearing, I expect. The tension between the way things used to be and the way things will be, has not been resolved in their lives, in the church, or in the world.
But there must be someplace in the precincts of the Vatican where these two popes could get together on Christmas Eve to share a glass of wine, and maybe to exchange gifts. The Vatican, being the Vatican, there is surely a choir singing somewhere nearby or an organ playing within earshot of the two popes as they sit beside each other, in the glow of a Christmas tree. Francis has a way, I expect, of humming along as the choir and the organ run through the carols that are being sung tonight. Benedict can no longer sit comfortably at the piano, though he used to play quite well. He is listening, to the choir, the organ, and to Francis, sometimes joining in on the familiar old carols, especially the ones with old Latin words, like Adeste fideles. As the evening draws on, and Francis has to prepare for Midnight Mass, it’s clear that he is taking his leave from the older pope, but before he (Francis) goes, Benedict takes him by the hand, looks him in the eye, and asks him, with all earnestness, and in Latin, “Nam mihi cantare Regina Saltans.” (Sing Dancing Queen for me.)
Tonight, God is being God’s self. Small yet great; helpless yet omnipotent; adorable yet fearful; all-merciful yet destined to be our judge. Even on Christmas it can be very difficult to know what to make of God, except that God very clearly wants to be here among us. And so he sent us his Son, to be born for us, with us, one of us. Strange though it may seem, it amounts to nothing more or less than God being God’s self; which is to say that it amounts to love being love. And the more we can accept God being God’s self, chances are, the better we will get at allowing our own selves to be our own selves: beloved children of an infant king, who wants us by his cradle, and by his Cross.
By now, you’d think we’d have learned that if Christmas seems discontinuous - breaking into our lives and bringing a strong but rare dose of peace and love, for instance - then we misunderstand what God has been doing all along, which is love being love. God has been loving us and giving us every opportunity to love him, and to love one another, since the beginning of time. Maybe we should remind ourselves more often of how God loves us, and wants us to love each other. To jog our memories, we could sing Christmas carols all year long.
Or, when we feel we especially need to be reminded of God’s love, we could just sing Regina Saltans, and think of two popes.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
Christmas Eve 2019
Saint Mark’s Church, Locust Street, Philadelphia
*All quotations are from “The Two Popes”, 2019 , by Anthony McCarten