One of my favorite Catholic writers, G.K. Chesterton, taught me not to be afraid of paradox, but to revel in it. Chesterton loved to say that the Catholic Church loves red and loves white but has a healthy hatred of pink. He loved to crack open seeming contradictions to illuminate different sides of truths. One term that always sends my mind spinning down the glorious rabbit hole of paradox and contradiction is “Roman Catholic.”
Although the term sounds pretty antiquated these days (when’s the last time you told someone you were a Roman Catholic?), it’s worth thinking about. The two words seem terribly at odds. “Catholic” means “universal,” and “Roman” means, well, “relating to the city of Rome.” How can we have such a specific adjective modifying “Catholic”? They seem irreconcilable; how does that work? I have some conclusions, but my first piece of advice is to enjoy the tension.
The “Roman” half of the term signifies the unique path the Faith has taken down through the ages. It conjures images of St. Peter and the early Roman church, the Latin liturgy, and the popes. It encapsulates the particularly Roman methods of prayer: the Rosary, the Liturgy of the Hours, and the Roman Canon. In the very details of the Sacraments, you find these unique elements. The Church insists that even in cultures where other grains and drinks are common, the bread and wine for the Eucharist must be made from wheat and grapes. In a more personal dimension, the “Roman” side pertains to the specifics of my faith life. There are the particular people who taught me the Faith, the specific parish I grew up in, and the friends I pray with. These are the historically contingent, specific elements that constitute the texture of the Faith.
On the other hand, there is the “Catholic” side, the universal. These are the articles of the Faith, the Our Father, the gifts of the Holy Spirit, to name just a few. These things bind the entirety of the Church together throughout time and space. Despite our many differences, as St. Paul reminds us there is “One Lord, one faith, one baptism” (Eph. 4:5). At every Mass, the same sacrifice is re-presented, and in the end, we all hope to worship in the same Heavenly Jerusalem. Christ’s gratuitous and all-embracing love gathers us into His Body, and we are commanded by His example to love as widely as we can.
I’d argue that the tension between these two facets of the Faith is beautifully summed up in the miracle of the Incarnation. The Incarnation is scandalous: how could the almighty God become a tiny baby? More importantly, how could Christ have chosen one particular time and place out of all human history to reveal Himself? The eternal Logos condescended to enter human history through the womb of the Virgin Mary. He became man to save us, and the opportunity for salvation was won for all on that one Good Friday in A.D. 33.
The way I’ve come to view the paradox is that as limited humans we can only reach the universal through the particular. The Incarnation was Christ making the universal particular for us, and much of the Christian life can be seen this way. We are called to love everyone, but that command will be realized through loving particular people. It’s not a mistake that Christ commanded us to “love thy neighbor,” and not, “love humanity.” The universal can become vague and unreal when not connected to specific people and duties. Although God is omnipresent, He makes things easy for us by coming to us in a tiny host. It’s good to take time to appreciate the wild and ridiculous nature of the paradoxes of the Faith, even as small as “Roman Catholic.”
Featured image courtesy of Marek69 via Wiki
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