Advice to a Pope

On the first anniversary of his pontificate, Pope Benedict XVI will no doubt be taking stock. Most observers would agree that this new pope has gotten off to a good start. He carries himself with a comfortable air of confidence and self-assurance, mixed with a gentleness that has won over some of his critics. But he is human, and if in the dark watches of the night he wonders how any papal incumbent can faithfully serve God with authority and humility in proper measure, it’s a fair bet that a small volume by a long-dead Cistercian lies close to hand on his bedside table.

Benedict would not be the first pope to find understanding—comfort, guidance, admonition and instruction—in a text by the 12th-century contemplative St. Bernard of Clairvaux entitled Five Books on Consideration: Advice to a Pope. Coping with the demands of high office and the venality of courtiers is a timeless scourge. “Today,” Bernard asks, “is it not rather ambition than devotion that wears down the doorsteps of the Apostles?” Is it much different now?

Every tested leader acquires painful knowledge of how difficult it is to manage time efficiently, to discern and establish proper priorities, decide wisely, delegate appropriately and implement sensible action with skill, fortitude and grace. And leaders of all sorts must inevitably deal with people—dolts, disciples, and usurpers whose interference or indifference can drive even the most serene to livid distraction. Temporal leadership becomes even more complex when the spiritual dimension is in play. All the allures of money and power are just as real, but the conscience is supposed to more refined, the common good a more prominent objective and the spiritual welfare of humanity a primary concern.

A striking feature of Pope John Paul II’s long papacy was the man’s remarkable ability to demonstrate spiritual leadership even as he wielded papal power. I found it strangely fitting that the weekend he died I happened to be praying at a retreat center run by Benedictine sisters. My host that weekend remembered the time she personally met the pope back in 1983, recounting as if it were yesterday the dogged diligence he displayed as he worked to be as available to as many in the large audience as was humanly possible. When he passed in front of her he looked directly in her face. Even then, in the early years of his papacy, she recalls, “he had the ‘tiredest’ eyes of any man I’ve ever seen.”

History will long remember how John Paul II courageously carried the burdens of his office; the hunched, Parkinson’s-ridden figure stepping bravely to yet another podium in yet another country—a feeble vessel sailing on obediently on the power of winds ineffable. “High position is not designed to flatter, for it involves greater responsibility,” observes Bernard. Good leaders—especially religious leaders—are inevitably required to serve purposes extending above and beyond their personal interests.

The weekend we grieved the death of a highly renowned pope, Bernard’s book was part of my kit. It had come to me by another curious chance. A few days after signing off on a personal development plan ambitiously titled “To contemplate and to act,” I was listening half-heartedly to a Regent College lecture on Christian spirituality when the professor used a phrase that suddenly riveted my attention. He was talking about Bernard of Clairvaux, a long-dead abbot associated in my mind with the reflective lyrics of “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” and the author of 86 sermons on the Song of Songs. “We remember Bernard mostly for the depth of his spiritual writing,” intoned the professor, “but he was also a man of immense action.” To contemplate and to act: so it is possible, I mused, and listened more carefully.

While still a young man in his twenties, Bernard was founding abbot of the monastery at Clairvaux, a relentless reformer who worked hard all his life to restore spiritual vitality to a monastic system hopelessly corrupted by petty politics and myriad other manifestations of worldliness. The Cistercian enterprise flourished, and by the time of Bernard’s death in 1153 nearly 300 monasteries had been established throughout Europe (including England), 65 of which he had personally visited. Beyond that, Bernard was a ubiquitous figure in public life, traveling far and wide as a preacher and counselor, an activist in governmental and papal affairs. Toward the end of his life, one his own monks assumed St. Peter’s mantle as Eugene III.

His was an intensely active and beleaguered papacy, beset by fighting both at home and abroad. Indeed, Eugene fought pitched battles to establish his residency in Rome and, with Bernard’s blessing and active endorsement, launched the ill-fated second crusade. These were not halcyon days, especially for Eugene, a contemplative at heart to whom the demands of office were all-consuming and deeply troubling. He lamented the impossibility of fulfilling his spiritual mandate when all his energy was devoted to settling disputes between squabbling nobles and negotiating the treacherous currents of Italian and German and French and ecclesial politics. The system was full of worldly corruptions, and Eugene was somehow supposed to shoulder responsibility for it.

In near despair he turned to his longtime mentor for advice. Bernard offered counsel respectfully but directly, skillfully using Scripture-steeped words Eugene most likely found helpful in his day and which have continued to resonate harmoniously with devout Christian hearts through the centuries. The words of this saint popped onto my radar screen because the 900-year-old monk seems to confront directly the contemporary problem of making proper space for godly reflection in the midst of our active—downright harried—life circumstances. And if 21st-century writers, professors, laborers, and businesspeople can feel like they’re making too many decisions with too little thought, how much more so the pope? In any era!

Bernard begins with the immediately practical. Some of it is what a modern-day business coach would refer to as time management and prioritization advice. He encourages Eugene to delegate more tasks and to be especially impatient with the cloying presence of lawyers and those who were consuming his time and energy with materialistic disputes. “Clearly your power is over sin and not property,” writes Bernard. “These base worldly concerns have their own judges, the kings and princes of the world. Why do you invade someone else’s territory? … [I]t is unworthy for you to be involved in such affairs since you are occupied by more important matters.”

He then offers several templates for understanding and dealing with the often-conflicting demands of temporal leadership with spiritual rectitude. Using categories employed much earlier by Augustine and others, he advises Eugene to spend ample time examining his own identity and motives before moving on to considering those matters below him, those around him and those above him.

Early on he draws a distinction between “contemplation” and “consideration,” both of which are prerequisites for action, both of which demand substantial allocations of time and attention. Contemplation, as Bernard sees it, is time spent thinking about things that are true and absolute. For a Christian it involves sustained reflection on Scripture and the nature of God, a way of meditation that he models at length in the latter stages of the book. Bernard clearly believes that fluency in the ways of God is essential for a spiritual exemplar called to exercise human authority.

Consideration, on the other hand, “can be defined as thought searching for truth, or the searching of a mind to discover truth.” It is time devoted to thinking about matters in which the pathway of truth has not been mapped, where the best course of action is not clearly seen, where the options are limited and the information incomplete. Consideration is the mental activity required to judiciously apply the principles derived from contemplation to meet the demands of the day.

While Bernard takes a pragmatic approach to the challenges of leadership in a fallen world, he exhorts Eugene to carefully examine his own motives and reminds him of his primary calling. “You are to inherit labor and responsibility rather than glory and wealth,” he says. “This is the precedent established by the apostles: dominion is forbidden, ministry is imposed.” He also encourages him to know and acknowledge his deficiencies: “They are totally deficient who think they are in no way deficient.”

Bernard is adamant that popes are chosen to administer, not rule. “You have been entrusted with stewardship over the world, not possession of it,” he says. “Preside so as to be useful; preside so as to be the faithful and prudent servant whom the Lord has set up over his family… . There is no poison more dangerous for you, no sword more deadly, than the passion to rule.”

He provides these qualifiers before delving into the contentious subjects of how to correct heretics, convert Gentiles, and check the ambitious. There’s much food for contemporary thought in these passages, but the underlying theme is the need for the pope to maintain personal humility and to exhibit a spirit of compassion even as he expresses indignation with any who subvert the course of true justice. “Let your countenance be against those who do evil,” he declares. “What could be as fitting as this: that the invocation of your name liberates the oppressed and leaves the crafty with no refuge?” Good words, well said.

Doug Koop is editor of ChristianWeek, a bi-weekly window on Christian faith and life in Canada, where a slightly different version of this essay first appeared. Last year he enjoyed a six-month professional development leave, which included four months as an in-residence guest at Regent College in Vancouver. Contact him by email: dkoop@christianweek.org