Walter M. Miller’s novel A Canticle for Leibowitz has long been a favorite of mine. In this I’m not alone: this epic story, of a post-apocalyptic world in which the Catholic Church rebuilds civilization only to watch it descend into barbarism again, has captivated millions of readers since its publication in 1959.
One passage late in the book (mild spoiler) burnished itself in my mind. A nuclear attack has destroyed a major city and left thousands of survivors poisoned by radiation. The government sets up “Mercy Camps” to euthanize the suffering. A priest gives a ride to a young mother headed to one of the camps, intending to have her baby put out of its misery.
The priest tries to talk her out of it, but every argument he makes is deflected by the kind of sophistry and emotional appeals we would recognize in today’s culture wars. Finally, in desperation, he turns to her and says,
“I’m not asking you. As a priest of Christ I am commanding you by the authority of Almighty God not to lay hands on your child, not to offer her life in sacrifice to a false god of expedient mercy. I do not advise you, I adjure and command you in the name of Christ the King. Is that clear?”
For an instant, he expects the woman to laugh. When the Church, he thinks to himself, “occasionally hinted that she still considered her authority to be supreme over all nations and superior to the authority of states, men in these times tended to snicker.”
But the woman doesn’t laugh. Finally, she is moved, at least for the moment, not to commit the evil she had planned. It turns out that she needed, as Miller narrates, “the voice of authority now, more than she needed persuasion.”
I thought of this scene yesterday when former president Donald Trump announced, unprovoked and apropos of nothing, that if elected to a second term he would see to it that in-vitro fertilization (IVF) procedures are fully funded (either by insurance or government) for all who want them.
Let’s leave aside that empty campaign promises run rampant in election years, and so this could be all bluster; let’s ignore for now that this plan is a gross affront both to Catholic teaching (and thus the beliefs of Trump’s Catholic running mate) and the conventional principles of the conservatives whom Trump claims to represent. What makes me mindful of that Canticle passage is the general absence of that fictional priest’s courageous moral authority when it comes to our world and IVF.
Yes, the magisterium has laid out the Church’s teaching on assisted reproductive technologies, and Pope Francis has repeatedly reaffirmed it. But on the subject of IVF there remains a massive gulf between the Church’s moral doctrine and the views and practices of everyday Catholics. As with contraception (somewhat less so with abortion), the Church says one thing but most of the people believe and do another.
In this context, we can understand why Trump might think he has little reason to fear Catholic backlash against this new campaign promise.
I have written before about how the Church’s teaching on IVF may be the single toughest moral claim it makes. The real-life cases in which it is used are so gut-wrenching, and the human lives it produces bring so much joy, that for many people it seems impervious to bloodless theological or philosophical criticism.
The Church needs to persuade these people, certainly. Our bishops, the pastors and catechists who teach under them, and lay apostolates like Catholic Answers work to make Church teachings—especially the hard teachings—reasonable and accessible so that people in the pews may understand them and assent to them fully. This important effort continues.
But, as with the woman in the story who, despite the priest’s best efforts to change her mind with reason, can’t understand or accept why she should not take her sick child to a Mercy Camp, there are many Catholics who won’t be persuaded on IVF. And it seems to me that, for such people, our pastors need to re-discover their voice of authority.
Anecdotally, today the opposite is more common. Do you know couples whose parish priest gave them “permission” to undergo IVF, or who told them just to follow their consciences? I do. So perhaps our pastors need a stronger dose of conviction before they can start speaking with authority. The chain between the Church’s official teachings and the seminaries, universities, and academies through which that conviction is supposed to be transmitted to clergy and lay leaders needs to be strengthened for a start.
Like the priest in the book, those who invoke the Church’s supreme authority in our world should expect derisive laughter, too. The Lord spoke with authority, and they spat on him. But authority grows with use; the more our leaders are heard from, the more they will be heeded. And so I still look hopefully to a future time when politicians refrain from policies that offend Catholics because Catholics observe all the teachings of the Faith—even if it’s sometimes not by persuasion but simply by a command in the name of Christ the King.