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From the Associate:
Who Do You Say That I Am?
There is a story about Napoleon and the Pope. Napoleon had conquered most of Europe, and as he had gone from country to country his armies had burned churches and monasteries, forcibly laicizing priests, turning nuns out of their convents, taking education from the Church, and creating by force a secular state. It was not long, though, before he realized that the Catholic Church was too popular with the people, and that he could not rule them without it. So he was now meeting with the Pope to come up with a "Concordat," an agreement that would guarantee the legal existence of the Church in exchange for certain concessions. The Pope of the day was a strong-minded old fellow who could not easily be pushed around. At one point in the negotiations, Napoleon, annoyed at what the Pope was demanding, jumped out of his chair and began striding up and down the room, yelling at his adversary, trying to intimidate him. "Don't you realize," he threatened, "that if you don't give me what you want I can destroy your Church?" The wily old disciple who sat in St. Peter's chair is said to have responded, with a slight gleam in his eye, "All the popes and bishops for eighteen hundred years have not been able to destroy the Church. You certainly will be unable to destroy it."
Upon this rock I will build my Church. Such was the divine choice. Christ himself determined that his Church would be built upon Peter. This was obviously not a choice that Jesus made based on his being overwhelmed by the steadiness and impressiveness of Peter's character. The writers of the Gospels seem to bend over backwards to make it clear to all their readers that the disciples were none too impressive a bunch, and the Gospel that is thought to have been Peter's own account, that of Mark, is hardest upon Peter himself. Not because of, but in spite of your character, Jesus seems to be saying, I will build my Church upon you. And part of that divine choice is that to Peter above all others is given the most important revelation of our salvation: that of knowing who Jesus Christ is. Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, Simon Peter, but my Father who is in heaven.
And so for two thousand years, in unbroken succession, we have had men sit in Peter's chair and carry Peter's grace and burden. Some of them have been extraordinarily impressive. Some have been extraordinarily bad. Most have not been particularly extraordinary in any direction. And yet for two thousand years the office of Peter has proclaimed and protected the identity of Christ. The great boast of Rome is that she has never fallen into heresy, never garbled the faith. Anyone who knows something of that long history, of the storms, the persecutions, the sins, the changes that have been part of its story, knows that there is something miraculous in this. How weak we have been! How strong the promise of Christ has been in spite of our weakness!
And now, two thousand years later, the man who has proclaimed Christ to more people than any other person in history, who is, above all others, associated both in the minds of Christians and in the mind of the world with Jesus, is the successor of St. Peter. Coincidence? Interesting and amazing historical chance? Hardly. It is rather the grace and promise of God, who will be found true even if we are false. Those who stay with Peter will find themselves upheld by a secret grace. Those who depart from him, though they may prosper briefly, eventually wither, as branches cut off from the tree slowly lose their green and their vitality. History is littered with the dried-up remains of such groups, most of them now forgotten. And Peter, surrounded by the Apostles, despite weakness and sin and complacency, goes on, still putting forth branches, still proclaiming that Jesus is the Christ, Son of the Living God. "O beauty, ever-ancient and ever new." And so it will be until the day when Christ returns.
We have his promise on it.
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