“Father” and Cats and Dogs

La Croix International has August off, so every day they post a few articles from earlier this year. Sometimes I remember that I’ve read them and even used them, but sometimes I don’t.

One issue I didn’t address is raised in “Why Celibacy?” by Chris McDonnell, a headteacher in England. It’s inspired by a reflection on a late Irish bishop, Edward Daly, who wrote in his autobiography:

I ask myself, more and more why celibacy should be the great sacred and unyielding arbiter, the paradigm of the diocesan priesthood. Why not prayerfulness, conviction in the faith, knowledge of the faith, ability to communicate in the modern age, honesty, integrity, humility, a commitment to social justice, a work ethic, respect for others, compassion and caring? Surely many of these qualities are as at least as important in a diocesan priest as celibacy – yet celibacy seems to be perceived as the predominant obligation the sine qua non.

Celibacy is an obligation that has caused many wonderful potential candidates to turn away from vocation, and other fine men to resign their priesthood at great loss to the Church.

At least to the institutional church. Many fine men have continued to minister in other roles and in intentional Eucharistic communities. I have wondered why there’s not much written about celibacy in all the news about the Synod reports. Has celibacy ended in everyone’s minds, just not in Canon Law? Yet even married deacons were left on the table by Pope Francis after the Amazonian Synod.

We bring a new vision and energy to the question. Celibacy is not an issue for Roman Catholic Womenpriests, whose ordained bishops, priests, and deacons are married and single, people of all genders, queer and straight. I would say that those who have moved sufficiently to understand the often officially-denigrated “gender theory” recognize the celibacy rule for what it is: a holdover from the excessive anti-body theology of past ages. We can subvert it.

In a Tablet blog this week, musician and writer Kate Keefe uses the pending appointment of a new parish priest to discuss why Catholics call priests “Father.” She begins with T. S. Eliot on naming cats and wanders around several other topics before getting to the point that “Father” seems ridiculous when the person being so called is much younger than she is. She posits respect and submission as possible reasons for this name that has always been so – and then she says no, it hasn’t:

actually this came in very late. In the Middle Ages, priests were called “Sir”, as we see in Chaucer. During the Reformation, Catholic priests were called “Mr”, to preserve their lives as long as possible in a hostile environment. After the restoration of the Catholic hierarchy in the middle of the nineteenth century, Catholic priests had to be distinguished from Anglican vicars, and calling them “Father” was one way to do this. I blame the Counter-Reformation (you always do, says my husband wearily) for all the baggage which then developed around that. The exaggerated mysticism applied to Mary’s motherhood for centuries was applied to the “fatherhood” of a celibate priesthood in spades.

Well, there you go, with a very British-oriented explanation. I have not investigated the historical accuracy of her claims, but they feel right. Keefe reminds us “Jesus told the disciples, ‘Call no man “Father”’ (Mtt 23.9),” and summarizes: “Jesus counsels against giving that amount of loving trust and obedience to anyone else but God.”

Well, maybe not. Those virtues of the priesthood identified by Bishop Daly: “prayerfulness, conviction in the faith, knowledge of the faith, ability to communicate in the modern age, honesty, integrity, humility, a commitment to social justice, a work ethic, respect for others, compassion and caring?” may be worth intergenerational acknowledgement.

Remember “Father Anne?” Anne Tropeano was ordained last year by the Association of Roman Catholic Women Priests, the other arm of the RCWP movement. Of course, her website asks and answers “Why Father Anne?”

I go by Father Anne for many reasons, but in a nutshell, it’s this:  the priest is one of the most powerful symbols in the Roman Catholic tradition, yet it is significantly constrained in our Catholic imagination because it is collapsed solely with the male form. A key part of my ministry is to expand this rich symbol to include the body of a woman. I live the life, I wear the clerics, and I go by the title “Father.” As I embody the priesthood throughout my days, I become a living witness to the truth that God calls women to serve as priests. 

​In addition to doing this heavy symbolic work, the title is “sticky.” It piques people’s curiosity, and it both mocks the notion that women cannot serve as priests while at the same time confirming the reality that I am, indeed, a real Roman Catholic priest–as real as any man. Lastly, when people in the United States hear the title “Father” in reference to a person wearing a collar, they almost always identify it with the Roman Catholic Church. I want there to be no mistake: I am not Lutheran, Episcopalian, Presbyterian, or Methodist. I am a Roman Catholic priest, and it is the Roman Catholic Church that I challenge with my ministry. ​

That’s the short version. Tropeano’s website communicates the energy of a vibrant ministry. Whatever you feel about the patriarchal reference of her chosen form of address, and I admit I have reservations, I get that the Spirit is working through Father Anne. Monthly masses in Albuquerque will resume in September, but she is doing baptisms, weddings, and preaching this summer. She offers free funerals to the homeless and participates in Street Safe’s ministry to sex workers. The website publicizes an upcoming BBC documentary and rallies at cathedrals in 2023 before the Synod.

Finally, Old Dog Heaven. Father Anne rescues “senior dogs with special needs.” Approaching fifty, Tropeano is not exactly a new generation, but she feels like it to me. I’d resist being characterized as an Old Dog, but I’m delighted to acknowledge the new visions of those coming after me. Eliot says call her by her “NAME,” and I am willing to do that, Father Anne.