Avery Cardinal Dulles

The only American to receive the red hat for his work in theology passed on to his eternal reward, fittingly, on the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. If the virgin of Tepeyac embodies all that is good, true and beautiful in America and in the Church, then this quintessential theologian joins the company of Juan Diego, the ultimate catechist, as one of her very finest manservants and collaborators. Easily the preeminent American Catholic theologian of the last forty years, he took the baton from his Woodstock colleague John Courtney Murray but surpassed him for breath and balance. He came from American aristocracy and became a prince of the Church.

In September of 1969, I knocked sheepishly on the door of his Fundamental Theology course and asked if I could audit it as a non-matriculated, itinerant theology student. At that time Woodstock Theologate, just relocated in Manhattan from Maryland, offered classes only for Jesuit seminarians. Father Dulles welcomed me warmly, without hesitation, like a family member and directed his beetle (I understand this to be a distinctively Jesuit term for overall assistant) Brian to make sure I had the class readings and was made to feel at home. I was more than at home, I was elated.

Some of my fondness for him was because he reminded me a lot of my Laracy uncles and ancestors: tall, lean, lanky, shy and reticent, slightly awkward. But what a brilliant teacher: clear, insightful, patient, open-minded, balanced, and immensely reverent before the Word of God, the Church and Tradition.

It was around 1972 when I had an opportunity to sit at lunch with him in the cafeteria of the Riverside Interchurch Center. (I had tuna/egg salad sandwich with bacon, lettuce and tomato on rye. Outstanding! I have never had anything quite like it since.) At the time I was enamored of the political theologies of Metz and Moltmann and specifically the then fashionable view that the theologian is always political, that if you are not resisting the status quo than you are supporting it. In other wards, authentic Christian theology means standing with the poor in some active advocacy. I pressed this point with Father Dulles. My argument was, obviously, an attack upon his entire life of academic, non-politicized theology. It was particularly personal given his staunch, Republican establishment background. In a conceptual, academic manner, I was attacking his life work and his family. He responded with impeccable serenity, without a trace of defensiveness. He did not engage the theoretical issues, which he could have done in masterful fashion. He quite humbly said “I don’t believe I would be any good in community organizing or political advocacy. So I do what I am able to do, which is academic theology.” He was not apologizing; he was neither aggressive nor deferential. He was perfectly candid and forthright: I have some ability to do this and I do this.

There was about him a gentle humility that emerged from a deep sense of dignity and worth. He was so self-confident that there was no need for bravado. Surely he realized his intellectual giftedness. But he also had the quiet air of someone born and bred to lead men. And lead he did!

He published over 20 books and about 650 articles. No matter the topic, his approach was predictable. He would provide a concise, insightful, complete historical review going back to the Greeks and Scripture; he would trace the tradition in all its complexity and nuance; he would review magisterial statements, precisely distinguishing what they said, the context in which it was said, why it was said, and what it did not say; he would survey current opinion, fairly evaluating all pertinent views in a perfect balance of critique and appreciation; and oftentimes he would delight at the conclusion with a serendipitous insight or suggestion that was both faithful to our received Deposit and yet pregnant with promise. Years ago he treated missiology in a typically comprehensive manner and then ended with the delicious suggestion that the Christian in mission is moved to share the Gospel but also to himself encounter, more deeply, Christ in the people he serves and accompanies. More recently, he addressed the topic of the population of hell, showing that Scripture and tradition can support arguments for an unpopulated as well as for an immensely populated inferno; then he ended with a wise suggestion: It is better that we not know whether very many or very few end in hell; if we knew the former, we would be tempted to despair; in case of the latter, we might give in to presumption. Our ignorance allows us to nourish both urgency and hope.

Balance, universality and precision were his hallmarks. He was impeccably faithful to the Magisterium but precise in discriminating what really was defined from what was still open to argument. His tone and manner were sober, unemotional, objective, civil and ecumenical. He was open to all views and evenhanded in his criticism. In the years after the Council, he was known as a progressive in articulating the new vision of the Council; by the 1970s he was viewed as a conservative in reaction against an infatuation with undirected change. He claimed his theology never really changed and I believe he was right although the emphasis and stance changed as the Culture War erupted, especially after Roe. On the Culture War he was on the right side (according to the Fleckinstein blog) but always in a civil, respectful, cordial manner. His old school courtesy calls to mind the amicable and respectful meeting of Grant and Lee at Appomattox or the playful banter between William Buckley and a Galbraith or a Moynihan. At some points in the 80s and 90s he seemed to be the only American theologian standing in the way of the progressive stampede towards the cliffs; yet he earned and maintained the respect of so many who disagreed with him. Is there anyone else who was consistently published over the years in both America and First Things?

Upon receiving his red hat from Pope John Paul, he awkwardly leaned over and dropped it onto the pontiff’s lap. Later, he remarked that “he didn’t let the red hat get to his head.” Notice the lightness, the humor, the self-deprecation springing from a deeper dignity and confidence!

Just a few years ago he spoke in South Orange on the topic of suffering. During the question period, a nurse spoke movingly of a book she had found very helpful. By now in his late 80s, the Cardinal took out his pen and asked for the precise spelling of the author’s name and the publisher. Clearly, he was eager to get and read the book. Well into his ninth decade, he was still the avid learner. And he was preparing for his own passover.

He was a beautiful man! Deo Gratias