Fr. Roger J. Landry
The Anchor
Putting Into the Deep
June 19, 2009
A few weeks ago, I was interviewed for a story on fatherhood by the National Catholic Register. The reporter noted that Father’s Day this year occurs the day before the Church celebrates the joint memorial of Saints Thomas More and John Fisher and wondered what all fathers — both biological and adoptive dads as well as priestly spiritual dads — might learn from these two great martyrs of 16th century England.
As we prepare to honor our fathers on Sunday and these two heroes of the faith on Monday, I almost can’t help turning to the conversation I had with the reporter about the juxtaposition of both celebrations and how these saints — one a layman, another a bishop — teach, with the indelible ink of their blood, unforgettable lessons to dads and all of us today.
Sir Thomas was a true Renaissance man, a brilliant barrister, member of parliament, intellectual luminary, defender of the faith, noted author, and father of four who was eventually appointed by King Henry as chancellor of the realm. John Fisher was a precocious Cambridge alumnus who was ordained a priest at 22 and by talent and integrity quickly rose to become chaplain to the King’s mother, England’s most celebrated preacher, chancellor of Cambridge and bishop of Rochester at 35, and later an intrepid Cardinal-in-chains. They were united not only as friends in life but as martyrs in death for the truth about the sacrament of marriage during the reign of King Henry VIII of England.
King Henry, upset that his wife Catherine of Aragon had not yet borne him a male heir, unsuccessfully petitioned the Pope to have his marriage declared null and void so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. There isn’t the time in this article to go through all of the intrigues surrounding King Henry, but he was a man who was dominated by his libido and governed according to those unbridled passions. When he didn’t get what he wanted in marriage, he just took on more mistresses and married again. In fact, he wedded six times, divorcing two wives and beheading two others, including Anne. When he didn’t get his way with the Pope, he just did what he wanted anyway, declared himself the supreme head of the Church in England. When justly criticized for doing so, he eliminated the opposition by forcing his subjects to swear oaths supporting his religious authority, declaring valid his invalid marriage to Anne, and affirming that his heir to be not what blood and law determined but what he himself determined. These were oaths that neither More or Fisher in conscience could make; both were imprisoned for their refusal and ultimate martyred for it through trumped-up charges.
It’s hard not to see in King Henry VIII’s behavior one of the most notorious instantiations of several of the vices that plague men, the Church and the world today. Henry was ruled by lust and his desire for the gratification of his desires led him not merely to rampant adultery and serial divorce-and-remarriage, but even to harm and kill those he previously claimed he loved. When the Church got in his way of the fulfillment of his lower desires, he established himself as a supreme religious tribunal and forced others to acknowledge it; sadly, the vast majority of the Catholic citizens of the day and most of the priests and bishops scandalously did. When great and respected men like More and Fisher refused to play along because they would not compromise on the truth to satisfy the king’s whims, he pressured them, imprisoned them, and had them beheaded.
There are echoes of his behavior in the way many in our culture approach marriage today. Despite solemn vowed commitments of fidelity and indissolubility, many, like Henry, readily break them as soon as someone to whom the person is more sexually attracted comes along. When their desires clash against the teachings of Christ proclaimed by the Church, many, like Henry, simply dismiss the Church’s authority, establish their own will as the supreme religious arbiter, and behave as if Church’s teaching rather than their personal behavior is the problem. When others, like us, are confronted by such immoral actions in our leaders, family members, or friends, many of us respond like the vast majority of 16th century English Catholic citizens did, consenting to such behavior not only by our silence but on many occasions outright encouragement and support.
For these reasons, the human and paternal example of Saints Thomas More and John Fisher is all the more relevant today. Thomas taught his son and three daughters, by both word and action, that we’re always called to be God’s good servant first. He was the model of fatherly affection, but, by refusing to take false oaths when it might cost their children their father, he showed that he loved God even more than he loved them. He taught them about trust in God’s providence, about integrity and fidelity to the truth, and about the all-surpassing value of the good of their soul that should never be sacrificed to the capricious political correctness of the age. These are lessons not just for life, but for eternal life.
By his personal behavior, moreover, he illustrated how a man should bridle eros rather than be dominated by it. He loved his children so much that, after his beloved first wife Jane Colt died leaving him to care for their four young kids, he, for their sake, married Alice Middleton, an older and physically unattractive widow, whom he knew would be a good mother to them. Because of his position in the realm as well as his charm, he easily could have had his pick of a beautiful second wife, but he cared more about the good of his children than about the gratification of his eyes and flesh. While he and Alice would never have been confused with Romeo and Juliette, he sought to love her with a loyalty and kindness than transcended bodily attraction. He is a model of behavior for all fathers — and for those husbands for whom romantic attraction has grown cold.
St. John Fisher is likewise a model of courage in the defense of the truth for the good of his family of faith. Even before his glorious end, he had fought vigorously against the rampant ecclesiastical and clerical immorality of his day and fiercely and brilliantly safeguarded the truth of the faith against Lutheran attacks. Like any good father, and like the Good Shepherd before him, he was willing to die for God and his family. His apostolic courage stands in sharp contrast to the pusillanimous cowardice of the rest of the bishops and most of the priests of England, who capitulated to the King’s will even when it meant betraying God and the faith.
As we begin the Year of the Priesthood, his example reminds us that today’s spiritual fathers need that courage — and not just to remain strong in faith in the context of secular powers seeking every greater adhesion to principles and contrary to the faith on the dignity of human life, the institution of marriage, the inviolable dignity of conscience and so much more. They also need it within the Church boldly to be faithful to Christ, to his earthly vicar, and to the deposit of faith in certain ecclesiastical circles where a majority might think it’s ‘prudent’ not to rock the boat by tackling issues of faith and morality that go against the spirit of the world, or by seeking to name and eliminate common abuses in teaching, liturgy, and priestly morality. St. John Fisher shows us that sometimes a faithful priest or bishop reluctantly may need to act alone and has to have the courage to do so.
As we approach their feast day, we ask them to intercede for all fathers, natural and supernatural, in the midst of a culture that so much needs the witness of lovingly heroic paternity.