Two anniversaries of note

Robert Seton, grandson of Elizabeth Ann Seton, had an expansive sense of his proper position in the scheme of things. In 1861, after two years at Rome’s North American College, he talked Pius IX into letting him enter the Pontifical Academy for Noble Ecclesiastics on the grounds that, although the United States didn’t have a Catholic aristocracy (or any other aristocracy, for that matter), if it did, he would surely be its fine flower. Later in life, as a titular archbishop, he was a fanatic stickler for ecclesiastical punctilio, refusing to celebrate Mass if the ribbons in the Missal weren’t properly ironed.

On Ascension Thursday (not to be confused with Ascension Thursday Sunday), a man with a far greater claim to being American aristocracy marked his sixtieth anniversary as a Jesuit and his fiftieth anniversary as a priest. Three generations of his family had given America a Secretary of State; in 1956, when he was ordained, the Jesuit’s father (who was arguably the country’s most prominent Protestant layman) held that office, while his uncle (who had directed U.S. clandestine operations against Hitler from a perch in neutral Switzerland) ran the Central Intelligence Agency. But the Jesuit in question, Avery Cardinal Dulles, is the polar opposite of Archbishop Robert Seton in self-presentation and affect. Go to Fordham these days, and you’re likely to find the son of John Foster Dulles, the nephew of Allen Dulles, and America’s first theologian-cardinal striding across campus in a battered blue windbreaker that he probably acquired in the Eisenhower Administration, wearing shoes that he repairs by inserting masking tape in the inner soles.

In his remarks at the dinner following his Golden Jubilee Mass, Cardinal Dulles noted that, in his dozens of books, “you’d look hard to find something original.” Which shouldn’t be a surprise, he continued, because “everything has a history,” including every theological question. Avery Cardinal Dulles has dedicated his life as a theologian to exploring the ancient, medieval, and modern history of great questions – and then presenting his discoveries in a luminously clear prose that is a model (no pun intended) of theological and literary craftsmanship. This summer, Cardinal Dulles will celebrate his 88th birthday; those of us who know and esteem him will happily say, in the language he loves, “ad multos annos, gloriosque annos, vivas” — which, at the risk of offending certain members of the Bishops’ Committee on the Liturgy, I venture to translate as “May you live many years, and glorious years.”

The next day, another distinguished American priest celebrated his 70th birthday with friends (including Cardinal Dulles). Father Richard John Neuhaus really would be engaging in false modesty if he claimed that there was nothing original in his voluminous writings. This is, after all, the man who introduced the phrase “the public square” into our national vocabulary; who taught the President of the United States to speak of an America in which “every child is welcomed in life and protected in law;” the most original theologian of the American experiment since John Courtney Murray, S.J.; the man who has done more than anyone else to advance the new ecumenism of “evangelicals and Catholic together.”

No, there is genuine originality in Father Neuhaus’s work, as there is always insight in his commentary on events cultural, political, and ecclesiastical. But the originality and insight are grounded in Christian orthodoxy, which he first preached as a Lutheran pastor (and the son of a formidable Lutheran pastor, known to his clerical colleagues in the Ottawa Valley as “Pope Neuhaus”). In helping launch the 1975 “Hartford Appeal for Theological Affirmation,” Richard Neuhaus threw down the gauntlet to a kind of theologizing in which the idolatry of the present dominates. And it was no accident that he was joined in that challenge to the tyranny of the new by Father Avery Dulles, S.J., who believed then, and believes now, that every important question has a history.

That common conviction is one reason why these two great New Yorkers have so many important things to say to today.

COMING UP: Did Christians ban the Games? Tales, myths and other fun facts about the ancient Olympics

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The 2020 Summer Olympics began less than a week ago, and as is usually the case, there’s been enough stunning athleticism, shocking upsets and yes, even a little bit of drama on display to keep the water cooler chatter abuzz until at least the 2022 games.

At their best, the Olympic games bridge cultural divides and unite countries around the world as the greatest living athletes around the globe compete for the coveted gold medal in their respective events. There’s a spirit of global camaraderie that welcomely comes about during every Olympiad; whether watching the Games at home with the family or going to a local bar to cheer on your favorite country, the Olympics bring people together in a way that most other sporting events do not.

Another astounding thing about the Olympics is how they’ve endured over the millennia. Indeed, they provide a special glimpse into the history of the world and those common qualities of humanity that will never die; namely, the need for both unitive, universal community and friendly but fierce competition.

The first recorded Olympic games took place in 776 B.C., though some historians speculate that they could have began as early as the 10th century B.C. The games were held every four years in Olympia to honor the greek god Zeus as one of four Panhellenic festivals, this one coinciding with the second full moon following the summer solstice, usually at the end of July or early August. The Olympics became so significant that the term Olympiad was used to mark a year the games took place, and became a common unit of historical time measurement.

Now, the ancient world wasn’t exactly known for its amicability or even peacefulness, as indicated by the countless wars and power usurpations that took place throughout its history. However, Olympic festivals were marked by a truce among the Greeks called ekecheiria, which roughly means “holding of hands.” This ensured safe travels for athletes and spectators as they made their way to the festival and was a common basis for peace among the Greeks. That the Olympic games could get even the constantly feuding Greeks to lay down their arms and come together in a spirit of solidarity speaks to their significance in ancient history.

Early Olympic events included the footrace, wrestling, the long jump, the javelin throw, the discus throw and boxing. Of course, it’s nigh impossible to read about the ancient Olympics and not come across epic tales of chariot racing, an event which was briefly banned early on but was reinstated by the first century B.C. and drew the interest of several key Roman figures (more on that later).

By the fifth century B.C., athletes from all over the Greek-speaking world came to Olympia for the games. The footrace, also called the Stade or Stadion, was considered the most prestigious event, and is where the english word “stadium” is derived from. Stade was a unit of measurement in ancient Greece which modern historians say is the rough equivalent to 600 feet or 200 yards, though the actual length has been a subject of debate for many years. Either way, it represents the length which runners in the Stadion ran to prove themselves as the fastest sprinters in the ancient world.

Interestingly, very little record about the Olympics games during the time of Christ exists. History tells us that the Roman emperor Tiberius, who was emperor during Christ’s life, won the chariot races during the 194th Olympiad in 4 B.C. In 17 A.D., the popular Roman general Germanicus, who was Tiberius’ adopted son and the future father of the third Roman Emperor Caligula, won the chariot races in 17 A.D., presumably around the time Christ was a teenager.

About those chariot races: they were known to attract elite political figures, some of whom won based on true skill, and others who only wanted the appearance of winning to further exert their power and status. During the 211th Olympiad, Emperor Nero, known for his fierce persecution of Christians and rather narcissistic personality, forcibly moved the Olympic games set to take place in 65 A.D. to 67 A.D. so he could compete while on a tour of Greece. He participated in the chariot races (with six more horses than the other competitors), and declared himself the greatest Olympic victor of all time, though historical eyewitness accounts tell a different story. Nero actually nearly died after a severe wreck, but Nero being Nero, he was still declared the winner.

Thankfully, Nero’s title as an Olympic victor and the Olympiad he “won,” which did not adhere to the established chronology of the games, were subsequently stricken from the official Olympic records after his death.

The Olympics grew over the course of 1,200 years until 393 A.D., when Emperor Theodosius I banned all Pagan festivals from the Roman emperor after Christianity became adopted as the state religion. Popular culture and history has long maintained this story of Christianity being to blame for the halt of the Olympic games. However, in recent years, some historians have disputed this account, saying that it was not for religious reasons but rather economic reasons that the games ended when they did. In fact, even after Theodosius’ death, there are still records of Olympic games taking place up until the fifth century. As the administration of Roman Empire evolved, the Olympics could no longer be sponsored by civil funds and instead became sponsored more and more by rich elites of the time. Simply put, the games became too expensive, and no one wanted to pay for them anymore.

The Olympics did not make a return for 1,500 years, until the Athens Olympics in 1896. Over the last 125 years since their reinstatement, the Games have become an integral piece of modern culture and a remnant of ancient history that was revived to great avail. As the Olympics in Tokyo continue over the next week and athletes compete for the gold, the words of St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians serve as a pertinent reminder of how the spirit of an Olympian imitates closely that of a Christian:

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified” (1 Cor 9:24-27).

So let the Games continue! And may the race be run not for a perishable prize, but an imperishable one.

Featured photo: Met Museum, Terracotta Panathenaic prize amphora (jar), ca. 510 B.C. Attributed to the Leagros Group.