Why do we call priests “father”?

Bishop Jorge Rodriguez

This month we celebrate Father’s Day, and just as we prepared to express our love and gratitude to our mother in May, this month we have the opportunity to acknowledge our duty of gratitude toward the man we call “father.”

We call God “Father,” we refer to the pope as “Holy Father,” and we also call our priests “father.” Not to mention the “founding fathers” or even the San Diego “Padres.” Yet Jesus told us not to call anyone “father” on earth! Does Christ forbid us from calling our biological father “father”?

Obviously not, and the Early Christian community knew that well from the beginning, so they kept calling their fathers “father” and later also applied this title to priests. Some Protestant brothers and sisters argue that the Catholic Church is against the Bible’s teachings. I will not address that question directly, as it is a matter dealing with interpretation. What I can say is the Bible itself and tradition prove we’re right.

The priest never gets married or has children. No one celebrates him on Father’s Day, and he will never hear a child call him “dad.” Nonetheless, when he enters the parish, people call him “father.”

We must recognize that on the realm of faith, a relationship between the priest and the faithful is established that allows for the reality of fatherhood to be applied to the priest. The father figure is related to the origin of life, its defense, its protection and the vigilant presence that instills in us confidence. God is our Father and all life comes from him; his providence looks after us and his presence makes us feel safe. Thus, Jesus taught us to call him “Father.” God is Father not only because he is the origin of our earthly life, but also because he is the one who gives us eternal and divine life. Every single one of our cells is deeply connected to, and depends on, him.

But God wanted to affiliate his fatherhood with those who share in his Son’s priesthood; for the life of grace, the Communion that upholds us in life and the prayer that defends us from evil are all given to us through their ministry. The priest, as father, teaches us the faith, forgives us when we fail and blesses us like a father and like God, our Father. We receive from the priest the apostolic faith, the sacraments, supernatural life. He is not the source, but the channel.

Furthermore, the priest finds in the faithful those sons and daughters that Christ promised to those who left everything for him. The priest leaves the possibility of starting a family behind, and God gives him an even larger one: you, the faithful, who call him “father,” even if you are not related by blood.

It is true that when the priest returns home after a day of work, he does not find someone who runs to meet him and calls him “dad,” or asks him to read a book or to help with homework. But when the priest arrives at the parish the next day, the first thing he will hear will be someone calling him “father.”

One of the first words Jesus learned to say was probably “father.” Joseph, his father, inspired him. Jesus prayed much, and we know he always started by calling God “Father.” And he died saying it: “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit” (Lk 23:46).

“Father” is one of kindest words in our vocabulary. We use it to refer to God wholeheartedly. We use it with our father wholeheartedly. If you use it for a priest, do so from the faith: God is our Father, but this man represents him in my life and gives me supernatural life, feeds me with the Eucharist and helps me experience God’s care.

COMING UP: Historical clarity and today’s Catholic contentions

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One of the curiosities of the 21st-century Catholic debate is that many Catholic traditionalists (especially integralists) and a high percentage of Catholic progressives make the same mistake in analyzing the cause of today’s contentions within the Church — or to vary the old fallacy taught in Logic 101, they think in terms of post Concilium ergo propter Concilium [everything that’s happened after the Council has happened because of the Council]. And inside that fallacy is a common misreading of modern Catholic history. The traditionalists insist that everything was fine before the Council (which many of them therefore regard as a terrible mistake); the progressives agree that the pre-Vatican II Church was a stable institution but deplore that stability as rigidity and desiccation.

But that’s not the way things were pre-Vatican II, as I explain at some length and with some engaging stories in my new book, The Irony of Modern Catholic History: How the Church Rediscovered Itself and Challenged the Modern World to Reform (Basic Books). And no one knew the truth about pre-Vatican II Catholicism better than the man who was elected pope during the Council and guided Vatican II through its last three sessions, St. Paul VI.

On January 25, 1959, Pope John XXIII, thought to be an elderly placeholder, stunned both the Church and the world by announcing his intention to summon the 21st ecumenical council. That night, Cardinal Giovanni Battista Montini (who would be known as Paul VI four and a half years later), called an old friend. An experienced churchman who had long served Pius XII as chief of staff, Montini saw storm clouds on the horizon: “This holy old boy,” he said of John XXIII, “doesn’t know what a hornet’s nest he’s stirring up.”

That shrewd observation turned out to be spot on –– and not simply because of the Council, but because of the bees and hornets that had been buzzing around the ecclesiastical nest for well over 100 years.

Contrary to both traditionalist and progressive misconceptions, Catholicism was not a placid institution, free of controversy and contention, prior to Vatican II. As I show in The Irony of Modern Catholic History, there was considerable intellectual ferment in the Church during the mid-19th century, involving great figures like the recently-canonized John Henry Newman, the German bishop Wilhelm Emmanuel von Ketteler (grandfather of modern Catholic social thought), and the Italian polymath Antonio Rosmini (praised by John Paul II in the 1999 encyclical, Faith and Reason, and beatified under Benedict XVI). That ferment accelerated during the 25 year pontificate of Leo XIII, who launched what I dub the “Leonine Revolution,” challenging the Church to engage the modern world with distinctively Catholic tools in order to convert the modern world and lay a firmer foundation for its aspirations.

American Catholicism, heavily focused on institution-building, was largely unaware of the sharp-edged controversies (and ecclesiastical elbow-throwing) that followed Leo XIII’s death in 1903. Those controversies, plus the civilization-shattering experience of two world wars in Europe, plus a rapid secularization process in Old Europe that began in the 19th century, set the stage for John XXIII’s epic opening address to Vatican II. There, the Pope explained what he envisioned Vatican II doing: gathering up the energies let loose by the Leonine Revolution and focusing them through the prism of an ecumenical council, which he hoped would be a Pentecostal experience energizing the Church with new evangelical zeal.

John XXIII understood that the Gospel proposal could only be made by speaking to the modern world in a vocabulary the modern world could hear. Finding the appropriate grammar and vocabulary for contemporary evangelization didn’t mean emptying Catholicism of its content or challenge, however. As the Pope insisted, the perennial truths of the faith were to be expressed with the “same meaning” and the “same judgment.” Vatican II, in other words, was to foster the development of doctrine, not the deconstruction of doctrine. And the point of that doctrinal development was to equip the Church for mission and evangelization, for the modern world would be converted by truth, not ambiguity or confusion.

Over the past six and a half years, it’s become abundantly clear that more than a few Catholics, some quite prominently placed, still don’t get this history. Nor do the more vociferous elements in the Catholic blogosphere. Which is why I hope The Irony of Modern Catholic History helps facilitate a more thoughtful debate on the Catholic present and future, through a better understanding of the Catholic past.