The Very Model Of Lucidity

That modesty of intellectual purpose went hand in hand with a charming modesty of person. One does not often see cardinals of the Holy Roman Church walking across campus in cheap blue windbreakers; the cardinal's sartorial style would have caused grimaces at Wal-Mart, let alone Brooks Brothers. This was not an affectation, however, nor was it some kind of eccentric noblesse oblige. Avery Dulles took a vow of poverty when he entered the Society of Jesus and he kept it, as he kept his vows of chastity, obedience to superiors, and that special obedience to the pope that St. Ignatius Loyola intended to be the distinguishing hallmark of Jesuit life. Every dime of his royalties went to the Jesuits; as for patching the holes in one's shoes, well, duct tape would do just fine.

Although John Paul II had long been in the habit of naming elderly Catholic theologians to the cardinalate as an expression of the church's gratitude for their service, Avery Dulles's nomination as a cardinal came as a surprise to many—and posed something of a dilemma to him. The night the announcement was made, my wife and I were entertaining friends who were also close to Father Dulles. As dinner began, the phone rang: it was the newly nominated cardinal, who brushed aside my congratulations and asked whether it was possible for him to be dispensed from the requirement in canon law that a cardinal be ordained a bishop; I assured him that a dispensation would be readily given, as it had been for others like him. There was an audible sigh of relief at the other end of the phone. It was all another expression of the man's humility.

Still, cardinals employ the miter and crozier when they preside liturgically. So on the night of Feb. 23, 2001, Cardinal Avery Dulles processed into the Church of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary near Piazza del Popolo to take possession of his Roman "title," vested as none of us had ever seen him before. The Discalced Augustinians present were thrilled that their small church had become the titular Roman parish of a new cardinal; others doubtless pondered the neat historical symmetry of Dulles becoming the titular pastor of a church in which one of his heroes, St. Robert Bellarmine, had once preached and taught. But others couldn't help noticing a different kind of symmetry—in this case, American. Jody Bottum, now editor of First Things, put into words what more than a few of us were thinking: "Now we know what Abraham Lincoln would have looked like in full pontificals." 

In his later years, as Cardinal Dulles suffered greatly from the ravages of post-polio syndrome, his humble, even grateful submission to the will of God became an inspiration to many. (He also kept working, even after his ravaged throat muscles wouldn't allow him to speak. One friend, on leaving after a visit, said, "Avery, is there anything I can do for you?" The cardinal scratched out on a note pad, "Put some more paper in the printer.") The nobility here might seem aristocratic in character, given his background; yet I think it was, in fact, specifically Christian.

For his cardinal's coat of arms, Avery Dulles chose the Latin motto, Scio cui credidi ("I know in whom I have believed"): St. Paul's simple-yet-profound explanation to his disciple, Timothy, of why he was not concerned about his sufferings or his future. Avery Cardinal Dulles knew in Whom he believed. That made him the man he was, and the theologian he was. That made all the difference in an original American life that spanned more than a third of American history.

Weigel, a distinguished senior fellow of Washington's Ethics and Public Policy Center, is a NEWSWEEK contributor.

© 2008