In the 250s, a fierce debate broke out between two saints—Pope St. Stephen I and St. Cyprian, bishop of Carthage—over whether converts from breakaway Christian sects had to be rebaptized to join the Catholic Church. Cyprian said yes: since the ministers of the original baptisms were out of union with the Church—he reasoned—they were likewise out of union with the Holy Spirit, and their sacraments were invalid—“For how can he who lacks the Spirit confer the Spirit’s gifts?”
Pope Stephen disagreed: it’s not the minister who gives us grace in the sacraments, but Christ, through the minister. Therefore, the moral goodness of the minister is not necessary (though it’s certainly desirable), but only the act of baptism as Christ instituted it. This principle that the sacraments work ex opere operato—that is, by the action done and not by the worthiness of the minister—is fundamental to a Catholic theology of the sacraments.
This principle was very much on my mind last year as I celebrated my 30th anniversary of baptism. I had just learned the heartbreaking news that the priest who baptized me had been convicted of sexual misconduct and theft from his parishioners, and was now serving time in prison for the latter.
It was a painful revelation. I have no memories of the priest in question (he was reassigned when I was 4), but I’ve cherished the photos of my baptism, in which he features prominently. I used to feel only gratitude when I saw those photos; now, that gratitude is still there, but tinged with a certain sadness and sense of betrayal. I can’t see them without being reminded of what he did.
But then again, there are things a photograph doesn’t show. As I took my hurt to prayer, I realized what it was. The photos show my parents and godparents, the priest, the baptismal font, and the kitschy ‘90s church decor. One shows my dad holding my unsuspecting one-month-old head over the font while the priest poured water over it and spoke the baptismal formula. But none of them show my freedom from sin, my adoption as a child of God, my incorporation into the Church. The photos captured the visible signs; they didn’t capture the grace those signs conferred—which, after all, was the real thing I was grateful for.
The beauty of the Church’s sacraments is that the sins of her ministers don’t invalidate God’s grace. It was the priest who poured the water and spoke the words, but it was Christ himself who forgave my sin and brought me through the waters of baptism into his Church. No matter how grave the sins of that priest, I’d still have the same confidence in the grace of my baptism.
None of this is to downplay the importance of high moral standards for the Church’s ministers. As I approach the priesthood (just over two years away), I feel more and more the weight of the responsibility it entails. I know God will hold me to account for it, and I hope that if I ever start to go astray, the people of God will not stay silent and tolerate me but will hold me to the standard I’ve professed.
Still, I find it comforting—especially when reading news about the sex abuse crisis and other scandals—to reflect on how even the worst behavior of the Church’s members can’t stop God’s grace from breaking through. When I hear people say they’re tempted to leave the Church because of these scandals, I can empathize with the pain behind that statement. Still, I can’t possibly agree: the Catholic Church doesn’t belong to Fr. So-and-so but to Christ, who chooses to use flawed human beings to carry out his work, through us or in spite of us. I have my baptism to show for it.
