John XXIII (1881-1963), A great Pope, a not so original name (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It’s hard to believe that the supreme pontiff, the personification of Christ on Earth, was once called Fabian.
Some were even Silverius, Soter, Zachary, Hilarius, Conon, Anacletus, two Pelagiuses, and even a Sylvester—three of them.
When Benedict XVI announced his resignation effective February 28th, the Catholic Church reeled in shock, even though his Holiness had been hinting at retirement for some time now. However, I’m sure the cardinals started jockeying for position once their pacemakers kicked in. With the doors of the Sistine Chapel closed and locked, the conclave of the College of Cardinals will be busy in their voting, politicking and burning of paper in the process of selecting a new pope.
Since any one of these red-hatted guys can get the top job, they all probably have one thing in mind—what will be my papal name?
Since the 6th Century, almost all popes of the Roman Catholic Church have used a regnal or papal name during their reign. The early popes, being usually in hiding, on the run, or martyred in an arena in cruel and entertaining ways, really didn’t have much time for picking new names. Yet the acceptance of Christianity in 313, followed by its adoption as the state religion of Rome in 395, gave the papacy some long-needed breathing room for pomp, ceremony, and especially the affectations of monarchy—hence the papal name.
The first papal name was chosen by Mercurius in 533. Once he was elected, Mercurius decided to change a really pagan name (he was named after the Roman god Mercury) to the more Christ-friendly John II. It made sense: There were no Roman emperors named Yahweh or Osiris, either. This change became more commonplace after the 10th Century, and would be de rigueur for all popes since the 16th Century.
The papal names followed no particular pattern. Most popes chose the names of predecessors they admired, though some chose names of family members, members, even fellow clergymen who shared their ideas of politics and dogma. The names cover an amazing range of styles (Adrian, Eugene, Boniface), languages (Alexander, Celestine, Miltiades) and perceived moral attributes (Innocent, Clement, Pius).
Until 1978, all popes picked one name. John Paul I decided to honor two of his predecessors, John XXIII and Paul VI (which didn’t help him much since he died 33 days later). John Paul II continued this tradition, yet his successor Joseph Ratzinger went old school with Benedict XVI—a nice touch for a German theologian who tended to always look in the rearview mirror.
Of the eight Alexanders, most theologians agree Alexander VI was the most ready for premium cable.
Some names just keep coming back: There were 23 Johns, the most of any papal name, with 16 Gregorys, 16 Benedicts, 14 Clements, 13 Innocents (most of whom were probably not true to that namesake), 13 Leos (though not of the zodiac sign of the same name), 12 Piuses (again, you’re just asking for criticism if you choose a name like Pius), 9 Stephens, 9 Bonifaces (an excellent choice of name, in my opinion), 8 Urbans (though none named Rural, oddly), and 8 Alexanders, of which the sixth one you may recognize as Jeremy Irons on Showtime.
Even with the free-for-all in nomenclature, there are some unspoken no-nos. There is no Peter II, for example. Peter, as in Peter the apostle, was the first pope, and no one could be pretentious enough to claim they are a second Peter (although Jeremy Irons comes close). That’s almost as snotty as naming yourself Jesus II; and I don’t have to explain why.
Also, names often go out of fashion, sometimes thanks to one bad apple. For over 500 years, there was no pope named John. This was because the last John (John XXIII) was not only an antipope (or false pretender), but he was morally corrupt and such a scheming little shit that even the mention of his name would probably have gotten you excommunicated. When Giuseppe Roncalli was elected in 1958, they weren’t sure if he was John XXIII or John XXIV, since that other John carried such a stain. Roncalli, the kind son of Italian sharecroppers, was no such blight on the name, and took on the moniker of John XXIII, as if the other prick never existed.
So what will the new guy choose? It’s difficult to say, since rules and fashion continue to shift and change. For the Neighborhood, we feel the next pontiff might do well to give one of the older, more obscure monikers a try. We’re not ready for another John Paul. John, Leo, Pius or even Benedict (at least now) seems a little safe.
Resurrect old standards like Urban, Boniface, Sixtus or Celestine. He might even choose Gelasius, Theodore, Paschal or even Zephyrinus.
Whatever name is chosen—in the grand scheme of things, a papal name is not necessarily the measure of a papacy.
Then again, would we ever gain spiritual strength today from a pope named Lando (reigned 913-914)?
Probably not…unless there’s a Star Wars convention nearby.
A Dear John Letter to my Textbooks
This is a difficult letter for me to write…and an even more difficult letter for you to read, so I hope that you are sitting down.
Remember when we first met? I trembled in excitement upon hearing of a textbook option for New York City’s social studies curriculum. Once I had you (or the fourth grade version of you at the time), it was as if a great weight was lifted from me—finally, a concrete guide to instruction.
I was smitten just by looking at your spine…the glow off your glossy cover…the sharp color photos that littered almost every page.
Those first few months were incredible, weren’t they? Every day was something new, something exciting. We were so wild, so adventurous…we could take on the world. To be honest, we were into some really kinky shit, but that was all in the fun.
Each year, another book would await me, and my love affair renewed. The roller-coaster ride we shared made the mundane phone order to the central office in Tweed so—dare I say—exhilarating. The maps, the optional activities, the worksheets and games: at last, I thought, I found the one.
Yet, something changed.
At first, I thought it was just me. After a while, we settled into our routine. Occasionally, you provide a surprise to spice things up—a game on the Internet, or a music selection. That, however, was the exception to the rule. To be fair, that routine suited me fine…for a while.
Then, maybe it was my weakness…but I started to feel restless. The chapters and units weren’t doing it for me anymore. I felt trapped.
It was then that I met someone else…more like some other people, plural.
There were some websites on the Internet. I was leery, at first. But then, they lured me with their siren song of primary source documents, streaming video and interactive games. Once I saw the ever-changing and ever-expanding volumes of media, lesson plans, worksheets and graphic organizers, that old excitement, that feeling of adventure exploded over me again.
I had mentioned that I was attached, that I couldn’t turn my back on my beloved. They, in turn, mentioned some shocking things about you: that you don’t fact-check your information that well, that there are numerous mistakes in historical maps, that terminology and vocabulary are often misstated.
Worst of all, they said that by watering down the content for the sake of “readability”, you were holding me back—and even worse, holding my students hostage to shoddy literature.
I wouldn’t believe it. They were just jealous, after all, I thought. How could they appreciate the passion, the connection we have…besides, if there were flaws, you would have told me, right?
Right?
Well, I did some digging myself. On page 161 of the grade 3 book, this is what you say about the Roman Empire:
Fair enough, it is only for 3rd graders, but sometimes you water down way too much. Look at page 163:
Umm, that’s it? No mention of the nightmare of a 21-year fascist dictatorship that preceded it? No mention of the other countries that bear more responsibility for losing—the ones that had more blood on their hands. Those kids can get that…why do you treat them like morons?
If that’s not bad enough, I found outright lies—lies that you should’ve told me about. Why did you keep it a secret that the leaders of the New Netherland colony were incorrectly called “governors” instead of the correct “directors-general”?
Why does a map of North America in the 18th century use flags from another century? I see an 1801 British flag, a 1793 French flag, and a 1981 Spanish flag.
I’m not even going into the problems in the 5th grade book.
Why? Why did you hold me back so many years? Why the lies? The deceit? The lack of clarity and depth of content?
I’m sorry, but our relationship has really run its course. It’s over.
Please, no tears…it’s not entirely your fault. I was too stupid to realize how badly written you were. I didn’t see your limited vision and lack of depth.
Basically, we’ve really grown apart these past few years. I expanded my base of knowledge and resources through the internet, seminars, grants and lectures.
You just can’t grow past your binding.
You were suffocating me, and screwing my students in the process. There’s nowhere else for this to go.
Believe me, it’s better for both of us.
Goodbye, and good luck. Perhaps we’ll see each other again… that odd day that I need to waste a period with busywork in June.
Just don’t wait up for my call. Sorry, babe.
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