Since the time of Christ, the World has always attacked the Church in one of two ways. Sensible, cynical, well-meaning tyrants (as well as a few absolute stinkers) have either tried to annihilate the Church completely or compromise its gospel and use it for their own ends. They did this in Christ's day, they are doing it in ours, and we all often do play the part of Peter (or, if we're not careful, Judas) in selling Christ out to our persecutors or cultural allies in exchange for their esteem, our lives, comfort, control, or for ideals that we tell ourselves are inspired by our faith but actually have become religions of their own. Thomas Becket is as relevant now as he ever has been.
Thomas Becket was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in 1162 by Henry II, King of England. Until that point he had worked as Chancellor for Henry, who often (like many monarchs) engaged in power games with the Pope. The understanding at Thomas' appointment was that he would make some of these power games easier for Henry to win--but the opposite happened. It's quite possible that his appointment as Archbishop caused him to take his duties--and his God--suddenly quite seriously, in a way he possibly had not before. He resigned his position as Chancellor (which he'd been expected to keep along with his Archbishopric). The two were drawn into a feud that resulted in Thomas being exiled and Henry's allies excommunicated, until (on this day in A.D. 1170) Henry "accidentally" had his old friend assassinated. Inside his church. At the altar.
The optics of this were not so great for Henry, and the upshot of it all was that he had to eat crow and acknowledge Thomas as a saint; the four knights who did the murdering, meanwhile, were excommunicated. The Pope (who, it should be said, often himself played the part of the cynical, well-meaning tyrant) had won this round. But I think that, whatever his motives, the story of Becket can remind us that it is possible to refuse worldly power. There was no obvious reason for him to give up power, much less his life.
We are interested in power these days and suspicious of stories of altruism (of course, the martyrs are not really altruists but people who believe that the fulfillment of their deepest desires is possible after death). The speeches of the knights in T.S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, excerpted in this site's "Literature" section, give an overview of some of the ways in which Becket's death has been interpreted by moderns. Yet even our insistence that everyone is really looking for earthly power tends to run aground in the face of martyrdom. The multitude of people who have been willing to lose their lives rather than receive worldly power or security tends to undermine the secularist assumptions that most of the time seem like common sense.
The king Becket chooses over Henry II really does seem to be Christ, who (while of the royal line of David) was born as a commoner and consistently refused worldly power each time it was offered. The miracle of the Incarnation redeems the nature of authority itself. It's a commonplace that in seeking power, tyrants and rulers in essence become slaves. Desiring power over others means your worth--in your own eyes--is measured by their high or low opinion of you. Classical philosophers have noted that the tyrant is thus the unhappiest and most insecure person of all, because he must constantly hoard or expand his supposed power in order to retain his sense of self.
But Christ, the true King, does not play power games:
"Now when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover Feast, many believed in his name when they saw the signs that he was doing. But Jesus on his part did not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man." (John 2:23-25)
Or, again:
"Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist." (John 13:3-4)
Kings and worldly rulers are little imperfect images of God's authority. But Christ's authority is independent from anyone's opinion of him, having everything to do with the relationship with the Father that he makes manifest--and accessible--to us. Our own dealings with the civil and cultural authorities of this world can be transformed. People in power can even be transformed. But in the meantime, we need not be surprised, or even offended, when they oppose us. We have been told that they will. We can even have compassion on them when they persecute us, or when they try to use us, and we can pray for them as we deny them the slavery they desire. Serving the only real King, we can be free, like Thomas, to be "naive"--to say what is true and do what is right, even when it seems to cost us our lives.
I'm going to risk further excerpt below, to bring you the Christmas sermon Eliot's Becket preaches:
Thomas Becket was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in 1162 by Henry II, King of England. Until that point he had worked as Chancellor for Henry, who often (like many monarchs) engaged in power games with the Pope. The understanding at Thomas' appointment was that he would make some of these power games easier for Henry to win--but the opposite happened. It's quite possible that his appointment as Archbishop caused him to take his duties--and his God--suddenly quite seriously, in a way he possibly had not before. He resigned his position as Chancellor (which he'd been expected to keep along with his Archbishopric). The two were drawn into a feud that resulted in Thomas being exiled and Henry's allies excommunicated, until (on this day in A.D. 1170) Henry "accidentally" had his old friend assassinated. Inside his church. At the altar.
The optics of this were not so great for Henry, and the upshot of it all was that he had to eat crow and acknowledge Thomas as a saint; the four knights who did the murdering, meanwhile, were excommunicated. The Pope (who, it should be said, often himself played the part of the cynical, well-meaning tyrant) had won this round. But I think that, whatever his motives, the story of Becket can remind us that it is possible to refuse worldly power. There was no obvious reason for him to give up power, much less his life.
We are interested in power these days and suspicious of stories of altruism (of course, the martyrs are not really altruists but people who believe that the fulfillment of their deepest desires is possible after death). The speeches of the knights in T.S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, excerpted in this site's "Literature" section, give an overview of some of the ways in which Becket's death has been interpreted by moderns. Yet even our insistence that everyone is really looking for earthly power tends to run aground in the face of martyrdom. The multitude of people who have been willing to lose their lives rather than receive worldly power or security tends to undermine the secularist assumptions that most of the time seem like common sense.
The king Becket chooses over Henry II really does seem to be Christ, who (while of the royal line of David) was born as a commoner and consistently refused worldly power each time it was offered. The miracle of the Incarnation redeems the nature of authority itself. It's a commonplace that in seeking power, tyrants and rulers in essence become slaves. Desiring power over others means your worth--in your own eyes--is measured by their high or low opinion of you. Classical philosophers have noted that the tyrant is thus the unhappiest and most insecure person of all, because he must constantly hoard or expand his supposed power in order to retain his sense of self.
But Christ, the true King, does not play power games:
"Now when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover Feast, many believed in his name when they saw the signs that he was doing. But Jesus on his part did not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man." (John 2:23-25)
Or, again:
"Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist." (John 13:3-4)
Kings and worldly rulers are little imperfect images of God's authority. But Christ's authority is independent from anyone's opinion of him, having everything to do with the relationship with the Father that he makes manifest--and accessible--to us. Our own dealings with the civil and cultural authorities of this world can be transformed. People in power can even be transformed. But in the meantime, we need not be surprised, or even offended, when they oppose us. We have been told that they will. We can even have compassion on them when they persecute us, or when they try to use us, and we can pray for them as we deny them the slavery they desire. Serving the only real King, we can be free, like Thomas, to be "naive"--to say what is true and do what is right, even when it seems to cost us our lives.
I'm going to risk further excerpt below, to bring you the Christmas sermon Eliot's Becket preaches:
