The Old Notre Dame and the Virtue of Munificence
by Fr. Roger J. Landry - May 11, 2007
For more than two thousand years, beginning 400 years before Christ with Aristotle, munificence was listed among the virtues. Perhaps the greatest indication that the virtue of munificence has fallen out of vogue is that so few people today even know what it means. The rediscovery of its meaning and practice, however, is critical for the good of the Church and the betterment of culture and society.
The virtue of munificence refers to a firm habit to desire and do great works for the benefit of others. It is generally contrasted with the virtue of generosity, which is the firm disposition to sacrifice what one has for the good of others, even though what one has may be small and even though it may help only one beneficiary. Munificence, on the other hand, refers to sacrifices of great amounts for the benefit of many.
Even though the term may be unfamiliar, there are still examples of munificent men and women. We can point to the former owner of Domino's Pizza, who is spending his fortune to build a new Catholic University in Florida. There's the witness of a married couple that summers on the Cape who donated huge amounts to build the exquisite Our Lady of Life perpetual adoration chapel in West Harwich as well as a new parish church and retreat center in other dioceses. There are the actions of an Osterville husband and wife who have given millions to make possible Pope John Paul II High School in Hyannis.
Throughout history, while most Catholics did not have the resources to make munificent benefactions, they had munificent desires and dreams. When Catholic immigrants came to the United States, they took full advantage of the rights to freedom of association and freedom of religion to band together by ethnic groups to make those high desires a reality. They pooled their efforts, their talents, and their salaries and savings together to accomplish not just good works but great ones — hospitals, parish schools, and especially magnificent churches — something that only the wealthy were able to do in Europe. One doesn't have to visit Boston, or Chicago or Philadelphia to see such munificent structures. They're here in the cities of our diocese, as visible signs of the faith, the hope and the parish-wide love for God that erected them.
Twenty-five years ago today, one of the most renowned examples of parochial munificence in our diocese, the old Notre Dame Church in Fall River, was consumed by flames. Its extraordinary interior and exterior beauty became a holocaust to the God to whom through Mary's intercession it was dedicated. As devastating as the destruction of such a treasure was, the treasure continued to live, because its beauty had deeply formed not just the spirituality of the Notre Dame parishioners but so many others who had had the privilege of visiting the Church before it burned. The old Notre Dame, with its indelible resplendence, preached an unforgettable message that God is worth our very best. Like the great European basilicas, it was a small but overwhelmingly attractive glimpse of the splendor of heaven, for it communicated something of the grandeur of God.
Many say today, matter-of-factly, "They don't build churches like that anymore." While in large part true, it's not because we've lost the know-how, but because we've lost the munificence. We live in the midst of a culture marked by the ephemeral, disposable, mobile and individual, which makes the necessary conditions for munificence — a spirit of great sacrifice, patience, hope, long-term thinking, and parish-wide commitment, investment and cooperation— much harder to come by. Even when hundreds of millions of dollars are invested on a new sports stadium or ten million on a new school, for example, we do not expect them to be around for more than generation or two. The idea of building something to last for centuries seems almost foolish.
But real love always has a touch of the extravagant, and the munificence of old was marked by a love for God and a concern for future generations that made such sacrifices to accomplish great works for the glory of God and the benefit and enrichment of others seem eminently sensible. The desire for munificence flows naturally from the "greatest" and the "new" commandments given to us by Jesus, to love God with one-hundred percent of who we are and have (Mt 22:37) and to love our neighbor with the same down-to-the-last-drop-of-blood type of love with which Jesus loved us (John 13:34; 15:12). When there's no desire for munificence, generally one's love for God and for others — and whole spirituality —will be parsimonious as well.
The recovery of the virtue of munificence does not mean necessarily that Catholics in our diocese will once again seek to build structures like the old Notre Dame, or St. Anne's in Fall River, or St. Anthony's in New Bedford, to name just the most notable examples. But it should begin with visiting them, cherishing them for true treasures they are, supporting them and taking a holy pride in them. We learn from the fire that consumed the old Notre Dame that even sacred edifices built to last for centuries may be gone in hours, and therefore should never be taken for granted.
Such sacred temples are sacraments of the splendor of the Church's faith: they are visible signs of the radiant beliefs, palpable hope and ardent love that built them, and for that reason they efficaciously help to increase the faith of Catholics who visit. In them one cannot help but feel Catholic, and that being Catholic is great. The more time we spend in such dazzling shrines, built by the nickels and elbow grease of generations of Catholics who had far less than we do in terms of material possessions and education, the more we will not be able to help being inspired by them to perpetuate our ancestors' munificence and to emulate it, as communities of faith, in our own day.
Father Roger J. Landry is pastor of St. Anthony of Padua in New Bedford, MA and Executive Editor of The Anchor, the weekly newspaper of the Diocese of Fall River.
