Rerum Novarum
“You probably tremble more in pronouncing the sentence against me than I do in hearing it.” These were the words Giordano Bruno spoke to the judges who sentenced him to death.
In Latin, it has a different kind of power: Maiori forsan cum timore sententiam in me fertis quam ego accipiam. Giordano Bruno is a symbol of freedom. Although he wasn’t among the most brilliant philosophers of his time, the persecution he endured has made his memory immortal.
Today, in Campo de' Fiori, on the very spot where he was burned alive, his statue reminds us of the importance of freedom of thought—and the misery of censorship.
The statue of Giordano Bruno in Campo de' Fiori has an interesting story that involves Pope Leo XIII, the author of the encyclical Rerum Novarum, which the current Pope has declared to be one of his sources of inspiration.
The construction of a monument dedicated to Giordano Bruno was approved in 1888 by the liberal majority of the City Council of Rome, in the newly formed Italian monarchy.
On the eve of the inauguration, Leo XIII threatened to abandon Rome if the statue were unveiled to the public. But the liberals had already decided to play a little trick on the Pope.
It is said that the Prime Minister, Francesco Crispi, warned the Pope that if he left Italy, he would not be allowed to return.
Leo XIII did not follow through with his threat and instead spent the day of the inauguration praying in front of the statue of Saint Peter.
I have always regarded Giordano Bruno’s condemnation, however horrible and unjustified, as a matter internal to religion—something that has little to do with the history of thought, and even less with the history of knowledge.
My opinion, in the end, is the same as Leo XIII’s—and likely the root of his resentment.
Still, a trick is a trick, and that statue was above all a symbol of a new world—one in which even a heretic would have the right to freely express their opinion, and where no one was allowed to use violence to erase ideas.
The liberals were too optimistic. They believed they had won, that humanity had finally freed itself from fanaticism, and that religious fundamentalism had been silenced. The following century, however, would witness the birth of new forms of fanaticism—secular this time, but no less violent.
Leo XIII, fortified by two thousand years of history, knew that the new world emerging still carried the legacy of the old. And he knew that many people, frightened by the changes modernity imposed, would be looking for answers and for reassuring guidance.
He saw more clearly than most the dangers of secular fanaticism taking hold of society. That is why, in 1891, he wrote the encyclical Rerum Novarum, which I discuss in detail in Chapter 6 of Zombies of Marx.
It marked a turning point for the Catholic Church, which was beginning to accept the challenge of modernity and gradually engaging in the development of a theory of human society that we now call Catholic social teaching.
I believe Catholic social teaching raises more problems than it solves, but it is nonetheless an example of the adaptability of the oldest continuously active human institution.
The new Pope has chosen the name Leo XIV. I don’t think there’s any need to build a new statue of Giordano Bruno to make him understand that, once again, the world is changing—and that soon we will have to confront new things, along with the anxiety and fear that always accompany them.
I believe this new Pope is fully aware of it.
However, I also think he chose the name “Leo” to be inspired by the first Pope to bear it—Leo the Great. It was Leo the Great who brought order to the early Church and helped lay the foundations of the Catholic faith.
After all, the first duty of the Pope is to deal with religion. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
📘 Zombies di Marx is available on:
📱 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F1DBJ96C/
Or you can ask for it at your local bookstore.
In Latin, it has a different kind of power: Maiori forsan cum timore sententiam in me fertis quam ego accipiam. Giordano Bruno is a symbol of freedom. Although he wasn’t among the most brilliant philosophers of his time, the persecution he endured has made his memory immortal.
Today, in Campo de' Fiori, on the very spot where he was burned alive, his statue reminds us of the importance of freedom of thought—and the misery of censorship.
The statue of Giordano Bruno in Campo de' Fiori has an interesting story that involves Pope Leo XIII, the author of the encyclical Rerum Novarum, which the current Pope has declared to be one of his sources of inspiration.
The construction of a monument dedicated to Giordano Bruno was approved in 1888 by the liberal majority of the City Council of Rome, in the newly formed Italian monarchy.
On the eve of the inauguration, Leo XIII threatened to abandon Rome if the statue were unveiled to the public. But the liberals had already decided to play a little trick on the Pope.
It is said that the Prime Minister, Francesco Crispi, warned the Pope that if he left Italy, he would not be allowed to return.
Leo XIII did not follow through with his threat and instead spent the day of the inauguration praying in front of the statue of Saint Peter.
I have always regarded Giordano Bruno’s condemnation, however horrible and unjustified, as a matter internal to religion—something that has little to do with the history of thought, and even less with the history of knowledge.
My opinion, in the end, is the same as Leo XIII’s—and likely the root of his resentment.
Still, a trick is a trick, and that statue was above all a symbol of a new world—one in which even a heretic would have the right to freely express their opinion, and where no one was allowed to use violence to erase ideas.
The liberals were too optimistic. They believed they had won, that humanity had finally freed itself from fanaticism, and that religious fundamentalism had been silenced. The following century, however, would witness the birth of new forms of fanaticism—secular this time, but no less violent.
Leo XIII, fortified by two thousand years of history, knew that the new world emerging still carried the legacy of the old. And he knew that many people, frightened by the changes modernity imposed, would be looking for answers and for reassuring guidance.
He saw more clearly than most the dangers of secular fanaticism taking hold of society. That is why, in 1891, he wrote the encyclical Rerum Novarum, which I discuss in detail in Chapter 6 of Zombies of Marx.
It marked a turning point for the Catholic Church, which was beginning to accept the challenge of modernity and gradually engaging in the development of a theory of human society that we now call Catholic social teaching.
I believe Catholic social teaching raises more problems than it solves, but it is nonetheless an example of the adaptability of the oldest continuously active human institution.
The new Pope has chosen the name Leo XIV. I don’t think there’s any need to build a new statue of Giordano Bruno to make him understand that, once again, the world is changing—and that soon we will have to confront new things, along with the anxiety and fear that always accompany them.
I believe this new Pope is fully aware of it.
However, I also think he chose the name “Leo” to be inspired by the first Pope to bear it—Leo the Great. It was Leo the Great who brought order to the early Church and helped lay the foundations of the Catholic faith.
After all, the first duty of the Pope is to deal with religion. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
📘 Zombies di Marx is available on:
📱 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F1DBJ96C/
Or you can ask for it at your local bookstore.
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