I have watched myself and other people swing back and forth between two extremes of expectation when it comes to spiritual growth. One expectation is that God will do everything if only I have faith and wait patiently. This view goes out of balance when, in my waiting and believing, I become passive. I pray but do not act. I pray but do not engage with the realities in my daily life. When I become [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.
A funny thing happens every November called NaNoWriMo—everyday people attempt to write a 50,000 word novel over the course of the month. And, strange as it might sound, the process has a lot of connections with the upcoming season of Advent.
Since November is a busy time for graduate students, I did an adapted version of the challenge with fellow TJP contributor Colten Biro, SJ, in the summer of 2016. What started as a fun challenge quickly became a bit of a marathon… much like Advent. A long period of waiting and expectation until its completion when we can guiltlessly sing Christmas carols, not that some of us don’t sing them year-round anyways.
But sometimes the process felt like it never went anywhere. I had to keep readjusting each day. Stories seem to have a life of their own, a life that can beat you down on busy days. And much like the Advent story we encounter every year, they can feel difficult to continue, close, or even hold our interest for weeks.
It can feel like a bit of a slog to stay with the narrative. Some days, I would write, forcing myself through another thousand words that felt useless, waiting to get to the next plot point on the outline. When I was done writing for the day, it felt like nothing had happened. Sometimes the journey to the next place seemed slow or the dialogue felt bland and unimaginative, but I pushed through.
This movement is a lot like Advent. We go through the same motions every year, reliving the story, moment by moment, paragraph by paragraph. From one to the next, and maybe over a long stretch, it may not seem like anything happens, but we eventually get there.
Slowly, we trudge through the story we all know, a story of journey, mystery, and relationship. It’s a story of waiting and working in hope—even when that hope is something we don’t quite understand yet. Like that hope of finishing the novel. When we get to the end, we can look back and see this tremendous journey, even when it was taken one monotonous step at a time.
Little by little, even through reruns, we get a little closer each time. Closer to the wordcount, closer to the Birth of Jesus, and even closer to the mystery of waiting and living in a relationship with God.
Candle by candle, this journeying brings us closer to the story and characters we all know so well. In the end, it’s worth it. At the end of our stories, Colten and I each had a novel. And at the close of Advent, we have the start of the story of God present with us. Deep down, it is all about God’s daring love for each one of us.
A special thanks to Colten Biro, SJ, for your help in crafting this piece and for your role as antagonist for our shenanigans—his work for The Jesuit Post can be found here.
The cover photo is featured courtesy of Mario Sormann of the Flickr Creative Commons.
To dispel all illusions at the get-go, the harvest celebration at Plymouth Bay in 1621 was not the first Thanksgiving, and the sooner mentions and references of it are ejected from our broader culture, the better.
Celebrations of thanksgiving – Hallmark cards about the so-called First Thanksgiving notwithstanding – are well-documented throughout human history and in different cultures. Most are rooted in traditional religious celebrations of the harvest, such as the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles (known as Sukkot) and medieval harvest festivals. These harvest celebrations fused with days of praise and thanksgiving to God for many blessings and, most strikingly, for a pardoning of transgressions. What is unquestionable is that these celebrations were never simply individual acts of thanksgiving, but communal.
In the early decades of the American Republic, these first celebrations of Thanksgiving were established by presidential proclamation, the first by George Washington on October 3, 1789. Washington’s proclamation is remarkable in several respects: first, it calls for a day of thanksgiving for the blessings of God upon the entire populace of the United States with scant mention of individual blessings, and second, the entire latter half of the proclamation is a call to seek forgiveness for the many transgressions of the young American nation. The proclamation is befitting a nation struggling in the aftermath of war and revolution to establish peace, liberty, and justice, a project still awaiting fulfillment.
But very little of Washington’s proclamation lives on in our contemporary celebrations of Thanksgiving. There is no mention of gratitude for friends and family, nor is there any mention of turkey, cranberry sauce, or potatoes, let alone the ridiculous modern ritual of the presidential pardoning of a turkey, as if a particular kind of poultry were in need of our clemency. The focus is on God, and the gratefulness and remorse a community owes to God’s providence and justice. The privatization of Thanksgiving, in contrast, seems to be a 20th century phenomenon, with a communal day of prayer and gratitude being replaced with a turkey-stuffed day for individuals, celebrating their own graces (or not) from the year passed in a comfortable personal cocoon of family, friends, and perhaps a game of football.
This is a mistake, a kind of historical amnesia with baleful consequences. We have made Thanksgiving a day to turn inwards upon ourselves when the heart of the day is the grateful recognition of graces that have been bestowed upon the whole community. While embracing the day as a celebration of family and friends, we have deadened ourselves to Thanksgiving’s implications for us as members of communities. We are carefully shedding God and our neighbor, with an extra helping of pumpkin pie as our only reward.
Any healthy recovery of Thanksgiving will necessitate a re-ordering, with God restored as the proper focus paired with a deeper sense of communal gratitude from us. Therein lies the rub, however: for what can we legitimately show gratitude in our communities in the present moment?
I don’t mean to suggest that God is not deserving of our gratitude. Rather, I want us to ponder if we would not be engaging in an unhealthy bit of hypocrisy by expressing thanks to God when we’ve made our worlds the way they are. Dare we thank God when our communities are struggling with poverty, violence, division, and despair? Read the news; read the stories of war, famine, exploitation, greed, and suffering. What can we honestly be thankful for when we’ve turned our backs on each other?
There is not much, which leaves us with one: God has given us a chance to do better. That can be the source of our gratitude, for it gives a chance to dream, strive, and pray to build a better world in the corner of it shared with us. Be grateful for the chance to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captive, to bring recovery of sight to the blind and welcome to the stranger, to meet the needs of our brothers and sisters, to let the oppressed free, and to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord. Why not use Thanksgiving as a chance to engage in a bit of penance and a new beginning?
Let me end with the words of Abraham Lincoln and William H. Seward, two of the greatest Americans of all time, who by this proclamation established this day as the day for Thanksgiving, providing for us an ethic of communal gratitude and penitence to serve for all time:
No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens…to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend…they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife …and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility and Union.
By Jane Knuth
When I was in college, I studied abroad for a year in Madrid, Spain. The father of my host family was a teacher in a grade school. In the late fall, he asked me to come to work with him and give a presentation to his students on the American holiday of Thanksgiving. At first this sounded easy, but as I prepared my notes it became apparent that my six years of Spanish were not [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.
“Your room is a lot smaller than it looked,” said my parents when they sat down on the chair I FaceTime them from every Sunday night. “Yeah? Well, check out this view.”
After two and a half years of FaceTiming from South Dakota to Wisconsin, my parents came to visit. We had two and a half days to see it all. Strategy: six essential tasks, hope for the best.
Task 1: Meet as many mentors as possible. By luck or by grace, this was surprisingly easy because both of our school’s Lakȟóta elders were in the lobby and staff lounge as my parents walked in.
“Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet Uŋčí… that means grandmother, and like the students, I’ve felt like she’s been a wise grandmother for me these last couple years…”
Task 2: Ride along on the after-school bus route. It’s crazy looking into the rear-facing mirror to see my parents, the ones who saw me off on the bus for twelve years, sitting with my students in the grey leather seats.
To my delight, I also saw that Betty and Donna, upstanding third-graders, were fulfilling their assigned duty of bus companion for my parents: “Betty, Donna, can I ask you a favor? My parents are going to be riding the bus tomorrow, and they haven’t ridden a school bus in a long time. Would you mind sitting with them and making them feel welcome? Maybe telling them a little bit about our school and Pine Ridge?”
Task 3: Eat dinner with Jesuits. “Nope, you can’t sit there— that’s where Brother Mike always sits.”
Task 4: Chaperone Youth Pow-wow. All the students in the gym, all their dancing regalia unpacked from rolling totes, they took turns helping one another to fasten their beadwork and braid each other’s hair. The bus parked and the kids hard at work, my parents turned to me and asked, “What do we do now?” “Enjoy it. This is a privileged place to be…
Tȟéča Wačhípi Okȟólakičhiye means Youth Dancers’ Society, and all the schools on the reservation take turns hosting one each year— we host ours at the end of October. Pow-wows are an incredible chance for students to come together and to compete in the traditional Lakȟóta dances or the Lakȟóta handgames they’re playing over in that hallway— maybe we can have Talon teach you the rules later, if you want!”
Task 5: Go to mountains. “After long weeks at school, I love coming up to the Black Hills to clear my mind, to hike, to pray, to camp—Mom, you’ve never seen mountains, right? Oh, man. Ahhhh, you’ll love it.”
After an hour of quiet drive through the early rolling foothills, the question came: “Garrett, does it ever feel weird to you being the only white man in places like that? I mean, it was weird, noticing that we were the only white people in there, but yet we felt so welcomed—those other chaperones and the kids and your friend in the drum group were all so welcoming, but we couldn’t help but notice that we were outsiders there. Do you feel that a lot?”
Three hours of conversation ensued, punctuated and paused only for the passing buffalo, scenic selfies, and lunch on the rocks. Race and ethnicity, power and privilege, colonialism and the Church, Jesuits on the reservation and immigrants in our hometown, solidarity and social justice, Christ’s call and our challenges and slip-ups therein…
Even though we talk every week, we told stories on that winding drive that we had never told each other before. Summiting peaks of honesty, growth and support I never thought we could or would or even should—I didn’t even think to plan what became this deeply shared reflection.
Ironically, coming down was the hardest part, Mom backseat-driving me around the hairpin turns—“Mom, STOP. I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this with ice and snow on a bus full of children. I am a South Dakota bus driver. I can handle this.” Dad liked that.
Task 6: Go to Mass. I couldn’t imagine my parents’ visit without them staying for Sunday Mass at Sacred Heart. Praying with my parish home, meeting the rest of the choir and trying their best at the post-communion Lakota hymn; it was the perfect send-off for their long drive home.
Planning my parents’ visit forced me to ask: what makes this home? How can I invite them into it? Home is a moving target, but I cobbled together my best itinerary based on the who’s, what’s and where’s that matter.
I tried to show my parents all the things that made this home, but they found it themselves. We completed all my tasks, but it wasn’t until they started asking questions that we really got it:
Yes, home is the people I live for and live with.
Yes, it is the places I go to teach and rest and hike.
But, home is also the big questions I live as a privileged white man on the reservation, trying to answer my Christian call to kinship— even and especially in places where Church history hurts and my skin color represents violence.
We had two and a half days to see the life of two and a half years. We didn’t waste a moment. From my friends and favorite places all the way to my challenges and insecurities, I knew they got it when the questions came out.
They had a lot to talk about on the sixteen hour trip home.
And our FaceTime conversations have been easier since– no more backstory needed.
You offer a challenging vision of the magis that pulls us beyond ourselves and beyond our comfort zone. How would it challenge us on race?
I have recently begun thinking about racism as a soul sickness. We can talk about racism as a political issue, as a sociological phenomenon, but for me, as a faith-based scholar and activist, I understand racism as a soul sickness. It’s that profound warping of the human spirit that enables us to create communities that favor one racial group, white people, over darker skinned people. By creating an inner spirit that’s indifferent. So even if white people aren’t’ deliberately racist, they’re not using the “N” word, they’re not actively discriminating. We become complacent or indifferent to what’s going on in our society. We don’t know, and we don’t want to know. And that’s a shriveling of the human spirit. So if racism at it’s core is a could sickness, then we need to provide a remedy that can reach the inner reaches of the human spirit.
I think for so long we tried to address racism with rational arguments. We simply give people the facts. Give them the information. Then something magical’s going to happen. But I think that racism is something that malforms us. I think of racism as a formation system.
It tries to form an identity. And I think racism in America forms us into false identities. So it’s not a matter of things that we do that are wrong, we’re formed in a way of looking at the world, which in some cases keeps us from seeing the injustice that’s there. And so we need not just change policies, but we change policies without changing a malformed identity, that malformed identity’s going to find new ways of expression and that’s where spiritual concepts like the Magis can be very helpful. Not in terms of dictating public policy, but in terms of forming, correcting our malformed identities so we can be open, then, to the more creative public policies that need to be in place.
Where does the soul sickness come from?
I wish I knew the answer to that.
I’ve often thought about this, that the opposite of love isn’t hate. The opposite of love is fear. And I think what’s happened in America is that many white people lack the empathy or resist the empathy that would call to change because they fear what that change might look like. It’s kind of akin… let’s take it out of the realm of race for a moment. We know about ecological irresponsibility and we hear the fact that the Earth cannot sustain everyone on the planet living the way Americans do.
And it calls us to very fearful types of choices. And I think that because we’ve never had a racially just society, if we did it’s going to call for us to live in ways that we’re not accustomed to. I think many white people, if they’re honest with themselves, they realize, they know that the playing field isn’t level. They have an understanding of that. But then they fear, “okay, what does it mean if we level the playing field? Where does that leave me?”
And that is a real painful realization to come to. And a fearful realization to come to. Because if I really accept that as true, then I can’t live at peace with the way things are. And that’s going to call me to live in ways that I can’t even imagine what that’s going to look like and what that’s going to feel like. I think it’s that fear that holds us back, and it’s the genesis of the soul sickness.
Another thing I find challenging and hopeful in your book, Racial Justice and the Catholic Church, is the need for lamentation.
Yes, because I think lamentation is the response that happens when you realize how broken the world is and all you can do is grieve and rage. The inspiration for that came from something I remember reading about Apartheid South Africa. During Apartheid South Africa one of the few times that blacks and whites could be together on a quasi-integrated basis was at funerals.
Especially for… what happened at funerals for activists who were killed for protesting Apartheid brought whites and blacks together, and together they could mourn and they could grieve. And they became situations of mourning and grieving and protest not simply at the loss of life, but at the whole situation of injustice. And so you had people from both the socially advantaged, the racially advantaged, and the racially disadvantaged coming together. And what could unite them both was their common grief, their common lament. These protests, these funerals became catalysts for resistance because it gave people the visceral strength and energy to continue in a struggle despite the pain and despite the risks and despite the dangers. And it become ways for white South Africans to say that “I am not going to define myself the way my society has defined me. And I can grieve over the social injustice that make me more privileged than others and it gives me the energy, then to continue to protest and to work against that system.”
And so lament, again, is not something that’s rational or intellectual. It’s much deeper than that. It gives you the passion to continue to work for a justice that will take you into places that you can’t even imagine. It makes you realize, “this is not right. This is not right and I am not going to let my society define the limits of my convictions and my values and my faith.” And both groups can be brought together over a common lament and grief. Even though they are in different social situations and they are defined different racially, but this becomes the common space then. Where they can work together to change a system which is harming both of them. But harming them in different ways.
Do you see spaces for lamentation in the United States?
There haven’t been yet. You know, the closest analogue to this is what happened at Georgetown with the apology over Georgetown and the Jesuits’ complicity in the sale of 272 African men, women and children slaves. I remember being in my office at Fordham, and I watched the whole thing on livestream. In that moment, in that whole prayer experience, you had a model for lament that you had honest recognition and accounting and responsibility, you had the descendants of the enslaved community present, and you had a real acknowledgment that there was a real, not just injustice, but a real evil that was done.
And it was a ceremony that was not… it wasn’t an uplifting or joyful ceremony. It was at times painful, and yet it was also a tone of hope that this could be the basis for a new beginning. Not a pretty type package and now it’s over, but this is the basis for a new beginning. As I said, I sat in my office, and I was almost dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe I was hearing what I was hearing. I thought I would never hear a group of largely American, white men come to the insight of admitting that “we were wrong. We did great harm. We’re sorry, and we know that nothing we can do can undo that, but with you, the descendant community, we want to move forward. But we’re not going to tell you how that’s going to be done. We want to walk with you and learn from you how we do that.” That can be a tremendous model for what needs to happen not only in the Catholic Church and other places, but in our nation.
And my hope and prayer is that the Society of Jesus continues and becomes a real trailblazer in pointing the way for what genuine lament and further steps can be. That we can be a model then for not only what the Catholic community needs to do to really come to grips with this horrible evil of racism, but that we can also then be a model for the rest of society.
It is beautiful. So what I’m thinking is that. These are the things we’re doing. They’re not public policy things, but they’re the things that have to happen is we’re going to implement better the policies that we do have and we’re going to create better public policies and institutional practices. But we’ve got to be moved and have our hearts cracked open, and that’s what happened during that stations of the Cross service. And that’s what I think happened at Georgetown. It wasn’t perfect by any means. But it was certainly the most forthright effort that I’ve seen to date in the Catholic Church.
It’s clear, Father Massingale, you have a clear sense of mission and a vocation to this priestly life you live for justice.
I think, again, the narrative we can get trapped in is to think, “it can never change.” Or it’s going to be hopeless, or there’s no way out. And I don’t believe that. I believe that every generation has its own challenges, and so, our hope is to pass the baton on and have you guys do it. The fact that you’re doing this media thing, which I don’t always understand. I’m not on social media at all. But you’re using it, you’re creating this platform by which the message of Gospel can reach other people in different ways. And that gives me a great deal of hope. So thank you.
By Rebecca Ruiz
Growing up, our table was always filled with friend and stranger. While we lived far from our own families of origin, we were never at a loss for family because, through the sharing of meals, a beautiful and unique family arose. At that table, we prayed together, savored dishes from around the world, and learned about the ways in which holidays and holy days were celebrated in each person’s culture. People would often bring token [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.
In the 7th grade, my mom made me attend an etiquette dinner. The dinner was for professional students at Saint Louis University where Mom taught, but she took the opportunity to stick me in an ill-fitting sport coat and teach me some manners. (Depending on who you ask, it nominally paid off.) One of the biggest features of the dinner? Learning acceptable dinner conversation. “Never talk about religion and politics” was the principle maxim, though Mom also would get a bit annoyed when my sister and I made fart jokes.
So what can one talk about at dinner? What topics should feature and which should we steer away from? With Thanksgiving a few days away, these decisions are important. After all, we all know the way Uncle Mike reacts when we bring up [insert topic here].
In the United States, we have a mainstream political paradigm that decides what is acceptable table conversation. They are those words and phrases that can be widely used without creating conflict or facing repercussions. These small-talk conversations happen at all kinds of public events, like at Jesuit gatherings – we talk about weather rather than racism, about which of our home cities is more athletically gifted rather than gentrification.
In the United States, our shared acceptable vocabulary is built on words and phrases like middle class, unity, freedom, hearing both sides, and our way of life. I especially include the American Dream, support our troops, and patriotism.1
As a whole, this is the vocabulary that forms the conversations which are comfortable and do not push boundaries. They present the values that we are expected to uphold. Even in Eminem’s anti-Trump freestyle, he still managed to say he supports the troops. These words and phrases frame what one may discuss and support, especially in polite company.
But what about the Gospel? What if the Gospel message falls outside the limited framework of socially acceptable dinner conversation? What if the Gospel pushes the boundaries of comfort? In my mind, faith demands two things: rejecting conversation expectations that limits faith and being willing to enter dialogue.
Christ regularly dined and spent time with those well outside the socially acceptable crowd. In my mind, Christ is the awkward dinner guest who brings up healthcare disparities between women of color and white men; or in his own time, allowed an unclean woman to approach him while a wealthy citizen looked on. It is the duty of faith to reject restrictions on dialogue and engagement with the world.
This rejection of “acceptable” conversation can be incredibly difficult come Thanksgiving. I have friends – social workers, academics researching health care disparities by race, teachers in low-income schools, and nurses in high-violence neighborhoods – who every holiday feel like they have to hide their true lives and vocations because they do not make for comfortable dinner conversations.
When people do ask, these friends have to describe why they live committed to the poor, why they love the people they do. They have to explain why they’re attentive to systematic economic injustice or structural racism. Yet the “polite” conversation often doesn’t allow them to use their own vocabulary or experience. They have to stay within a mainstream paradigm. They are restrained or limited in what they can say.
Perhaps the more difficult side of this coin is creating dialogue. Let’s recall that Jesus took time to discuss with the wealthy man why he showed such great love to the unclean woman. I would find great exhilaration in mounting my soapbox and proclaiming why I reject these limits on hot-button topics and why I am righteous in my point of view. Yet this attitude will by no means change hearts, including my own. Doing so will simply solidify others and myself in hardness of heart.
Dialogue cannot happen with a hardened heart. Even more than speaking, dialogue requires listening. As a privileged white male, I must be wary of speaking on behalf of those who face oppression. It must rather start with listening: to those who have shared their stories of racism, of accompanying students who face incredible odds, and supporting friends facing harassment. When I speak, it is best to speak of my own experiences of love, grace, and mercy.
One of my former Jesuit superiors emphasized the importance of “I”-language. This meant using phrases like “I think…”, “I feel…”, “I sense…”, “I hear…”, etc. instead of over-generalizing (“it was wrong of you…”) or asserting my interpretation on someone else’s words (“you said…”). It takes great practice, but has paid dividends in my life. Doing so has pushed me more fully into the conversation, as well as made space for others to join in. It has made me a more intentional speaker; more importantly, it has made me a better listener.
Predetermined conversations limit us to standardized experiences and vocabulary. “I”-language allows others to speak outside that standardized experience. Along with active listening, it is vital to dialogue and breaking down otherwise forbidden conversation walls.
This Thanksgiving, there will be wonderful meals and excellent conversations. Some of these conversations might push the limits of what is socially acceptable. The predetermined subjects of football and weather will only take us so far. Moreover, these conversations can easily exclude the Gospel or prevent the opportunity to reflect critically on the realities we encounter in our life and work. To truly be a people of faith, we must be willing to enter into those uncomfortable and socially-unacceptable conversations, and what better time than Thanksgiving. We must be willing to dialogue, that is: to listen to others and approach them with an open and loving heart.
May your Thanksgiving be full of politely political dialogue that breaches your comfort zone, yet welcomes all to the banquet.
Image courtesy FlickrCC user Tim Sackton.
The greatest risk is to not risk anything. For this week’s (extremely) brief One-Minute Homily, Fr. Michael Rossmann, SJ, reflects on the fear of the Lord and the danger of not taking risks. Based on the readings for Sunday, November 19, which you can read here: http://bit.ly/2zLesGr
By Marina McCoy
The Ignatian Suscipe begins with the words, “Take, Lord, and receive…” This prayer then goes on to offer oneself to God. The Suscipe is a prayer of surrender. We might think about what we are doing on our end when surrendering (or resisting surrender): what parts of our lives we give to God or hold back; what aspects of ourselves we disclose or hide (perhaps even from ourselves); and whether we are free around matters [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.
One murder. One detective. Twelve suspects. Twelve different possible motives… But could there also be mercy and human brokenness lying beneath this mystery?
The movie opens with our Belgian detective Hercule Poirot solving a murder in Jerusalem relying upon a single clue. The obsessive genius of the man catches each detail—each detail of every moment. That compulsion to see the world as if it could be perfect, drives the man into correcting the angles of ties, measuring the size of his breakfast eggs, and even sleeping with a mustache guard to maintain the comical wisps and swoops.
Yet, his vision offers the audience insight and even a challenge. Soon after departing from Jerusalem, he boards the train from Istanbul to Paris—a train ride which leads to the inevitable murder mystery offering insights into 12 different people’s brokenness.
“I see evil on this train… A passenger has died. He was murdered. The murderer is on the train with us now, and every one of you is a suspect. So, let us catch a killer.”
Poirot’s investigation into evil backfires. Before his untimely death, Ratchett sits with Poirot in order to discuss some business. In their interchange, Poirot asks, “And, you are innocent?” Ratchett chuckles, “You’re fun.”
Shortly after, Ratchett dies and the investigation begins. The only problem is that as the investigation takes us into the life of the murdered, his death becomes appealing. As we learn about him, he grows more and more detestable—a wake of destruction, abuse, and deceit emanate from his life.
At the same time, the suspects grow more and more sympathetic. One drinks to numb the pain of failure. Another lies about her romantic relationship, because she fears prejudice. One mourns the loss of loved ones. One hides from her fears in a bottle of barbiturates. These 12 suspects may not be innocent, but they certainly are wounded.
But then, does that make Murder on the Orient Express a movie which advocates for a sort of karma-like justice? Does it assume that you get what you deserve, or that the murdered had it coming?
No—which is perhaps one of the most peculiar tensions within the movie. As detective Poirot searches through clues, interviews the suspects, and deduces the linkages between the murdered and each passenger, he is driven by the fundamental belief that murder results in a “fracture of the soul.”
Poirot adheres to a personal philosophy which views the world in black and white: the perfect world and the world which has fallen. For Poirot, there are those who are good and those who broken and evil—fractured shells of humankind. Murder remains unacceptable, despite the slowly growing list of reasons why the murdered may in fact have deserved such a gruesome fate. Yet the more he investigates, the more Poirot sees that it is not simply the murderer who is fractured by the violence, but it is also the victims and all those affected by the loss.
Poirot’s particular attention to each detail and person leads him and the audience to a tense realization: Maybe we are not to be the judges? Maybe, we are called to mercy for those who are broken—no matter their faults or sins.
Maybe, The Murder on the Orient Express isn’t about a murder at all. Maybe, the mystery in which are meant to dwell is in fact the mystery of mercy, accepting the brokenness and woundedness of others.
Knowing that with mercy and love, they may one day find healing… And, despite the sins of their past, they might move onto a new track and a new life.
The cover photo is featured courtesy of CNS/Fox.
For English, click here.
Imagina esta escena:
Es medianoche en la residencia jesuita de un campus universitario. Está oscuro afuera, y todo es tranquilo. La universidad se encuentra en el casco urbano de una metrópolis grande que se duerme a esta hora. Del mismo modo, los seis residentes jesuitas están profundamente dormidos.
La comunidad, al igual que en otras comunidades universitarias jesuitas, cuenta entre ellos con el rector y el vicerrector de la universidad, algunos profesores y otras personas que trabajan en proyectos sociales de la universidad. En una casita al lado duermen una empleada de la comunidad y su hija visitante.
Es una escena familiar, reconocible a cualquier ex-alumno de una universidad jesuita.
De repente, el sonido de puños tocando la puerta rompe el silencio de la medianoche. Siguen gritos, y cinco de los seis jesuitas emergen de la puerta de atrás, aturdidos y vestido con batas de dormir. Hombres armados les ordenan que se acuesten boca abajo en la grama.
Se da la orden. Cada uno recibe un disparo en su cabeza.
Asustado por el ruido, el miembro mayor de la comunidad emerge de la puerta, pero ve la carnicería y regresa adentro. Avanza sólo unos pocos pasos antes de que los soldados lo confronten, le apunten y disparen.
En la casita contigua a la comunidad jesuita, otro soldado vigila a la cocinera de la comunidad y su hija. “No dejen testigos” fue la orden. Él les dispara a las dos.
Así resultó ser que en horas de la madrugada del 16 de noviembre de 1989 en la Universidad Centroamericana (UCA) en la ciudad de San Salvador, soldados salvadoreños entrenados en los EEUU masacraron a este grupo de ocho personas y los agregaron a la lista de más de 75,000 víctimas de una guerra civil que duró más de doce años.
Recordemos los nombres de los seis jesuitas que fueron asesinados, además de la cocinera y su hija.
- Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J.
- Ignacio Martín-Baro, S.J.
- Segundo Montes, S.J.
- Amando López, S.J.
- Joaquin López y López, S.J.
- Juan Ramón Moreno, S.J.
- Elba Ramos
- Celina Ramos
Al conmemorar hoy el aniversario de este trágico evento, ¿qué lecciones podemos aprender de estos mártires modernos?
- El Evangelio es peligroso: hoy tanto como siempre.
Es una tentación pensar en el martirio como un remanente de otra época. Evocamos imágenes de cristianos ofrecidos a los leones en la antigua Roma o misioneros europeos asesinados por indígenas, preocupados estos últimos tanto por la política como por la fe de los extranjeros.
Sin embargo, los cristianos continúan siendo perseguidos y asesinados por su fe. Los mártires de la UCA muestran una evidencia clara de esto. Su muerte sigue siendo sentida por aquellos que los conocieron.
Un miembro de esta comunidad jesuita de la UCA, Jon Sobrino, viajaba para dar una presentación en una conferencia cuando sus compañeros jesuitas fueron asesinados. Evitó que le dispararan por una coincidencia en sus planes de viaje. Ahora en sus primeros años 80, el P. Sobrino sigue llevando el mensaje de sus compañeros jesuitas y habla en contra de la injusticia.
Además de los mártires de la UCA de El Salvador, tenemos varios otros ejemplos de los peligros de predicar el Evangelio en nuestro mundo de hoy:
- En septiembre, la Iglesia beatificó el primer mártir nacido en los EEUU, Stanley Rother, quien fue asesinado mientras trabajaba con mayas en un pueblo guatemalteco en 1981.
- En 2014, el P. Frans van der Lugt, sacerdote jesuita, fue asesinado a tiros por terroristas yihadistas en el jardín de un centro comunitario en Homs, Siria.
- En marzo de 2016, cuatro hermanas de las Misioneras de la Caridad (la orden religiosa fundada por la Madre Teresa) formaban parte de un grupo de 16 personas asesinadas por soldados del Estado Islámico de Irak y Siria en Aden, Yemen.
Sí, la persecución persiste. Estos ejemplos muestran cómo la misma naturaleza de ser cristiano profeso, en estos casos como religiosos consagrados o curas ordenados, puede ser causa suficiente para el asesinato.
Obviamente, no todos nosotros seremos mártires. Sin embargo, incluso para aquellos que viven más lejos de la violencia de los ejemplos anteriores, ser testigos proféticos del Evangelio puede ser una acción peligrosa. En sociedades cada vez más secularizadas, a menudo es impopular, si no francamente detestado, hablar con fuerte convicción religiosa. No tenemos que buscar más allá de los comentarios en línea de varios artículos religiosos.
Impulsados por nuestra fe, debemos continuar asumiendo la responsabilidad de predicar el Evangelio, sin importar lo peligroso que sea. Es poco probable que nos cueste la vida, pero ¿qué podría costarnos?
Oremos para que, a través del ejemplo de los mártires de la UCA, Dios nos dé el coraje que necesitamos para proclamar con valentía el Evangelio, aunque sea peligroso.
- Nuestra fe debe orientar nuestra vida y trabajo.
Nuestra fe no es algo que practicamos una vez a la semana los domingos por la mañana y luego la guardamos en secreto. Es algo que debería orientar nuestra vida cotidiana, nuestro trabajo, nuestras relaciones, incluso nuestra política.
Los mártires de la UCA son ejemplos inspiradores de la fe integrada en la actividad de la vida cotidiana, incluyendo el funcionamiento mismo de la universidad donde trabajaron.
El objetivo del ataque dirigido por el ejército estatal fue el P. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J., el rector jesuita de la universidad. Había hablado fuertemente sobre la defensa de los derechos de la mayoría pobre del país y contra la dictadura militar. El gobierno opresivo lo consideraba subversivo y una amenaza para su control. Pero el P. Ellacuría no pudo separar su fe de su trabajo como rector de la universidad. Su fe le exigió hablar en contra de la injusticia, proclamar el Evangelio y hacer que esto fuese central en la misión de la UCA.
El P. Ellacuría lo dice mejor en sus propias palabras, durante el discurso de graduación en la Universidad de Santa Clara en 1982:
“Una universidad cristiana tiene que tener en cuenta la preferencia del evangelio por el pobre…la universidad debe estar presente intelectualmente donde más se necesita: para proveer la ciencia a los que no tienen la ciencia; para proveer habilidades a los trabajadores a aquellos que no tienen habilidades; para ser una voz para aquellos sin voces; para dar apoyo intelectual a aquellos que no poseen las calificaciones académicas para legitimar sus derechos. Hemos intentado hacer esto.”
El P. Ellacuría sabía los riesgos que entrañaba proclamar el Evangelio. Haciendo referencia al Arzobispo Oscar Romero, quien fue asesinado en El Salvador en 1980 mientras celebraba la Misa, el P. Ellacuría reflexiona, “En un mundo donde reina la injusticia, una universidad que lucha por la justicia necesariamente debe ser perseguida.”
Él experimentó la plenitud de esa persecución con su propio martirio.
En vez de encerrar nuestra fe como un “asunto privado,” debemos permitir que nuestra fe informe nuestra vida pública y las decisiones diarias que tomamos. Debemos preguntarnos: “¿Cómo es que lo que hago todos los días nace de mi relación con Dios?”
Oremos para que, inspirados por los mártires de la UCA, podamos poner en el centro de nuestras vidas a Dios y permitir que eso oriente nuestra vida y nuestro trabajo.
Han pasado casi tres décadas desde su asesinato, pero el legado de los mártires sigue vivo. Inmediatamente después del asesinato, varios jesuitas de otros países se ofrecieron como voluntarios para venir a El Salvador para mantener la UCA en funcionamiento y garantizar que la muerte de los mártires no acabaría el valioso trabajo en la universidad. El día de hoy, la UCA sigue siendo una de las universidades más reconocidas de Centroamérica.
Cada año, miles de personas se reúnen en El Salvador para la vigilia que conmemora la vida y el testimonio de los mártires de la UCA. En los EEUU, la Red Ignaciana de Solidaridad organiza el Encuentro de Familia Ignaciana para la Justicia cada mes de noviembre para unir a las personas para reflexionar sobre cuestiones de justicia y fe, y también abogar por un cambio de política con sus congresistas.
Las balas disparadas por el ejército salvadoreño se robaron la vida de los ocho mártires. Pero su legado sigue vivo. Continuamos su misión cuando predicamos el Evangelio, sabiendo su peligro. Continuamos su misión cuando integramos nuestra fe en nuestra vida y trabajo, poniendo en el centro a Dios.
Al aprender estas lecciones y ponerlas en práctica, seguimos manteniendo a los mártires de la UCA vivos y presentes.
Mártires de la UCA, rueguen por nosotros.
Haga clic aquí para español.
Imagine this scene:
It is the middle of the night at the Jesuit residence on a university campus. It’s dark outside, and all is quiet. The university is located in the heart of an urban metropolis which is fast asleep at this hour. Likewise, the six resident Jesuits are peacefully at rest.
The community, like many university communities of Jesuits, counts among them the rector and vice-rector of the university, a couple of professors, and others who work in social programs at the university. In a small house next door sleeps a university employee and her visiting daughter.
It’s a familiar scene, recognizable to any alumnus of a Jesuit university.
Suddenly, the sound of fists pounding on the doors of the residence pierces the midnight silence. Shouting ensues, and five of the six Jesuits emerge from the back door, groggy-eyed and clothed in nightgowns. Armed men command them to lay face down in the grass.
An order is given. Each one is shot in the back of the head.
Startled by the noises, the oldest member of the community emerges from the doorway, but he sees the carnage and turns back inside. He makes it only a few steps before soldiers confront him, take aim, and fire.
At the cottage next door to the Jesuit community, another soldier is standing guard over the community cook and her daughter. “Leave no witnesses” was the directive. He shoots them both.
So it came to be that in the early morning hours of November 16th, 1989 at the University of Central America (UCA) in the city of San Salvador, American-trained Salvadoran soldiers massacred this group of eight, adding them to the list of over 75,000 victims of a civil war that raged for over twelve years.
Let us remember the names of all six Jesuits who were killed, plus the cook and her daughter.
- Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J.
- Ignacio Martín-Baro, S.J.
- Segundo Montes, S.J.
- Amando López, S.J.
- Joaquin López y López, S.J.
- Juan Ramón Moreno, S.J.
- Elba Ramos
- Celina Ramos
As we commemorate the anniversary of this tragic event today, what lessons can we learn from these modern day martyrs?
- The Gospel is dangerous: now as much as ever.
It is tempting to think of martyrdom as a remnant of an earlier age. We conjure up images of Christians being fed to lions in ancient Rome or European missionaries killed by indigenous populations, wary of the newcomers as much for their politics as for their faith.
Yet Christians continue to be persecuted and outright killed for their faith. The UCA martyrs show clear evidence of this. Their loss continues to be felt by those who knew them.
One member of that Jesuit community at the UCA, Jon Sobrino, was traveling to present at a conference when his fellow Jesuits were murdered. He avoided being shot in the head by a coincidence of his travel plans. Now in his early 80’s, Fr. Sobrino continues to carry the mantel of his Jesuit companions and speak against injustice.
Beyond the UCA martyrs of El Salvador, we have various other examples of the dangers of preaching the Gospel in our world today:
- In September, the Church beatified the first American-born martyr, Stanley Rother, who was killed working with Mayans in a Guatemalan village in 1981.
- In 2014, Fr. Frans van der Lugt, a Jesuit priest, was shot and killed by jihadist terrorists in the garden of a community center in Homs, Syria.
- In March of 2016, four Missionaries of Charity sisters (the religious order founded by Mother Theresa) were among a group of 16 people murdered by ISIS gunmen in Aden, Yemen.
Yes, persecution persists. These examples show how the very nature of being a professed Christian, in these cases as vowed religious or ordained clergy, can be sufficient cause for assassination.
Of course, not of all of us will be martyrs. Nonetheless, even for those who live farther from the outright violence of the above examples, being prophetic witnesses to the Gospel can still be a dangerous prospect. In increasingly secularized societies, it is often unpopular, if not downright detested, to speak with strong religious conviction. Look no further than the comments sections of many religious articles.
Compelled by our faith, we must continue to take up the charge to preach the Gospel, however dangerous that might be. It is unlikely to cost us our lives, but what might it cost us?
Let us pray that through the example of the UCA martyrs, God might give us the courage we need to boldly proclaim the Gospel, dangerous though it is.
- Our faith should inform our life and work.
Our faith is not something we wear once a week on Sunday mornings and put back in the closet afterwards. It is something that should inform our daily life, our work, our relationships, even our politics.
The UCA martyrs are inspirational examples of integrating faith into the activity of everyday life, including the very functioning of the university where they worked.
The target of the state military-led attack was Fr. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J., the Jesuit rector of the University. He had been outspoken on defending the rights of poor majority of the country and criticizing the military dictatorship. The oppressive government viewed him as subversive and a threat to their control. But Fr. Ellacuría could not separate his faith from his work as university rector. His faith compelled him to speak out against injustice, proclaim the Gospel, and make this central to the mission of the UCA.
Fr. Ellacuría says it best in his own words, given during the commencement address at Santa Clara University in 1982:
“A Christian university must take into account the gospel preference for the poor…the university should be present intellectually where it is needed: to provide science for those without science; to provide skills for those without skills; to be a voice for those without voices; to give intellectual support for those who do not possess the academic qualifications to make their rights legitimate. We have attempted to do this.”
Fr. Ellacuría knew the risks that came with proclaiming the Gospel. Referencing Archbishop Oscar Romero, who was assassinated in El Salvador in 1980 while celebrating Mass, Fr. Ellacuría reflects, “In a world where injustice reigns, a university that fights for justice must necessarily be persecuted.”
He experienced the fullness of that persecution with his own martyrdom.
Instead of boxing up our faith as a “private matter,” we must allow our faith to inform our public life and the daily decisions that we make. We must ask ourselves, “How is what I do every day born out of my relationship with God?”
Let us pray that, inspired by the UCA martyrs, we might place God at the center of our lives and allow that to inform our life and work.
Nearly three decades have passed since their assassination, but the legacy of the martyrs lives on. In the immediate aftermath of the assassination, Jesuits from around the world volunteered to come to El Salvador to keep the UCA running and ensure that the martyrs death would not put a stop to the valuable work of the university. To this day, it continues to be one of the strongest universities in Central America.
Every year, thousands of people gather in El Salvador for the vigil ceremony that commemorates the life and witness of the UCA martyrs. In the US, the Ignatian Solidarity Network hosts the Ignatian Family Teach-In for Justice every November to bring people together to reflect on issues of justice and faith, as well as advocate for policy change with their members of Congress.
The bullets fired from the Salvadoran military took the lives of eight martyrs. But their legacy lives on. We carry on their mission when we preach the Gospel, knowing how dangerous it is. We carry on their mission when we integrate our faith into our life and works, placing God at the center.
In learning these lessons and putting them into practice, we continue to keep the UCA martyrs alive and present.
Martyrs of the UCA, pray for us.
By Jim Manney
A friend of mine was stuck in traffic in New York City late on a summer Friday afternoon. He was really stuck—sitting in his car on a narrow east-west cross street in Manhattan, going nowhere. He grew impatient, then angry. After a while, he started to think about how pitiful his life was. His friends were smarter, wealthier, happier than he was. He hadn’t accomplished anything significant. He was stuck in life, just as he was stuck in traffic. [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.
This past weekend Bill McCormick, SJ, sat down with Father Bryan Massingale, professor of theology at Fordham University and priest of the Archdiocese of Milwaukee, at the 20th Ignatian Family Teach-In for Justice, where he gave a soaring keynote address on race and America.
Father Massingale, is this your first teach-in?
It is my first teach-in. It’s been fantastic… The energy, the commitment, and the insight of the young people has been truly edifying. It gives me a shot in the arm. It’s been a very hopeful experience.
It’s like a pep rally for faith and justice. That’s an amazing experience. It really is, and that the students were listening intently, I noticed during the keynote. Many of them had traveled during the day to be here, but yet they wanted to be there and they were extremely attentive. It was really awesome to be a part of that experience and to grow from their excitement and their enthusiasm and their commitment. This is one of the most hopeful events in the Catholic church.
I think that there’s a narrative in the Catholic church right now that because of the shrinking number of religious and we’re closing parishes… Basically, we’re in an institutional narrative of consolidation. You can get depressed when you think we’re in a contraction mode. But when you’re in an atmosphere like this, you realize there is a vitality and enthusiasm, which transcends the kind of institutional narrative contraction. You see there are people who are really on fire and who really want to make a difference and make a difference because of what they’re learning in Ignatian institutions. That’s a very hopeful thing to be a part of.
That’s very hopeful and it’s a little surprising because the narrative about so many young Catholics today, particular millennials in general, is that they’re not interested in religion and they’re nones. Maybe they’re spiritually, but they’re certainly not religious.
I think part of it is that we haven’t found a way to make traditional language of faith compelling to them or show them how it illumines their own life experience. I think part of our problem is to find ways to show how language like the common good or solidarity with the poor, or even the communion of saints, how that makes sense out of their life experience. One of the images I used in my talk yesterday was the image of a relay race. That we’re in this relay race for justice, that I will probably never get across the finish line but that’s not my role in the race. My role in the race is to run my leg of it and to do what I can so I can pass the baton to those who will come after me.
It’s not up to me necessarily to cross the finish line, but if I don’t run my race as well as I can, then those who come after me can’t do what they need to do. Something that people can really bear mind to.
I think the challenge for us going forward is to have a more intentional dialogue with the human experience of the millennials or however we want to call that, call that generation, and our faith, and to show how they can mutually inform each other. I think part of our problem is that we’ve not presented our faith in ways that are compelling enough. We present it more of an abstract doctrines rather than it’s living ideas that have a real impact in people’s lives.
Do you see a special role, since this is the Ignatian family, for Ignatian spirituality and its distinctive lexicon in the project to make faith more compelling?
I’m trying to wean people away from cura personalis and being “men for others.” I still believe in them deeply. But I think they’ve become kind of shock-worn. They’ve become almost too familiar.
Whereas magis, I mean, first it’s in Latin, so of course it’s going to be a little more mysterious. But the magis is that, from how I understand it, it’s that inner longing, that restlessness for that which is always out of our reach, but that which beckons us and allures us, and entices us to reach beyond where we are now.
It’s that inner dynamism of spirit that leaves us dissatisfied with the way things are and always calls us forward into the deep. Into the beyond. Into the realm of mystery that we never stop understanding. That we can never fully comprehend. And when we talk like that, students don’t always get what you’re talking about, but because they can’t get what you’re talking about they’re fascinated and want to know more. Because I think that there’s an inner hunger for more. There’s an inner hunger that the way the world is right now is not the way it ought to be and as I quote Albert Einstein last night; if we’re going to change our society, we have to change the way we think. We have to change the way we live. We need more than just a new strategic plan.
It’s probably the most subversive concept in the Jesuit lexicon because you can never fully put your arms around it because it’s always going to take you to someplace new. Someplace different. Because it’s going to demand that your heart becomes broken so you’re open to that which is beyond you.
The magis to me is what the Ignatian 30 day retreat is all about. And I think especially when we’re looking at issues of racial justice or ecological justice. We’ve got to be drawn beyond where we are. And that’s where I think the Magis, the more we can think more about that term… I’ll just say it’s full of pregnant possibilities that we haven’t begun to fathom yet.
This is one of the most moving descriptions of the Magis I’ve heard.
The great joy of my ministry as a professor of theology at Fordham is to try to create within students those who will do what I’m doing and more. I don’t want them to do what I’m doing. I want them to be equipped to do what they’re going to do. And hopefully they’ll build on what I’m doing and take what I’m doing in directions I can’t even imagine. That’s the Magis.
I think unless we become more intentional about recapturing the inner dynamism of that word it can become denigrated to be a synonym for the American understanding of Magis, which means, “bigger, better, and improved.”
Stay tuned for Part II of TJP‘s interview with Fr Massingale!
Everyone wants to be “woke.” We fight over who is more self-aware, who sees more of what’s wrong with the world, and how we contribute to injustice. We hope awareness will lead to change. But what if a self-aware person is still a bad person?
A few days ago, BuzzFeed ran an article on the Louis CK piece that was originally titled “Louis C.K. Was Supposed To Be One of the Good Guys,” where the author expressed shock and disappointment at C.K., who has been accused by five women of doing unwanted sexual acts in front of them.
While C.K.’s comedy routines have often been vulgar and transgressive, the author (and others) assumed that his ideals would keep him from evil. “C.K. was supposed to be one of the good ones. He was self-aware, routinely talking about how easy it is for men to indulge (or at least fantasize about) their worst instincts around women.”
He had feminist opinions and helped female comics advance their own careers. Surely such a man who thought the right things and knew how the truth applied to him would be immune to such depravity, right? Right?
All of us are broken in some way. We have seen so many pieces in the news and on social media of sexual harassment and violence that it is hard not to know someone who is implicated. Even people who seem to have all the right opinions can do all the wrong things. That is when it hurts the most.
Perhaps if there is one thing we take from the wildfire of scandals that have been brought to light recently, it is that no one is immune. In the #MeToo campaign on social media, many women (and a fair number of men) came forward as victims of sexual harassment. The perpetrators were all sorts of people—no set of professed beliefs made a person good or immune to temptation. People who knew what was right still chose what was wrong.
There is no such thing as being too smart to do bad. There is no set of ideals we can believe in that will make us to be good. We cannot firmly resolve with the help of our intellects or our woke-ness to sin no more. It just isn’t enough. We need a firm resolution of action.
C.K. has now publicly confessed, which is commendable. But he (and we) still need to move forward–to sin no more. We look at what has happened, and we see the brokenness that everybody has. We see love and sorrow–the desire to do good while living with the choices to do bad. And we see hope for the future. C.K. wants a better future, so does BuzzFeed, so do the rest of us. But we need a way to get there. After the confession, we need contrition to have growth.
This is why I love the Act of Contrition. It is a prayer of growth. And it is an amazingly human prayer. A human combination of love, sorrow, and hope for the future that finishes by asking for help. Asking for the help of God’s grace to sin no more and avoid the near occasion of sin. Because we are talented at sin. We are virtuosos at being broken.
Right opinions and good intentions won’t save us. We need something new—we need a bit of help. We need that prayer that is a mixture of love and sorrow and hope for the future, and most of all, that help from God’s grace. We need that Act of Contrition.
Image courtesy FlickrCC user David.
Got Coffee? What other fuel do we need to stay awake and be vigilant for Christ? Take a minute and check out this week’s (extremely brief) reflection with Brother Mark Mackey, SJ based on the Sunday Readings for November 12, 2017: http://bit.ly/2z21zaP
For years, readers have been asking Father Greg Boyle when he’ll write a sequel to his New York Times #1 Best Seller Tattoos on the Heart. Each time, he gave them the same answer: “Someday, when I have time.”
Somehow, between a full-time job at Homeboy Industries, masses at juvenile hall and camps, quinceañeras at Dolores Mission, and hundreds of speaking events all over the nation each year, Fr. Greg (or “G” as the homies affectionately call him), made the time. That book will be released this upcoming Tuesday, November 14.
Fr. Greg’s simultaneously hilarious and breathtaking voice can be heard on every page of Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship. What he offers in this book are stories that cause us to laugh, cry, pray, and, most importantly, invite us to build his vision of kinship – a community where there is no divisions, no “us” and “them,” but simply us. Through these stories, he has one aim in mind: a oneness and mutuality that holds together and preserves diversity:
It would see that God created an ‘otherness’ so that we could find our way in mutuality to kinship. Margins manufactured by God, perhaps, so that we’d dedicate our lives to their erasure. We are charged not with obliterating our diversity and difference but instead with heightening our connection to one another.
Our task, it seems, is to find ways to build connections that simultaneously celebrate our differences and create a sense of unity.
This continues to be a daunting task, one in which we might find ourselves worn down or weary. Certainly, Fr. Greg is no stranger to the long work of justice – work that he calls remaining faithful to God rather than to measures of short term success.
To get a sense of how Fr. Greg continues to build mutuality day after day, we asked him to respond to two questions:
Early in the book, you tell us that “we believe that God is inclined to decline our credit card… that God is not who we think God is.” Can you tell us a moment when you personally found this to be true in your own life, or watched your experience of God expand beyond your wildest dreams? To put it in other words, what was a time that you realized you are a diamond covered in dust?
Fr. Greg: The invitation is constant and everyday: to welcome in the tenderness of God in all its spaciousness and expansive mercy. The discovery, then, every day, is of the God we ACTUALLY have – and not the partial God we’ve settled for. God is in the tender glance. I see this every day in the homies who carry more than I’ve ever been asked to carry and yet they pull this off. When I had to lay off 300 workers during the financial meltdown, there was only tenderness from the homies… God’s own countenance.
You invite the reader not to be a savior, but to simply savor. Can you give us an example of something that you’ve savored in your life?
Fr. Greg: Our choice, constantly, is to save the world… or savor it. I vote for savoring. The trick of course is that we save by savoring. When we snap to attention and delight in the person in front of us, truly listen, and allow ourselves to be reached by the other, we all get saved. Then, finally, it’s not about me but about the one seated in front of me. The ego recedes and real kinship happens. One chooses to savor with kindness and everything looks differently.
Our egos often get in the way of the hard work of kinship, though. We find ourselves hurt by others, scared by difference, and cling to the false sense of security that comes with the known. What might happen if we took up the call to allow our egos to recede?
Take the example of Mario highlighted by Fr. Greg in Barking to the Choir. Mario is asked what advice he’d give to his son. When he says he doesn’t want his children to turn out like him, the woman who asked the question stands up again and tells him that she hoped his children would turn out like him:
“Why wouldn’t you want your children to turn out to be like you?” she said. “You are gentle, you are kind, you are loving, you are wise.” She steadied herself, planted herself firmly. “I hope your kids turn out to be like you.” There was not much of a pause before all one thousand attendees stood and began to clap. The ovation seemed to have no end. All Mario could do was hold his face in his hands, overwhelmed with emotion.
In a simple moment, Mario hears for the first time that he has become a wonderful man worth being proud of. He is able to experience and savor a moment of tenderness. What might happen if we do the same – if we allow ourselves the space to accept tenderness in and from others? Might we find the mutuality Fr. Greg is invited us towards?
From that simple moment of tenderness is the heart of Fr. Greg’s call to us. When we offer that same tender glance to others, we give from the blessings that we’ve been entrusted so that the ballroom of kinship Fr. Greg describes might be fuller, lovelier, and wilder than we could have ever dreamed possible.
Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship can be purchased online at the Homeboy Industries Store, major online retailers, and local bookstores. Visit the website of Homeboy Industries to learn more, make a contribution, or patronize one of the many Homeboy Enterprises.
Cover photo courtesy of Homeboy Industries.
One of the things I love most about being Catholic is the sheer volume of details—names, places, images, practices, etc.—that make up our Church. It would take multiple lifetimes to investigate the half of them. Every so often, I like to dig a little bit deeper into one of these details. It seems that no matter what I investigate, I always come away with my faith deepened and understanding expanded.
My most recent side-project has been looking into the history of the title of Mary: Mother of the Church. It’s a strange title for Mary for several reasons – although, really, which title for Mary is not strange? We’re dealing with supernatural mysteries here! It’s one of the most recently-awarded titles for her, only being proclaimed officially by Pope Paul VI in 1964. In Latin, the title is distinguished from another frequently-used Latin phrase by only one letter. “Mother of the Church” is Mater Ecclesiae, while “Mother Church” is Mater Ecclesia.
The image of the Church (rather than Mary) as mother was frequently employed by early Christian writers and artists. Perhaps the popularity of referring to the Church as mother led Bishop Sergio Méndez Arceo (Cuernavaca, México), during the debate over the title at Vatican II, to crack irreverently, “If the Church is our mother and Mary is the Mother of the Church, then Mary is our grandmother.”1
The origin of the official title goes back to the Second Vatican Council, where Mary was a contentious topic. During the second session of the council in 1963, the bishops voted 1,114-1,074 not to dedicate a separate document to Mary alone, but rather to include the theme of Mary in the constitution addressing the Church (what eventually became Lumen Gentium). With a difference of just 40 votes, this was by far the most contentious vote at the Council.
Nevertheless, a year later, while promulgating the completed Lumen Gentium (or, the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church), Pope Paul VI proclaimed Mary “Mother of the Church” in a discourse closing the third session. The pope thus made this title official, certainly to the delight of those on the losing side of the narrow vote, who generally supported expanding Mariological doctrine to its maximum extent.
Since Vatican II, elements celebrating Mary as Mother of the Church have been added to the Church’s life and practice. For instance, the votive Mass of Our Lady, Mother of the Church, was added to the Roman Missal after the Council.2 Pope St. John Paul II had a monastery built on the grounds of the Vatican and dedicated it to Mary under this title. (This monastery currently serves as the residence of Pope Benedict XVI.) He also added “Mother of the Church” to the Litany of Loreto, the great Marian prayer invoking her intercession under various titles.3
The way in which the Church invokes Mary under the title Mother of the Church can be our guide into exactly what mystery this title means to convey. We can start with the text of Lumen Gentium itself, which claims that Mary cooperates with her Son in “giving back supernatural life to souls. Wherefore she is our mother in the order of grace.” (LG 61) Clearly, a biological mother’s function is to give life to her offspring. Mary physically gave life to Jesus, but her motherhood toward us members of the Church is of course different. Her motherhood to us is of a spiritual kind: she increases the life of grace in us.
So what does that mean? How exactly does the life of grace increase in us? Insofar as we are conformed to Christ’s life, we grow in the life of grace. And which person participated in the mysteries of the life of Christ in a preeminent way? Mary, of course. It was she who carried Jesus in her womb. She stood by while He hung on the Cross. She was present in the Upper Room, praying with the first Christian community, awaiting the gift of the Holy Spirit for all believers (Acts 1:14). Finally, she was assumed body and soul into heaven in imitation of her Son. These four moments in Mary’s life exemplify her close participation in the mysteries of the life of her Son.4
What about the rest of us, though? Are we able to participate in Christ’s life? Thankfully, the answer is yes. Pope Paul VI explains in his Credo of the People of God, “the Lord Jesus forms His Church by means of the sacraments emanating from His plenitude. By these she makes her members participants in the Mystery of the Death and Resurrection of Christ, in the grace of the Holy Spirit who gives her life and movement.” For us Christians, the life of grace begins with the sacraments. Jesus left the them to the Church as the means by which we may participate in, and therefore conform ourselves to, His life.
Mary understood better than anyone the benefits of being united to the mysteries of Christ. Mary desires that all humans receive what she received, so she works through the Church to give Her Son to us.
It is not as Bishop Méndez Arceo claimed. Mary doesn’t give birth to the Church, which then gives birth to Christians (making Mary a “grandma”). The Church is Christ’s Mystical Body, and Mary is the mother of the members of this Body. In a sense, the Church can be called a mother, too, because she provides the sacraments for her members. But the sacraments are provided by the members of this Body themselves. Priests provide the Eucharist. Spouses provide marriages. Bishops provide priests. This line of reasoning led the Church to the recent realization that if the Church has the characteristics of a mother, insofar as she gives birth to new Christians, this characteristic is derivative from the motherhood of Mary. From this perspective, the title “Mother of the Church” is aptly bestowed on Mary.
Pope Paul VI declared his desires for the Christian people in the same 1964 discourse, “We trust then, that with the promulgation of the Constitution on the Church, sealed by the proclamation of Mary as Mother of the Church, that is to say of all the faithful and all the pastors, the Christian people may, with greater ardor, turn to the Holy Virgin and render to her the honor and devotion due to her.” I hope that this dive into the title of Mary, Mother of the Church, will deepen your own faith and that you might entrust yourself to her in a way that helps the life of grace grow within you.
Driving home recently, I couldn’t help but notice that God seemed intent on slowing me down—behind a bus first, then a delivery truck; then a traffic light turned red just as I approached. Far from a waste of time, delays like this signal that God is trying to get my attention. I smile interiorly, grateful for the chance to ponder God’s presence in the brief moments of stillness the detainment affords. Every tree and flower, [...]
IgnatianSpirituality.com ® is a service of Loyola Press, a Jesuit ministry.