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A Spirituality
for Jubilee Justice Dolores R. Leckey is a Senior Fellow at the Woodstock Theological Center, after 20 years as a director with the United States Catholic Conference of Bishops. She coordinates Woodstock's "Church Leadership Program" which is a week-long retreat of prayer, exchange of experience, and study to help church leaders develop a spirituality and the management skills to guide their communities in responding to the urgent needs of the contemporary world. An alumna of St. John's University, class of '54, she also holds a M.A. from George Washington University in Washington D.C., and she has been awarded eleven honorary doctorates, three of them the doctor of divinity. Mrs. Leckey is the author of numerous articles and books, a frequent columnist and has lectured widely throughout the United States, as well as in Europe, and Australia. She has advised the American Catholic bishops at two Roman Synods: 1980, the Synod on the Family, and 1987, the Synod on the Laity. Introduction My first contact with St. John's University occurred 49 years ago this month. I had not expected to attend this university; I was enrolled and ready for an adventure away at a small Catholic women's college. But then my mother died suddenly, and I was reluctant to leave my father alone, as much for my sake as for his. Sister Muriel Angela of The Mary Louis Academy (who could pull "rabbits out of hats") called her friend, the dean of University College, Fr. Jose Pando. I was admitted without an exam (and a whole lot of other things), and so began the first steps of what I have come to think of as "journey" or perhaps a pilgrimage, even. These first steps included finding my way from Queens to Brooklyn via the GG subway. University College, housed then on Schermerhorn Street, became a threshold to many other worlds, and Fr. Pando did much of the ushering across the threshold. My first impression of the Dean was intensity to the 29th power. He taught theology to all first year students, "the better to glimpse the students' minds," he said. Moreover, his implicit goal, which sometimes slipped into explicitness, was to enlarge the horizons of students like myself who lived in enclaves with somewhat limited expectations. During my years at St. John's, Fr. Pando introduced many of us to apostolic movements, including the Rural Life Movement-if you can picture that. He welcomed the Grail and the Catholic Worker and the thinking of contemporary theologians. He didn't just talk to us about these new movements; he led interested persons into the midst of them, all the while pleading with us not to dye our hair green for St. Patrick's Day. It was Fr. Pando who first urged me to think in some systematic way about the relational threads binding spirituality, the arts and the works of justice and mercy. He was, of course, urging all of us to construct a worldview at once centered and elastic. I've been pondering such things for many years now, and this evening I offer a few reflections about the spiritual life, the inner world, and its impact on the works of justice, convinced that cultivation of the inner world is essential if those who labor in the vineyard of good causes will survive the heat of the day. Themes prominent in this year of the Great Jubilee can provide a framework for our reflections. I've chosen three of these Jubilee themes: the practice of Sabbath rest, forgiveness and community. "You shall let the land lie fallow, that is the land shall have a complete rest. Keep a Sabbath for the Lord." -Leviticus 25 The source text for Jubilee is Leviticus 25 where we read, "You shall let the land lie fallow, that is the land shall have a complete rest. Keep a Sabbath for the Lord." I think it is very hard for activists to let the land of our lives lie fallow. We are a nation (and yes, a church) of planners, initiators, and implementers. We do programs and look for results. I know that from experience. In the early 60's in Arlington, Virginia, where I live and worship, segregation was a fact of life, and that fact included Catholic churches, not by edict but by custom and housing patterns. At the time my parish happened to be well rooted in the old Virginia tradition--resistant to change. I had the idea that maybe the Catholic Interracial Council could help us broaden our horizon. Fellow parishioners, however, told me to slow down; but being young, energetic and from New York, I was not ready to take that advice. Someone suggested I talk with Fr. David Ray, a Spiritan priest, who was pastor of a small mission church in south Arlington, in one of the clearly segregated neighborhoods. "He knows how to get things done," I was told. So one autumn night in 1965 I rang his doorbell, having called for an appointment. My knees were shaking. As I waited I promised myself that in the future I would stay home where I belonged. The door opened, and there stood the legend of Arlington, the man who was said to know everything about Catholics and civil rights. He was wearing a cassock and reading aloud from a book of Langston Hughes' poetry. He didn't greet me, or say anything really; he just kept reading poetry. Then he beckoned me to follow him. When the poetry reading was finished (for the moment) I hurriedly described my problem, and asked for guidance. What I expected was that he would suggest--perhaps even arrange--some kind of community organizing workshop. Instead, with perfect confidence, he said I must read and ponder the writings of Evelyn Underhill. I had no idea who this person was. Fr. Ray said she was a spiritual writer, English, Anglican laywoman--and he thought I needed to read her. Now in those days Catholics generally did what their priests suggested, so the next day I went to the library. And there she was: Evelyn Underhill, 4248 in the card catalogue. That began for me the most wonderful relationship, one that has lasted 36 years. I read everything I could find, now less difficult thanks to the work of Dr. Dana Greene whose splendid biography of Underhill, and whose efforts to edit and republish Underhill texts have made these works much more accessible. 1 What Father Ray gave me that night long ago was the best he had, what he knew and loved, what had shaped his own work for racial justice. He told me, in effect, that unless I was serious about soul-work, everything I was trying to do would be on shifting sand. It was years later before I understood why he read me those lines from Langston Hughes: "I've known rivers/ I've known rivers ancient as the world and/ older than the flow of human blood in human veins... My soul has grown deep like the rivers." He was telling me that I needed to grow a deep, deep soul. Fr. Ray was in fact, directing me to "let the land lie fallow." It was quite a while before I was able to see the discernible pattern in the lives of spiritually mature and wise men and women: namely an oscillation between letting the land lie fallow and the cultivation, planting and harvesting of creative ideas and bold initiatives, the oscillation between Sabbath and activity. Embedded in Sabbath time is the practice of solitude and silence. We all know how important listening is in pastoral ministry and leadership. But listening to the silence, which enfolds our lives, is a prior kind of listening which shapes all the other listening we do. Silence is a frequently overlooked element in the culture of contemporary ministry, yet it is often that which is needed most in areas of healing and most needed if the words of ministry sound authentic. Karl Rahner S.J., one of the most influential theologians of the twentieth century, has given a profoundly personal account of his own prayer in the atmosphere of silence. Unlike Centering Prayer, which is essentially wordless, Rahner's encounters with silence are more like pouring out his soul to God, much like the great figures of Hebrew Scriptures. He often laments his attachment to daily routine. "My soul is crammed full, from top to bottom with the trite, the common place, the insignificant, the routine... What will become of me, dear God, if my life goes on like this? How will I feel at the hour of my death? Then there will be no more 'daily routine'; then I shall suddenly be abandoned by all the things that now fill up my days here on earth." (The "then" he refers to, of course, is his own death.) It is reminiscent of TS Elliot's despairing line about lives measured out in coffee spoons. But Rahner is realist enough to know that becoming a hermit or undertaking some grand gesture will not solve his problem. He acknowledges to God, his silent God, that any path on which he can approach the Divine must lead right through "the very middle of my ordinary life." Upon deeper reflection, he finds his ordinary life is filled with love for all those who have enriched him: family, friends and colleagues. He feels them to be with him, especially those who have died. They are in the silence that surrounds God and him. He says to God about the departed ones, "Their silence is their loudest call to me because it is the echo of Your silence...Their voice and Yours strive to enwrap us all and all our words in Your eternal silence."2 More than half a century ago Max Picard held up the almost absolute importance of silence in a world filled with meaningless sounds and self-important speech. "We live between the word of silence from which we come (creation) and the world of the other silence to which we go (death)." To be in touch with reality, then, requires that we taste of silence. Picard is especially concerned about the 'noise of words,' that is those words which come from other words, and not from silence. They have none of the authenticity of a primary language.3 Silence is a frequently overlooked element in the culture of contemporary ministry, yet it is often that which is needed most in areas of healing and most needed if the words of ministry sound authentic. When terrorist bombs killed a large number of Israelis who happened to live in the same neighborhood of Jerusalem, news agencies reported that the grief was overwhelming. In response, one rabbi said, "There is nothing we can do but sit silently with families, like the friends of Job did long ago." In the prologue to the story of Job we read that his friends decided to visit him to comfort him for his many losses. But as they drew near to him they saw such misery that for seven days and seven nights they simply sat beside him on the ground, and the scriptures say, "None of them said a word to him." Sometimes only silence will do. Forgiveness is the second Jubilee theme for this evening's reflection. In the context of the Great Jubilee there are a number of facets to forgiveness, and a major one is the forgiveness of debts, which is being taken seriously. There is growing political and religious pressure for wealthy nations to forgive the debt of developing nations. Furthermore, some dioceses are forgiving parishes their debts, especially important in urban centers and some rural areas. And I know of families who are helping one another clear away indebtedness. There are other aspects of forgiveness that have far-reaching effects. A major project at the Woodstock Theological Center is the study of forgiveness in conflict resolution among warring nation states. A group of distinguished ethicists, theologians, diplomats and academics participated in a series of colloquia which explored the situations in Northern Ireland and Bosnia and the experience of the Truth Commissions in several nations: South Africa, El Salvador, and Chile. As with all Woodstock projects the methodology relied heavily on the spiritual insights of St. Ignatius Loyola and the transcendental imperatives of the 20th century Jesuit philosopher/theologian, Bernard Lonergan. A major finding of the project underscores the vital role that religious institutions can play in conflict resolution and the place of authentic community in the enactment. "True forgiveness is achieved in community," writes Hannah Arendt. "It is something people do for each other and with each other ... it is history working itself out as a grace, and it can be accomplished only in truth." 4 As Catholics we acknowledge in our liturgy the linkage between forgiveness and personal responsibility. One of the ancient prayers of our tradition, the Confiteor places us truthfully before God surely, but also before the gathered community. I confess to you, so close at hand, that I have wronged you. The psychological soundness of the prayer is evident in the small phrase, "through my fault." In the Confiteor we do not confess our unhappy childhood or our unfortunate personality quirks (or the personality quirks of others) but we take responsibility for our actions. The psychological soundness is also in the words, "I have sinned in thought, word and deed." Some moralists have tended to interpret the thought part in terms of sexuality, but it is so much more than that. How we think of one another influences our behavior. If we are reducing one another, in our minds, to people of small matter, of little consequence, then it is possible to deny the equality of the sexes, or races, or various states of life. If I think about you in stereotypes it is easier to rationalize my detraction or calumny (still sins according to the Catechism of the Catholic Church), or justify my anger toward you. How/what I think affects my language and my actions. Furthermore, the Confiteor says the sins occur in two ways: what we do and what we fail to do. The failure to act is highlighted at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D. C. There you will see an inscription that reads something like, "Evil happens when good people look the other way." And when enough of us look the other way, the needs of the voiceless in our society disappear from view, and cynicism and deception and drifting take over. The Church's resources, ancient and wise, can make a difference. The third Jubilee theme is community. Again, the text from Leviticus 25 gives us the focus. "It shall be a jubilee for you: You shall return, every one of you, to your property, and every one of you to your family." We might translate this as "going home." God is love, a sturdy kind of love, what the old spiritual writers called Charity--a love for the 21st century. In the work I do at Woodstock, authenticity in terms of community and leadership is central. We emphasize that leaders bear responsibility for nourishing community life and for continuity with the communities that have gone before, in other words, a deep, embracing communio. One way to do that, i.e., to acknowledge our heritage, is to ponder the Creed. The Creed begins not with our current plans, schedules, ambitions, worries, but begins with the fact of God, with what we as a community across time and cultures say we believe about God, about the truth of human existence, and in a personal way about our own mysterious lives, lives which become more mysterious and baffling with the passage of time. The poet, William Butler Yeats, seems to get it just right. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold," he writes. I look around my own life and see it is true. Friends are felled by cancer, a small child is diagnosed as autistic, the Afghan people under Taliban rule are reduced to a primitive state--and on and on. But with my faith-community I say that we believe in one God whose life pours out to every particle in the universe. In spite of appearances (that the center is not holding) the creed insists that God is love, a sturdy kind of love, what the old spiritual writers called Charity--a love for the 21st century. When we pause to consider this love, we cannot take the risk of despising anyone or anything. If we really believe in this love we cannot speak contemptuously of members of our church who differ in style or theology. How can we express belief in the Creative Love that makes all things visible and invisible and be dismissive of those who see the Light from Light in the smallest and largest forms of life, from embryos to rain forests? Both the environmentalists and the pro-life movement help us see the mysterious intimations of the Maker of all things, and they deserve our respect. At one point in the Creed the subject of glory comes up. We say that Jesus who died is glorified. It's absolutely central to the astonishing story recounted therein. And if we are part of the story now, and not just onlookers, we too know the glory, except it's not in the form we may once have imagined. The glory is in the ordinary rhythms of daily life. The risen Jesus shares meals with his friends, walks the beach, sits by the fire. When I am discouraged (because I think the center can't hold) a friend gives me a poem by Nazim Hikmet, a Turkish poet who was a political prisoner when he wrote this at age fifty, not knowing if he would ever be released. On Living 5 I
Living, is no laughing matter: II
Let's say we're seriously ill, need surgery-- III
This earth will grow cold, I read this and I see the glory. I see the glory in the loving family that cares for and educates the autistic child. I see the glory around Tom and his colleagues who devote their time and talents to try to make a difference in the shattered lives of the homeless. I see the glory in many of our Catholic bishops who work quietly and tirelessly for the rights and well-being of women in society and in the church. I see the glory in people like those gathered here this evening who will keep at the works of justice and mercy, who won't give up "for the world must be loved this much." Louise de Marillac models the art of collaboration. For her, collaboration meant learning to "live together in union and cordiality." We see the glory in our lives of commitment to community, and commitment to collaboration. One of the great stories of collaboration, of partnership, is that of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Louise de Marillac--a story well known to you, I'm sure. A brilliant administrator, Louise de Marillac models the art of collaboration. For her, collaboration meant learning to "live together in union and cordiality." Her collaborative approach created a bridge: between men and women, between the Church and government, between her workers and other charitable groups. I submit to you that in this new century these very same points of collaboration are crucial for society. We do well to study the woman for whom space in this University is named, for both inspiration and strategy. One final aspect of "going home" is to celebrate, to laugh, to remember, to lighten our spirits. And for that we need community. A sense of humor is essential for a balanced life. Did Jesus laugh? He must have laughed. We know he wept, and he surely must have laughed. There was a lot of funny stuff going on what with Zacchaeus perched in a tree; and people lowering their friend through the roof of the house where Jesus was teaching, so the friend could be healed. Imagine! And the wedding at Cana must have been hilarious after the really good wine appeared, and can't you see Jesus enjoying every minute? With every passing year I am more convinced that God dearly wants us to be happy, to enjoy being in the divine presence. I think God is telling us to lighten up. I have learned so much from my parish church, originally a mission church in the African-American community in Arlington, the church where I met Fr. Ray. There we are blessed with the legacy of spirituals, of clapping, of celebration. It is a deep spiritual joy. Several years ago I noticed a colleague at the United States Catholic Conference had changed. A layman noted for his executive drive, he usually had lunch at his desk, worked long hours, and did not suffer fools easily. Then he began to come regularly to the noon Mass; and he sang with enthusiasm. Overall he seemed a lot more relaxed. I asked him about the change. He told me he had been attending an African-American church in Washington with a renowned Gospel choir, and one Sunday he "got happy." It happened during a hymn. A woman hit a high note, ready to sustain it for all eternity it seemed, and it entered somewhere in his soul, he said. And now he's happy. In fact he got so happy he left the Catholic Conference and moved to Ireland. He's getting happier and happier, I'm told. Laughter, lightness of spirit, a sense of joy...are a means of making peace. The concept of play, a close kin of laughter, appears in Hebrew and Christian scriptures, in the writings of the patristic period, and in the works of the mystics and saints as a form of participation in the life of God. St. Teresa of Avila often urged her nuns to dance a sprightly dance. Jesus tells his followers that unless they become like little children they shall not enter the kingdom. Theologians have often interpreted that saying in the light of trust, i.e., children trust their parents and like them we must trust God. That's quite true, but that's not all that can be said about children. Children play, and when they do so, they are concentrated and absorbed. Their imagination is not attached to results. They are open and so all things are possible. Laughter, lightness of spirit, a sense of joy are not simply to make us feel better; they are a means of making peace. The great spiritual teacher of the peace movement, Thic Nhat Hanh-- a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, widely respected - insists that a smile is an act of peace. We see what is possible in some comments by Mr. Menachem Rosensaft at a ceremony a few years ago at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. Addressing the question of where was God during those horrible days, Mr. Rosensaft said: "God was with every Jew who told a story or a joke or sang a melody in a death camp barrack to alleviate a friend's agony, God was with them." At the beginning of this Jubilee Year it might be worthwhile to:
I see the glory in people...who will keep at the works of justice and mercy, who won't give up, for the world must be loved this much.
Notes 1.
See Dann Greene, Artist of the Infinite Life (New York: Crossroad, 1991),
now available from University of Notre Dame Press.
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Grateful
to the St. John's community for the opportunity to "come home,"
and convinced that cultivation of the inner world is essential if those
who labor in the vineyard of good causes will survive the difficulty of
their tasks, Dolores Leckey offers reflections about the spiritual life
and its impact on the works of justice. She encourages us-- to let some
aspect of our busy lives "lie fallow" so that the voice of God
may be heard; to acknowledge personal responsibility for our acts and
omissions and seek forgiveness; to renew a commitment to community, recognizing
that our missions on behalf of justice require collaboration of all kinds;
and finally to remember to laugh. She delivered this lecture at the Vincentian
Chair of Social Justice Convocation on January 27, 2000 as we began our
celebration of Jubilee Justice in the year of the great Jubilee and the
6th year of the Vincentian Center.
