The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything (32 page)

All Jesuits understand the goals of obedience. But there are times when, even with that understanding, it remains a challenge. Let me tell you two brief stories about that.

T
WO
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TORIES
A
BOUT
O
BEDIENCE

Strange as it may seem today, Robert Drinan, S.J., was for many years a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, serving a congressional district in Massachusetts. In the late 1960s his prayer and discernment led Drinan, at the time a law professor at Boston College, to conclude that entering political life would be the best way to effect lasting change in society, and he received the approval of his superiors to run for office. Drinan served until 1981 and became famous for being the first member of Congress to call for the impeachment of President Richard M. Nixon in 1973, in light of his actions during the Vietnam War.

But in time the Vatican decided that priests should not be involved in political life so directly. So Pedro Arrupe, the superior general of the Society of Jesus, being obedient to
his
superior—PopeJohn Paul II—ordered Drinan not to run for reelection in 1980. Drinan’s comments at a press conference were striking. Here is a Jesuit relinquishing his important work and—most important—trusting in the obedience that he had made at his first vows.

Afterward Bob became a popular law professor at Georgetown University and a distinguished author of many articles and books on international human rights, respected by those inside and outside religious circles. In later years, before his death in 2007, he was criticized for some of his writings on abortion. (And I disagreed with him on this myself.) Still, I always respected him as someone who showed what it meant to trust that God was at work even in painful decisions.

A few decades earlier, another prominent Jesuit, the theologian John Courtney Murray, confronted a similar order. A tall, erudite man who, one Jesuit said, “entered a room like an ocean liner,” Murray was a brilliant scholar who once appeared on the cover of
Time
magazine. But his renown did not prevent him from accepting a hard decision from his superiors.

In the 1950s, a group of talented theologians, including Murray, were “silenced” by Vatican officials and their own religious orders. Murray, a theology professor at the Jesuit’s Woodstock College in Maryland, had written extensively on the question of church and state, proposing that constitutionally protected religious freedom, that is, the freedom of individuals to worship as they pleased, was in accord with Catholic teaching. The Vatican disagreed, and in 1954, Murray’s superiors ordered him to cease writing on the topic. One Jesuit recalled seeing Murray quietly returning all the books on the topic to the library of Woodstock College.

A few years later, however, Francis Cardinal Spellman, the powerful archbishop of New York, saw to it that Murray was named an official
peritus,
or expert, at the Second Vatican Council. There the previously silenced Murray would serve as one of the architects for the Council’s “Declaration on Religious Freedom,” which drew on Murray’s earlier, banned work and clearly affirmed religious freedom as a right for all people. Toward the end of the Council, John Courtney Murray, along with other scholars who had been silenced, was invited to celebrate Mass with Pope Paul VI, as a public sign of his official “rehabilitation.” Murray died a few years later, in 1967.

Maybe you’re reading about those two Jesuits and thinking,
That’s ridiculous!
or
Why didn’t Drinan continue with his political career?
or
Why didn’t Murray write what he wanted to write?
Indeed, some Jesuits have decided that they cannot abide by their vows and have left to say or do what they feel they must.

What enabled men like Drinan and Murray to accept these decisions was the trust that God was somehow at work through their vow of obedience. Through their vows, offered freely to God, they believed God would work even if their superiors’ decisions seemed illogical or unfair or even foolish.

The stance is similar to the seriousness with which couples take their marriage vows during rocky times. Often in marriages, unhealthy, hurtful, or destructive situations must be confronted and changed. But through it all, the couple trusts that though their marriage is turbulent (or seemingly dead) and seems to make little earthly sense, their vows remain a sign of God’s covenant with them, a symbol of the sacredness of their commitment and a reason to trust that God will see them through. The vows are part of one’s relationship with God, and one trusts that God will fulfill his part of the deal.

The vow of obedience rarely leads to situations that are so painful. Most of the time the vow is easy, and most Jesuits begin their new missions with alacrity. And even in cases when they don’t agree with the wisdom of the decision at the moment, the wisdom is often appreciated in retrospect, sometimes many years later.

At one point in my formation, as I had mentioned, I fell in love. It happened in East Africa, not long before I was about to continue on to theology studies. At the time I had completed all the necessary paperwork and had been accepted into a graduate theology program, as my peers had been.

When I told my provincial, in a phone call, about how confusing it had been to fall in love and that it had briefly caused me to call into question my vocation, he decided that it would be better to delay my theology studies for another year.

It was a crushing disappointment. For one thing, my friends knew I had already been approved for theology studies. My provincial’s decision meant that I would have to admit the delay. Mostly, I worried, was this a sign that I was being asked to leave the Society? Had I failed the Jesuits?

It was the closest I ever came to leaving the Jesuits. Why stay if I can’t do what I want to do? Why stay in the face of embarrassment? Why stay if the Jesuits didn’t (seemingly) want me? This was how I falsely interpreted things: after all, the provincial had said not a word about my leaving.

Confused, I met with my spiritual director, a prayerful and kind-hearted Jesuit. George spent many years as a science teacher and late in life had rediscovered the Spiritual Exercises. At age seventy, he accepted a new assignment at the Jesuit retreat house in Nairobi, where I saw him for spiritual direction every month. He was an avuncular man with snow-white hair, a broad smile, and an affinity for royal blue cardigans. Simply being in his presence was a balm for my spirit. There were few people I respected more.

Or was more grateful for. Once, when I contracted mononucleosis and was too ill to leave my community, George drove an hour from his retreat house to give me spiritual direction at my home. “I’m making a house call!” he said cheerfully. We spent the afternoon sitting under a palm tree in the backyard of the Jesuit community.

After I spoke to my provincial, I had a worry more serious than mononucleosis: my future as a Jesuit. The next day I drove from the retreat house and told George the bad news. How could I accept the provincial’s ridiculous decision? What would I tell my friends and family, and especially my Jesuit friends, all of whom knew I was ready to begin theology studies? Was it a sign to leave the Jesuits?

George patiently led me through all the good things that had happened during my time in Kenya. The Jesuit Refugee Service had helped scores of refugees start their own businesses—we had sponsored woodcarvers, painters, basket makers, and dairy farmers; the refugees had set up tailoring shops, bakeries, carpentry shops, even a few Ethiopian restaurants and a chicken farm. After a year we opened up a small shop to market some of the refugee handicrafts. In the first few months the shop had made $50,000 for the refugees. Over the previous two years I had made many friends among the refugees and had given and received so much love. And my prayer as a Jesuit had been rich and satisfying in Kenya. George even reminded me of that consoling spiritual experience on the little hillside, on the way home from work, and of feeling I was in the right place.

“How can you doubt your vocation after this?” said George.

But I was adamant. The provincial’s decision was a sign that I should leave the Jesuits. Looking back, it seems clear that I was rapidly moving away from God and into despair, leaping from a delay in my training to leaving the Jesuits completely. The “enemy,” as Ignatius said, was at work—working on my pride and quickly moving me to despair and a rash decision.

“Jim,” said George, “how do you see your Jesuit formation?”

I didn’t understand him at all. Then he said something that changed my idea of the spiritual life.

“Is this just a series of hoops to jump through?” he asked. “Is it a ladder that you are climbing to get ahead?” He paused.

“Or is this how God is forming you?”

Embarrassed, I admitted that I had seen my formation as a series of hoops to jump through in order to reach the big goal: ordination. I still saw it more like work (where the goal was a promotion) or school (graduation). But maybe something bigger was going on. Maybe I really was being “formed” by God.

With George’s help I recognized something: the joy I experienced as a Jesuit for the previous two years had been real; I was called to be a Jesuit in the midst of all of that, and so I was also called to accept the provincial’s decision. God’s hand, so hard for me to see, must be at work. So I decided to stay.

After a few more conversations, the provincial assigned me for one year to a new task: to work at
America
magazine.

The provincial’s “bad” decision led me to my writing career. If it hadn’t been for his decision, which I vehemently opposed, you wouldn’t be reading this book. In retrospect, I can see how different my life would have been had I not been faithful to my vow of obedience.

Years later, I saw the former provincial at a Christmas gathering of Jesuits. By this point we were friends. But I had never talked with him about that time in Kenya.

“You know,” I said, “you were right all those years ago.”

“About what?” he said.

“About delaying my theology studies,” I said. “Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t ready. I was too unsettled and confused, and I wouldn’t have been able to enter into theology studies or think about ordination. Plus that year at
America
really changed my life. So, in retrospect, you were right.”

I expected him to say that now, with the benefit of hindsight, he could finally see the wisdom of his choice. Instead he laughed.

“Jim,” he said good-naturedly, “I knew I was right even then!”

T
HE
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EALITY OF THE
S
ITUATION

So Jesuits make a vow of obedience. Big deal, right? You’re probably asking what this has to do with you. You’re most likely not in a religious order or planning to join one. You’re probably never going to “vow obedience” to anyone—unless it’s in a traditional marriage ceremony, which is a different kind of “obedience” anyway. You may think that those stories about Jesuit obedience are ridiculous. In short, you may still believe that obedience is “desirable in dogs but suspect in people.”

It may be hard to see how this aspect of Jesuit spirituality relates to your life. Poverty and chastity have more obvious applications: Poverty gives insights into the freedom of the simple life. Chastity offers perspectives on how to love freely and be a good friend. But what about obedience?

Well, obedience is something that everyone has to face in the spiritual life. Because whether you’re in a religious order or not, you’ll find yourself having to surrender to “God’s will” or “God’s desires” or just God. But not in the way that you might think.

Often when we think about God’s will, we think of trying to figure it all out. What is God’s will? What am I supposed to do? One of the themes of this book has been the Ignatian model of “discernment,” in which your desires help to reveal God’s desires for you. We look for signs of those desires in our lives.

But there is a danger: We might overlook the fact that God’s “plan” often doesn’t need much figuring out or discernment.

Sometimes it’s right in front of us. And that’s what one of my Jesuit heroes realized in a labor camp in the Soviet Union.

At the beginning of the book, I mentioned the story of Walter Ciszek, the American-born Jesuit priest who had been sent by his superiors to work in Poland in the late 1930s. (Speaking of obedience, he had volunteered.) Originally hoping to work in the Soviet Union itself, Ciszek found it impossible to gain entrance and ended up in an Oriental Rite church in Albertin, Poland. When the German army took Warsaw in 1939, and the Soviet army overran eastern Poland and Albertin, Ciszek fled with other Polish refugees into the Soviet Union, hoping to serve there (in disguise) as a priest.

In June 1941, Ciszek was arrested by the Soviet secret police as a suspected spy. He spent five years in Moscow’s infamous Lubianka prison and then was sentenced to fifteen years of hard labor in Siberia. In addition to his forced labor, he served as priest to his fellow prisoners, risking his life to offer counseling, hear confessions, and— most perilously—celebrate Mass.

Ciszek wouldn’t return to the United States until 1963. By then many Jesuits assumed he was long dead. And why wouldn’t they? The Society of Jesus sent out an official death notice in 1947. But toward the end of his captivity, Ciszek was suddenly and surprisingly permitted to write letters home. Only then did family and friends learn of his “rebirth.”

After a complicated diplomatic exchange was worked out with the help of President John F. Kennedy, he returned to the United States on October 12, 1963, coming directly to the Jesuit community of
America
magazine in New York. Thurston Davis, S.J., the editor-in-chief at the time, wrote in the next week’s issue, “In his green raincoat, grey suit and big-brimmed Russian hat he looked like the movie version of a stocky little Soviet member of an agricultural mission.”