"I Do Will It. Be Made Clean."

For the past four months, I have been working with the incredible students and staff at St. Ignatius College Prep. During Advent at SICP, Formation and Ministry staff like myself preside over Reconciliation services every day for a week and a half, so that all 1,400 Ignatians have the opportunity to take advantage of the sacrament in preparation for the Incarnation that we celebrate at Christmas. It has been incredible to witness the movement of the Spirit in the young people who participate in such a heartfelt way. This task is just one of many beautiful opportunities with which I have been blessed during my time at Ignatius, and for that, I am grateful.

The following is my reflection that I have been sharing with the students during the communal service of Reconciliation:

Now there was a man full of leprosy in one of the towns where he was; and when he saw Jesus, he fell prostrate, pleaded with him, and said, “Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.”Jesus stretched out his hand, touched him, and said, “I do will it. Be made clean.” And the leprosy left him immediately. Then he ordered him not to tell anyone, but “Go, show yourself to the priest and offer for your cleansing what Moses prescribed; that will be proof for them.” The report about him spread all the more, and great crowds assembled to listen to him and to be cured of their ailments, but he would withdraw to deserted places to pray. -- Luke 5:12-16

“Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean. Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.” In the Gospel reading we just heard, we encounter a leper, a man marked by society as an outcast—untouchable, forced to the margins of society, unlovable even—simply because of who he is, because of his lot in life. Seeing Jesus, he immediately falls prostrate—he throws himself onto the ground at Jesus’ feet, and he pleads. He begs Jesus, showing his incredible faith, and saying, “Lord, if you wish, you can make me clean.”

When hearing stories like this about Jesus, how often do we think about the fact that Jesus actually made choices. He was a person, right? So like us, Jesus made choices. This leper, completely vulnerable, puts the ball right in Jesus’ court and says, essentially, “I know you can heal me if you want to.” And how does Jesus respond to this cry? The Gospel-writer says, “Jesus stretched out his hand, touched him, and said, ‘I do will it. Be made clean.’” No question. No hesitation. Jesus reaches out and touches this broken man, transforming him, making him whole.

Like this leper, we are in relationship with a God who constantly reaches out to us and touches our hearts and souls—a God who longs to transform us…to make us whole. We are called to see Jesus walking with us in our own lives…Jesus who says, “Yes, I see your brokenness, your dark places,” Jesus who guides us to choose life and abundance and right, Jesus who looks at us…at all of us as we are…and sees our gifts, Jesus who chooses to say, “I do will it. Be made clean.” All you have to do is ask. Because of how profoundly I love you, all you have to do is ask.

In just a few moments, you will be invited to receive the sacrament of Reconciliation. This sacrament is Christ’s offering of relationship and connection—to help us acknowledge and work through our sin so we can more fully become the people God is calling us to be…so we can become who we really are. I encourage you to take advantage of this chance to talk face-to-face with a priest, who will represent Jesus and the whole community, the Body of Christ. As you share your struggles with them, Jesus will be with you, offering you forgiveness and freedom. Jesus has already made his choice. What will yours be?

...And We'll Go Look for What We Need

“Injustice flourishes because those who love justice are singularly lacking in creativity, content to denounce the structures we see causing harm, inept in producing other forms of art, other economic structures, other political systems.” 

In light of this week’s reading from Sharon D. Welch’s After Empire, I was eager to take up the challenge of finding a favorite art piece that has the potential to challenge injustices creatively. Welch explores the Euro-American genocide of Native Americans and, in part, the ways in which modern-day Americans can learn from this devastating pattern to become authentic promoters of human rights today. The question of full humanity emerges as a critical issue that has important implications for all people. In 1754, Benjamin Franklin, among others, denied the full humanity of the Native American League of Six Nations, entirely disregarding their integrity and wisdom (37). Since then, numerous groups have been discounted due to race, ethnicity, and gender, among other characteristics. The question remains then, how can Americans today support human rights, while also navigating different understandings of self-sufficiency, autonomy, and social interdependence (39)?

I also was struck by the importance of community in Native culture. Welch writes, “How else do we discover who we are than by examining who were are in relation to others?” Though various kinds of community exist for Native Americans, the larger group, not the individual, is always most important (51-52). A crucial component of being in community is responding to the suffering of our sisters and brothers. Americans are called, then, to observe and be moved by the plight of those people in our national and global communities who continue to be oppressed to this day, despite the greed for which we are infamous (85). William Schulz asserts that in order to be fully alive, we must acknowledge people’s suffering. He writes, “To look on human agony and consistently remain unmoved is to be dead in all the ways that truly matter, dead to the mystery of pulse and breath, dead to the gifts of grace and kindness, dead to the fragility of Creation” (79). Schulz suggests that perceived moral and political limitations contribute to Americans’ overall resistance to engaging human rights issues (Ibid.). In short, we are afraid to face the possibility of our complicity and helplessness in the face of injustice.

When I consider creatively responding to these issues of humanity, community, suffering, and fear, I am reminded of the song “What You Need,” a musical theatre piece with music and lyrics by John Bucchino:

The saxophone across the hall screams for harmony 

Another voice, a counterpoint, some company.

Sing those blues, lonely saxophone.

I’ll try to give you what you need.

Sing those blues, lonely saxophone.

I’ll try to give you what you need. 

Bucchino begins by identifying a neighbor by her instrument, which is longing for connection and accompaniment. Our character seems to be responding “I know what you need, and I’ll try to give it to you.”

The derelict flags down the cars on the Bowery

With a dirty rag in his paper bag for company, oh

Sing those blues, brother down and out. 

I’ll try to give you what you need.

Sing those blues, brother down and out. 

I’ll try to give you what you need. 

The character deems another man, “the derelict”—not a person who is homeless, or a person who is materially poor. Seemingly out of habit, the character nonchalantly defines this man by his situation. There seems to be an automatic assumption of understanding, again with the idea that our equipped main character knows what our “derelict” needs.

If you tell yourself you’re satisfied,
then nothing better will be found

But when it grows so dark, that you howl for the moon, well at least it gets your eye up off the ground 

The bridge seems ambiguous: is our character talking about the “saxophone,” the homeless man, or about himself? Perhaps he is advising our derelict to work for something better, to get his needs met; or perhaps he is telling himself to do the same. Though the howl-inducing darkness of poverty is unique, we begin to suspect that our character is living in the darkness of isolation. What happens when our eyes are off the ground? We can see and be seen. Regardless of who he is talking about, our character is beginning to connect and invest in this derelict’s plight.

Love, I don’t need my windshield cleaned, 

You can have it all for free.

Another voice, a counterpoint, some company.

But, sing those blues, will you anyway 

‘Cause I can’t give you what you need.

Oh will you sing those blues with me?

Take my hand, and we’ll go look for what we need.

He calls the derelict ‘Love’—an intimate term of endearment, or perhaps even a reference to the Divine. He invites the poor man to take it all, his whole self, and listeners witness our character’s transition from self-centeredness to other-centeredness. He does not explicitly reference money; he says, rather, “I will give you my company, my presence.” Our main character also acknowledges that he cannot fix this complexity of the derelict’s situation alone, but in solidarity, they now can sing the blues together. And maybe together, they can find what they each have been looking for—community and connection.

© 2012 Katie Davis

Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion

Boyle, Greg. Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion. New York, NY:
     Free, 2010. Print.

In his 2010 book Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion, Fr. Greg Boyle, S.J. condenses twenty years of creative ministry with gang members into two-hundred pages of poignant, hilarious, heartbreaking storytelling. Boyle is the founder of Homeboy Industries, a multi-faceted gang-intervention program that provides jobs, training, tattoo removal, and most importantly, community for young men and women who are seeking new lives in East Los Angeles. Rooted in his understanding of Catholicism as faith that does justice, Boyle explores the concepts of God-image and self-image. In doing so, he specifically considers his program’s “homeboys” and “homegirls” who have been entrenched in the violence and poverty of gang culture. He also ponders questions of hope and success, acknowledging both light and darkness that he has encountered throughout his ministry. Most importantly, he promotes kinship, examining definitions of compassion, solidarity, and inclusion in light of such pain and heartache. By sharing stories of the women and men who have transformed him, Boyle reveals the power of relationship with marginalized people to bring his learned values of justice, love, and peace to life.

The impact of God-image and self-image on the establishment of peace and justice runs as a constant thread throughout Boyle’s parables. The epigraph from the gospel of Luke, “This day…with me…paradise” (Luke 23:43), immediately inserts readers into a Christian context. From the first chapter, it becomes apparent that Boyle’s spirituality—his lived experience of faith in relationship with God, others, and self—lies at the foundation of his work for justice. He writes, “…I am helpless to explain why anyone would accompany those on the margins were it not for some anchored belief that the Ground of all Being thought it was a good idea” (21). Boyle derives his images of God from a variety of sources in addition to Scripture, from Anthony De Mello to Meister Eckhart, from Dorothy Day to Algerian Trappists. They all point to a vast, inclusive, nonjudgmental God, free of human-made boundaries and full of delight in God’s beloved children.

Boyle’s stories indicate that he and the communities with whom he works mutually reveal the nature of this God to one another. Boyle, for instance, encounters God in the mother who takes seven buses to visit her son in jail (27), in the dancing “church ladies” who throw him the same surprise party every year (26), and in the Bolivian stranger who sprinkles him with rose petals following a humiliating Mass (34). The homeboys’ and girls’ images of God are inextricably linked to their images of themselves, many of which shift dramatically thanks to the Homeboy community and Boyle’s deep love for them. Their stories reveal the power of shame, an absence of self-love caused by years of internalized violence and isolation that often results in addiction (42-46). How did Jesus respond to people paralyzed by shame? Boyle wonders. He ate with them (70). Thanks to Boyle’s presence and awareness of the gang members’ goodness, one young man learns, for example, that “he is a son worth having” (31), while another realizes through prayer that God thinks he is “firme” (Spanish slang for solid, looking good) (24). The homeboys’ and girls’ narratives delineate the importance of simply being named (47), the oppression of feeling inherently “bad” (52), and the life-changing impact of believing for the first time that somebody cares about them (52, 58).

Boyle further elaborates on this notion of self-love by exploring the ways in which wounds from childhood separate gang members from belief in their sacredness. He deems the father wound “every homeboy’s homework” (91), citing one boy who is traumatized by his father’s departure at age 6 and another who walked in on his dad shooting heroin and saying, “This will be you someday” Homeboy Industries attempts to meet people where they are and make up for the love they never got from addicted, abusive, or absent parents (Ibid). It offers for many gang members their first experience of unconditional love, which has the potential to outlive the conditional relationships found within gangs (94). Homeboys’ and girls’ stories display the ability of authentic community to introduce gang members to their true, sacred selves. Boyle talks about George, for example, whose destructive patterns are entirely dismantled as soon as he is offered access to an environment that helps to connect him to his own gifts (84). Immediately following his baptism as a young adult, George is told that his brother has been killed. According to Boyle, for the first time, George’s grief resembles God’s heartbreak, not revenge. Boyle calls George’s newfound connectedness “proof of the efficacy of this thing we call sacrament,” celebrating his resilience and the power of loving relationship (86).

Along with the light of Boyle’s stories of transformation comes the darkness of hundreds of funerals for murdered gang members. Holding on to hope in the face of such tragedy, Boyle reflects on hope in the slow work of God and the meaning of success. Several encounters with resistant gang members teach him that while he cannot force someone else to desire a new life, just showing up truly can change lives (114-115). Waiting patiently and continuing to offer nonviolent outlets can help people to make the choice to change every single day (121). It can lead a gang member finally to reject violence (111) or to get a job and support his son (118-119). Still, young people kill themselves and each other every day. Remembering two particular young men, Boyle comments, “…they are comrades in despair. And their inability to care for their own lives consistently plays itself out in the abandonment of all reason and surely of all hope” (124).

Why continue, then, when hope seems scarce and success unattainable? Boyle explains that his job is to begin caring where others have stopped. He feels called to live his faith by staying committed to people who everyone else would have fired. For Boyle, success need only come as a byproduct of fidelity (178). Working for justice is about disrupting the human-made categories that make us hate and exclude; it is not about sharing “success stories” (186). Boyle asserts, “Sooner or later, we all discover that kindness is the only strength there is” (124). He recalls hearing a gang member at a juvenile camp read 1 Corinthians 1:1-13. For the first time, he hears, “Love never fails,” and he believes it (124). Holding on to those small glimmers of love and hope ignites a spark that reminds human beings that light is better than darkness (127-128).

This hope-filled love is integral to Boyle’s understanding of compassion, which, a lifelong inmate teaches him, is synonymous with God. Boyle’s friendship with this prisoner evinces compassion’s call for people to spread lasting loving-kindness as Jesus did (62). Critical to Boyle’s definition of compassion are forgiveness and empathy, gifts that are especially difficult to extend to people who kill one’s friends. Boyle describes these broken killers as “Sheep without a shepherd. And no less the real deal. But for lack of someone to reveal the truth to them, they had evaded healing and the task of returning them to themselves got more hardened and difficult. But are they less worthy of compassion…? (66)” Boyle displays a deep connection to Jesus, who inspires him to love enemies and be with victimizers as well as victims. For Boyle, Jesus was not just a “man for others”; Jesus was a “man with others,” working for kinship with them rather than just offering service (71-72). In order to build a beloved community, Boyle asserts, people must strive to break down the illusion of separateness to achieve solidarity (71-72, 80).

Though I found myself completely engrossed throughout this entire book, I resonate most with Boyle’s emphasis on solidarity. In the sixth chapter, entitled “Jurisdiction,” Boyle tells a story about a scrawny, friendly, consistently shirtless, alcoholic man named Junior, who he sees leaning out his window every day on the way to work. Despite innumerable attempts to help lead Junior to sobriety, Boyle cannot succeed. Nevertheless, every single day, the two men share a joyful greeting. One day while passing, Boyle is surprised not to see Junior at the window. Moments later, however, he hears Junior shout after him, “I love you, G-Dog! [...]You’re in my…jurisdiction.” Boyle creatively unpacks this encounter and challenges readers to see that we are all in each other’s jurisdictions all the time (129).

As we strive to believe this notion, I wonder, too, how we truly can come to see God as a model of expansive acceptance that we can imitate in our own lives. How, specifically, can we break down barriers that separate us? As a Catholic in an institution that has become increasingly infamous for its lack of inclusion and equity, I am grateful for the gift of Boyle’s images of God. Keeping the character of this all-loving God in mind inspires me to remember that God is always bigger than I ever could imagine. With roots in such a God, I feel empowered to be fully present to people living on the margins. Boyle references Dean Brackley, S.J.’s concept of “downward mobility,” standing in solidarity with the marginalized as an act of protest. I applaud this suggestion, particularly for middle- and upper-class, white, educated Americans in whom autonomy and upward mobility have been so strongly inculcated. I agree wholeheartedly with Boyle’s assertion that the margins cannot just be erased by the powers-that-be (177). I believe Boyle and I would agree that only creative modeling of kinship in communities has the potential to move oppressors in that direction.

I would like to challenge Boyle, as an exemplar in the realm of social justice, to more deeply explore some of his key themes on a larger scale. Boyle asks, for gang members, how to dismantle the groupthink that makes them believe that they are who they hate (129-130). I appreciate the ways in which this simple concept—“We are all in each other’s jurisdictions all the time”—can be taken from the micro level of one interpersonal relationship and expanded. It is often socially accepted in our schools, cities, country, and world to define ourselves by who we hate. How much easier is it at times to articulate what we are against rather than what we are for? I find myself imagining what the world would be like if individuals were to consider universal jurisdiction in their homes, if families were to do so in their neighborhoods, if neighborhoods were to do so in their cities, and so on, until this universal jurisdiction could become the status quo for international relationships. This simple idea could even revolutionize the way human beings treat the planet. How can we create a world in which people realize that every living thing is in the same jurisdiction all the time?

I am intrigued by a comment that Boyle makes in his final chapter, in which he challenges Dorothy Day, who he admires a great deal. Day asserted that ministering to slaves is not enough. To work for justice, she believed that people must try to change the social order and end slavery as well. Boyle disagrees and suggests that accompanying the slaves and living in solidarity with them are paramount. In Boyle’s view, accompaniment leads to the dismantling of the system, and kinship requires more than strategizing (173). Knowing about Day’s life of voluntary poverty and self-giving, I am not altogether convinced that the two exemplar’s views are very different. Still, if Boyle is opposed to the intentional undoing of systemic injustice, I would have to agree with Day. Both approaches—solidarity and social action—serve critical needs in the breaking down of unjust systems, structures, and relationships.

Greg Boyle lives in the world as a real and radical disciple of Jesus whose humor, passion, and courage will touch anyone open to the unique gift of Tattoos on the Heart. By engaging issues of self-image and God-image, hope and success, and compassion and kinship, Boyle inspires people from the inside out to encounter the astounding potential for goodness in God, in themselves, and in one another. With such a foundation, human beings truly have the ability to change the world. Boyle’s life embodies these adapted words of Mother Teresa, who believed that “Kinship results when we realize that we belong to each other” (187).

© 2012 Katie Davis

"One Day": Poverty, Privilege, and Solidarity

This weekend, my community members and I spent 24 hours on retreat as part of the JVC Magis program through Loyola Chicago. Rooted in the values of spirituality, social justice, community, and simplicity that we all sought to foster as Jesuit Volunteers, our program allows us to continue living out the JVC mission as graduate students and interns at Catholic apostolates throughout Chicago. This program is an amazing gift for which I am extremely grateful. On retreat, we reflected individually and communally on our shared covenant and handbook – our “congregational documents,” if you will. We evaluated our strengths and our opportunities for growth, sharing ideas to further enhance our investment in the core values.

JVC MAGIS ORIENTATION 2012-2013: South House

Only a day removed from this process, I am continuing to unpack a recurring theme highlighted throughout our handbook. “The working poor” are mentioned numerous times: “an opportunity for…a better understanding of the issues associated with the working poor,” “By living among the working poor, members can identify with the economic realities of those they serve,” “…get a glimpse into the day to day lives of the working poor,” and so on. It is a severe understatement to say that the “glimpses” of poverty that I have gotten over the past three years have formed me, have moved me, and have impacted forever the unfolding of my vocation. Relationships with materially poor women and men, and especially youth, have opened my heart. Studying and wrestling with the “issues” surrounding poverty have challenged and motivated me, to be sure. But can I honestly say that I know what it feels like to live among the working poor?

Unsurprisingly, my life’s narrative thus far has been accompanied by a soundtrack of sorts. When I think about my transformative JV year in Houston, for instance, dozens of songs come to mind. From the lyric genius of Ms. Miley Cyrus (“Like, ‘Who’s that chick that’s rockin’ kicks?’”), to the fierceness of Mademoiselle Gaga, to this little-known gem, music was a prominent aspect of our shared communal experience. I think the six of us in Helen Prejean House/Casa Chuck Norris would agree, in all seriousness, that our shared vision was most effectively communicated through Matisyahu’s “One Day,” a song that we played as part of our prayer on fall retreat almost exactly three years ago.

Listening to this song today, I still am filled with hope, inspiration, and a sense of connectedness. Pondering the Magis handbook in conversation with this week’s readings by Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz and Ivone Gebara, however, I recognize more profoundly that my connection to Matisyahu’s vision during JVC was just the beginning of my quest to live out authentic solidarity for the sake of the Reign of God. In “Solidarity: Love of Neighbor in the 21^st Century,” Isasi-Diaz, a Hispanic theologian who chose to live and work with the poor in Peru, shares a story about a neighbor who once reminded her, “Remember, you can always leave this place; we can’t.” It is impossible for the privileged, Isasi-Diaz asserts, to be like the poor, and such is the story for me, a white, educated Jesuit Volunteer who, despite college debt, has never wanted for anything in my life (Isasi-Diaz, 87). Similarly, in The Struggle is One, Gebara, another educated Hispanic woman who chooses to live among the poor in Brazil, explains the importance of the words and visions of poor persons in her theological works. Still, she maintains, “It’s very difficult to be in both worlds. I think all we can ultimately do is build bridges. We can’t fully assimilate…I’m never going to feel exactly what the poor feel, but I can draw near in sympathy, trying to feel what they feel” (Gebara, 210).

How, then, can people like me authentically live in solidarity with the poor and the oppressed? Sure, I might be living on a stipend, and yes, I incorporate social justice issues into my work with young people, but I never worry about having my basic needs met. I also enjoy the privileges of a college degree, a safety net of family and friends, and no one else to care for. I have never known what it is like to be truly poor. For many people, the word solidarity simply means sympathy for and agreement with the poor (Isasi-Diaz, 87). For Isasi-Diaz, solidarity cannot be understood simply as a fleeting disposition or as charity; rather, it inevitably calls for liberative praxis (Ibid.). In short, solidarity requires us to do something. And while charitable donations from one’s abundance can be important, they are not the whole story when it comes to loving our neighbors. Isasi-Diaz asserts that our salvation is bound up in this essential call of the Gospel, this love of neighbor. And in today’s world, love of neighbor is synonymous with solidarity. The poor and the oppressed are our neighbors, and in a special way, we must seek solidarity with them (Ibid, 88).

Isasi-Diaz calls to task all of us who applaud solidarity but who, in actuality, can be lukewarm and even complacent about its radical implications. Solidarity is more than being inspired by a cause; it means acknowledging and responding to the ways in which privilege and power are connected to poverty and powerlessness. So while my head nods and butterflies during “One Day” are earnest and true, and while they reflect my concern for people living on the margins, they do not constitute the fullness of solidarity. True change only can come from “common responsibilities and interests,” which lead to shared feelings, relationship, and communal action. The “kin-dom” (Reign) of God is co-created continually through the active participation of each human being, with whom God loves in relationship. In striving for the liberation of “the least of God’s people” as Jesus did, we collaborate with God in the act of salvation (Ibid, 89).

At the end of her interview, Gebara shares her advice to the First World. She proclaims, “I’d like to see us make an alliance of people that want to save the earth through values such as respecting the human person, man and woman. An alliance of life. I’d like us to join hands—not as we in the Third World needing the money and wisdom of the First World, but as human beings, women and men, wanting to create a new face of humanity, a new and different world!” (216). And to that, I say, “Amen.” As I journey through my final year in Magis, I will strive to view my commitments through this lens of solidarity, hoping to bring the “One Day” vision to life.

CASA CHUCK NORRIS/HELEN PREJEAN HOUSE, JVC Fall Retreat 2009

Hazelhurst, Mississippi

© 2012 Katie Davis

Jesuits, Drama, and Foolish Wisdom

Back in April, I had the privilege of serving as a leader on a retreat with Charis Ministries, the Chicago-based Ignatian retreat ministry for young adults. On this retreat, called “Spirit@Work,” I was blessed to work briefly with Charis’ founder, the oh-so-talented Fr. Michael Sparough, SJ. A spiritual director, writer, lecturer, actor and stage director, Fr. Michael has blazed trails in the arts and ministry, using his gifts and passions to help people encounter the power of the Gospel. (There are few priests out there who can incorporate two stage falls and an apple-juggling routine into a talk and THEN offer a profound Reconciliation experience to boot...just saying.) Therefore, I was beyond excited a few weeks back to hear that Fr. Michael would be presenting on the history of Jesuits and drama as part of the Loyola University Museum of Art’s Tea with the Jesuits series. 

Fr. Michael began with a story about the Shakespearean idea of the itinerant fool embodied in former Jesuit Ken Feit. Feit’s storytelling, sound poetry, and “foolish wisdom” creatively eased tensions and conveyed truth during difficult times. In fact, Sparough was able to experience Feit’s tactics firsthand back in the 1970s as Jesuits dealt with the potential closing of a certain (now thriving!) high school that is particularly close to my heart these days.

Sparough said that something had leapt in his soul that day, like John the Baptist in Elizabeth’s womb. “I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I had to know this man and what he was doing.” Foolish wisdom was a different experience of God’s grace than the heady, logical understanding he had known previously, and he yearned to go deeper.

Sparough then brought us back into the life of St. Ignatius himself, a man of his age who valued logic...as well as womanizing, gambling, and dueling, of course. Beyond his intellect, though, and as his life was transformed, Ignatius gained an awareness that in God, all things, all gifts, are good. Ignatius’ view of our giftedness in Christ can be found in John 10:10: “I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly.” He had a mystical knowing that there is unity and harmony in the world.

Without feelings and imagination, art is meaningless. Likewise, Ignatian spirituality calls people to engage both feelings and imagination to come into God’s presence. How can we, for example, encounter Jesus in Scripture? Ignatius challenges us to put ourselves into the stories and write our own scripts. T.S. Eliot writes, “We had the experience, but lost the meaning.” How can we become more aware of the meaning in our daily experiences? How can we know where the Spirit is working throughout our days? We can do an Examen, a way of looking back over the past 24 hours and doing essentially what Sparough asserts is the process of art: sifting and sorting, remembering and savoring, feeding it back and saying, This is what it means to me.

For Sparough, theatre is a vision of the Body of Christ. Unlike many other modes of art, theatre is not something that can be done alone. It is about collaboration and seeking unity. Theatre can be a reflection of the Trinity, divine unity and separation of personality. Yes, God is in all things, but as you come to find God, Sparough cautioned, don’t do it alone!

Sparough also stressed the Jesuit ideal of excellent education. Our education is not just about us, he explained; it’s about the magis. He traced the history of the earliest Jesuit dramas in 1551 and their spreading throughout Rome in 1565. By 1599, Jesuit pedagogy made participation in drama compulsory for students. Plays were performed in Latin, with music and dance and an emphasis on visual and technical sophistication. Through 1773, missionaries used drama to evangelize and teach. Drama and music both provided an accessible framework to help people come to know God.

Sparough shared about his transformative experiences in Rome at the Jesuit Institute of the Arts, which was founded by Jesuit author, historian, musicologist and linguist CJ McNaspy, SJ. McNaspy had a vision to call Jesuits from around the world who are involved in the arts to collaborate during summers. He stressed the importance of making the arts more accessible to “common folk” and prized the development of the human instrument over expensive theatre. During this time, Sparough also was impacted by the musicals Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell, through which he encountered Jesus as the Holy Fool.

Through the Institute, it was determined that the Jesuits have five primary goals in their work in the arts (paraphrased):
1) To illustrate AMDG (ad majorem Dei gloriam -- for the greater glory of God)
2) To teach/evangelize humanity
3) To lead young people to Christian lives
4) To lead artists to a Christian lives
5) To focus on Christ as the inspiration and goal of all art

At a meeting with the Jesuits in Rome, Pedro Arrupe, SJ proclaimed, “You [Jesuit artists] are the fortunate ones. You speak and all listen, all understand. More than the preacherʼs word, it is the musicianʼs touch that is bringing the youth to God again. More than the politician, it is the folk singer who draws the races hand in hand. Heart speaks to heart in mysterious ways, and it is the artist who holds the key to the mystery. He can touch the wellsprings of the human heart, and release energies of the soul that the rest of the world does not suspect.”

As Sparough shared about the beauty of his years working with high school drama students, I am reminded of ways in which I can and hope to incorporate my love of drama into my ministries with young people. As I think about my own experiences in the arts and in ministry, I know the stir to which he referred -- the leaping in the soul that says “I don’t know exactly what this is yet, but I know there’s something in it for me.” So in this phase of excitement, confusion, and possibility, I will engage the gifts of prayer and discernment that Ignatius left for the fool in me.

Fellow YPTW alum and TONY AWARD NOMINEE JOSH YOUNG

Stay tuned for more on Fr. Michael’s screenplay of the book The The Gift of Peace, which chronicles the life of beloved former Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago, Joseph Bernadin.

© 2012 Katie Davis

Candide and Utilitarianism

Reading Karen Lebacqz’s take on John Stuart Mill and utilitarianism for Social Justice class, I was brought back to sophomore year of college, to one of my all-time favorite performance experiences (I mean, check out that bouffant!). The musical theatre and vocal performance departments collaborated on a main stage production of Leonard Bernstein’s operetta, based on Voltaire’s novel, Candide. Throughout the protagonist Candide’s journey, he desires knowledge of how to lead a good, happy life with Cunegonde, the woman he loves. Along the way, Candide and Cunegonde meet a variety of idiosyncratic characters who promote various philosophies – extreme optimism, extreme pessimism, extreme egoism, and everything in between – which represent the perspectives of several of Voltaire’s contemporaries.

Candide and Cunegonde both witness and even participate in some despicable behavior in order to reach their end goal of happiness. At the conclusion of the operetta, the couple discovers that on their quest, a utopian society simply cannot be a realistic goal. Rather, they must strive to do things such as cultivating a garden, chopping wood, building a house, and other useful actions that will increase their happiness. I am struck by the utilitarian character of the operetta’s finale, the famous "Make Our Garden Grow."

CANDIDE

You've been a fool

And so have I,

But come and be my wife.

And let us try,

Before we die,

To make some sense of life.

We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good

We'll do the best we know.

We'll build our house and chop our wood

And make our garden grow...

And make our garden grow.

CUNEGONDE

I thought the world

Was sugar cake

For so our master said.

But, now I'll teach

My hands to bake

Our loaf of daily bread.

CANDIDE AND CUNEGONDE

We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good

We'll do the best we know.

We'll build our house and chop our wood

And make our garden grow...

And make our garden grow.

CANDIDE, CUNEGONDE, MAXIMILLIAN, PAQUETTE, OLD LADY, DR. PANGLOSS

Let dreamers dream

What worlds they please

Those Edens can't be found.

The sweetest flowers,

The fairest trees

Are grown in solid ground.

ENSEMBLE

We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good

We'll do the best we know.

We'll build our house and chop our wood

And make our garden grow.

And make our garden grow!

© 2012 Katie Davis

Love as "Impossible Possibility": Niebuhr, Women, & Agape

This week for Social Justice class, I studied the model of justice proclaimed by American Protestant theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. Concurrent with the development of much of Catholic social teaching, Neibuhr’s thought evolved significantly from the 1920’s to his death in 1971. Throughout his years as a pastor, professor, writer, and speaker, Niebuhr developed his theo-philosophy of “Christian realism.” Niebuhr’s unique perspective lifts up the importance of struggle and human limitation with regard to issues of love and justice.

In Six Theories of Justice, feminist theologian Karen Lebacqz explains that for Niebuhr, perfect justice is “a state of ‘brotherhood’ in which there is no conflict of interests” (Lebacqz, 85-86). In essence, perfect justice is synonymous with perfect love, neither of which Niebuhr believes is attainable in this sinful world. Emphasizing that human beings are fallen sinners, Niebuhr claims that only “imperfect” or “relative” justice is possible. In the striving for perfect justice and, ultimately, for perfect love, people inevitably become caught up in the self-interest and imbalance of power found throughout human history. Only in God’s “kingdom” will the vision of perfect harmony be fulfilled.

For Niebuhr, as unrealistic a goal as perfect love is for earth, it remains as “impossible possibility” (Ibid, 85). That is, though only Jesus could embody it in the social world, love is still the ultimate standard by which the morality of all actions are to be measured (Ibid). What does this perfect love look like? An important distinction for Niebuhr is the difference between “mutual” love and “self-sacrificing” love (or agape). Like many Christians, Niebuhr deems self-sacrificing love as the purest form of love -- the kind of love modeled by Jesus whose cross signifies the ultimate self-gift. For Niebuhr and others, perfect love is to be “disinterested,” free of self-interest and only concerned with the well-being of the other. On the other hand, “mutual” love, according to Niebuhr, “is never free of prudential concern for oneself as well” (Ibid, 84).

In addition to other critiques of Niebuhr’s work, Lebacqz briefly explains that feminists have criticized Niebuhr for disregarding injustices faced by women. She writes, “When ‘sin’ for men may be represented by the will to power over others, some argue that sin for women has more often been a too-ready self-effacement” (Ibid, 95). While I certainly am an advocate for taking up our crosses with selfless love, a feminist lens raises important issues regarding self-sacrifice as the defining characteristic of perfect love. In “Love Understood as Self-Sacrifice and Self-Denial: What Does it Do to Women?” feminist theologian Brita L. Gill-Austern explores this conundrum and offers liberating possibilities for women from within the Christian tradition.

Gill-Austern asserts that “The equation of love with self-sacrifice, self-denial, and self-abnegation in Christian theology is dangerous to women’s psychological, spiritual, and physical health, and it is contrary to the real aim of Christian love” (Moessner, 304). She explores this suggestion by addressing three critical questions: What motivates women toward self-sacrifice? What are the negative effects of self-sacrifice on women? And what is the distinguishing characteristic of Christian love? Gill-Austern believes that exploring these issues through theological, cultural, and psychological lenses will have long-lasting effects on women’s lives, including the development of a pastoral theology that is life-giving for them, as well as for men.

The author begins by explaining six key psychological, cultural and theological issues that motivate self-sacrifice and self-denial in women:

       1) the inherently relational identity of women as created and perpetuated by society
     and gender roles

     2) the powerful, popular message that women must give up their needs to stay
     connected to other people

     3) women’s social and economic dependence

     4) women’s commonly felt self-doubt, false guilt, and self-abnegation in a society that
     continues to deem them inferior

     5) a structurally unequal society, masked by skewed perceptions of what it means to
     care for and love others

     6) a theological tradition that upholds such actions as the ultimate expression of
     Christian love (Ibid, 305-308).

Gill-Austern also delves into the negative effects of self-sacrifice and self-denial on women. This pattern can lead women to lose touch with their own desires and needs, and to lose themselves and their voices in the process. Gill-Austern believes that the resultant void often can be filled with the resentment of feeling like victims. Instead of functioning for themselves, women can become so fixated on functioning for others that they lose belief in their own agency. This lack of self-esteem eventually can cause women to forego their public responsibility to use their gifts for the good of God and the world. Overcome by the stress and strain of living only for others, constantly self-sacrificing women can become unable to engage in authentically mutual intimate relationships, the author suggests. Without even being aware of it, women whose love is full of self-denial participate in the perpetuation of structures that exploit women and celebrate male domination (Ibid, 310-315).

Despite the dangers of self-denial, Gill-Austern emphasizes the beauty and potential for good found in self-sacrifice as well. She cautions readers, explaining,”...women need to resist the increasingly widespread tendency to condemn all forms of self-giving. Self-sacrifice is not pernicious by definition; it is not always a manifestation of codependency. Self-sacrifice can be an essential element of authentic, faithful love—the self-fulfilling self-transcendence to which Jesus calls us” (Ibid, 315). The author finds examples from within Scripture to support her claim – the parable of the Good Samaritan and Jesus’ interactions with Mary and Martha, for example – which offer a hopeful perspective on loving, life-giving relationship. Gill-Austern, citing the Gospel of John, witnesses to the alternative paradigm Jesus offers people – relationships of mutuality and friendship as opposed to structures of superiority and inferiority (Ibid, 316-317).

Most poignantly for me, Gill-Austern breaks open the self-giving love modeled by the Trinity. She explains:

First, self-giving is not about denial of self (there is no withholding of the self), but rather an offering up of one’s very fullness...Full becoming requires the presence of an other…Second, in the Trinity there is no pattern of domination or subordination, no quelling of individuality or uniqueness...The Trinity as a model of self-giving love safeguards difference while maintaining connection…Third, the Trinity affirms persons’ needs for one another by showing us that wholeness is a relational concept, not something that one achieves on one’s own...At the heart of divine love is reciprocal giving (Ibid, 319).

These nuanced understandings of Trinitarian relationality and Jesus’ self-sacrifice offer new possibilities for women, whether we are studying the theology of Reinhold Niebuhr, Margaret Farley, Joseph Ratzinger, or Karl Rahner. Niebuhr claims that “If...selflessness were a simple possibility in history, there would be no need for justice, since all would coexist in a perfect harmony of love” (Lebacqz, 84). And maybe that is true. But in my view, we can offer authentic selflessness only when we know and love the fullness of who we are: men and women created in God’s image.

We are each continually created of Love, by Love, and for Love. When we begin to see ourselves the way that God sees us -- as the beloved -- then we can offer self-sacrifice in a way that is both radical and healthy. We truly can understand what it means to love our neighbor as ourselves (Matthew 22:39). And in the impossibility of perfect love and justice, we can hold onto the possible. Loving always in relationship to God, others, and ourselves, we can work toward becoming the brotherhood and sisterhood of the Reign of God.

Works Cited

Lebacqz, Karen. Six Theories of Justice: Perspectives from Philosophical and Theological Ethics. Minneapolis: 

          Augsburg Pub. House, 1986. PDF.

Moessner, Jeanne Stevenson. Through the Eyes of Women: Insights for Pastoral Care. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996. Print.

© 2012 Katie Davis

"Take This Heart and Make It Break"

25 years ago this week, I attended my first concert. Well, sort of. My mom was pregnant, and I was due to arrive on November 7, 1987. On September 12th of that year, she and my dad had tickets to U2's Joshua Tree show in Philadelphia. After several hours of “Where the Streets Have No Name,” “I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For,” and all the rest, I must have gotten pretty pumped about this whole “being born” thing, because by the 15th, my mom was headed to the hospital. At 6:08 p.m. on 9/17, an extremely premature Kathleen Elizabeth Davis made her grand entrance, blue-faced, and soon after, singing “I Will Follow,” according to my dad (though that detail can be neither confirmed nor denied).

Throughout high school, my lifelong appreciation for U2 skyrocketed to what those who knew me then might deem a bit of an obsession. Concurrent with my intensifying Bono-mania was my increasing awareness of Catholic Social Teaching. Sponsored by the Sisters of Mercy (an LCWR member congregation), Merion Mercy Academy “offers a holistic education which encourages academic and personal excellence...[and] stresses mercy spirituality, global awareness, and social responsibility. Within a nurturing community, Merion Mercy Academy educates leaders: young women who live mercy and seek justice” (from MMA’s mission statement). My theology classes and ministry experiences in high school instilled in me a commitment to social justice as a critical component of living out Gospel values in the world today. My teachers, mentors, and peers empowered me, a young lay woman, to use the gift of education to be a voice for the voiceless in solidarity with people living on the margins.

Our senior year theme for Ministry Team was “A Place at the Table.” This phrase was a perfect articulation of the school’s passion for cherishing the dignity of all God’s children. This week, I had the opportunity as a graduate student to engage the USCCB’s pastoral reflection of the same name. I now recognize the intentionality of the lay and religious women who guided us as they passed on the Church’s call to loving relationship with “the least of these.” The focus on issues of poverty and human dignity showed up consistently in our curriculum across all disciplines. These issues guided our local and global vision as members of the Mercy community. We were taught about the four legs of the table at which God welcomes all people to feast -- individuals and families, community and fath-based organizations, the private sector, and the government -- and their necessary roles in overcoming poverty and respecting the dignity of all human life. These issues were rooted and reflected in our communal prayer and worship; thanks to my Mercy education, I came to realize the dynamic relationship between liturgy and sacrament and justice and service.

Throughout these formative years, my fab four -- those same Irish lads who serenaded me while I kicked in the womb -- provided the soundtrack for my journey. This week, I was reminded of a favorite song of mine, “Yahweh,” from their 2004 album How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. I will never forget the thrill of watching U2 perform it live in Philadelphia in May of 2005, right before graduation. And as far as rock-out-dance-around-the-house sessions go, my sister and I have this song on our favorites list, to be sure. The lyrics can be found here. 

 

For me, "Yahweh" reveals a deep desire for transformation in God. It is about a call to conversion of self (“Take these shoes and make them fit...Take this shirt and make it clean...Take this soul and make it sing”). It also references interpersonal and communal conversion ("Take these hands and teach them what to carry...don’t make a fist,” “Take this mouth, so quick to criticize...”). Lastly, it calls for the ultimate conversion to the Reign of God (“Take this city. A city should be shining on a hill...”). This is the conversion to which Catholic Social Teaching is pointing.

Bono sings, “What no man can own, no man can take.” This lyric offers hope for the poor, the weak, the oppressed, women, the lgbtq community -- people everywhere striving to find their places at the table. These places are theirs, for we all have been made and are being created continually in the image of God. There is longing in the prayerful refrain, which repeats, “Always pain before a child is born...Why the dark before the dawn?...Still I’m waiting for the dawn.” This reference to the Paschal Mystery acknowledges the Passion and Death of Jesus that inevitably precedes the Resurrection. Hunger, homelessness, inadequate health care and education: this is the passion of our global family. And the deaths caused by social injustice are truly overwhelming. The Church calls its people to be active participants in bringing about resurrection here and now.

In “Yahweh,” Bono concludes by singing, “Take this heart and make it break.” I am thankful for the Sisters of Mercy whose vision allowed my heart to be broken by the injustices in our world. And as my heart continues to be broken again and again, I remember with gratitude and conviction that solidarity with the poor is not optional. It’s Gospel.

© 2012 Katie Davis

Living It Out

In reading this week for my Foundations of Social Justice class, I was deeply moved by Beverley Haddad’s 2006 essay from the Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, “Living It Out: Faith Resources and Sites as Critical to Participatory Learning With Rural South African Women.” As a result of the extreme patriarchal culture of rural South Africa, Haddad explains, women rarely have access safe sites in which they are able to share their stories openly. The need for such sacred spaces has never been more urgent; the HIV/AIDS pandemic and its surrounding issues like poverty and other cultural norms trap women in a web of crises. For African Christian women, the Bible is central. Haddad asserts, therefore, that Scripture can be used as a starting point to evoke conversations about gender violence, sexuality, and HIV/AIDS. Topics like these tend to scare women silent, even when men are not in the vicinity. In her work with a contextual Bible study group of marginalized Christian women in the poor, rural community of Vulindlela, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, Haddad facilitated the building of a community of care that enabled women to begin articulating their own narratives and to identify creative possibilities for future action (136-138).

With the women of Vulindlela, Haddad used the contextual Bible study method. This methodology is rooted in the understanding that all people, academically trained or not, have resources to offer with regard to Biblical reading and understanding (145). In her essay, she compares and contrasts two case studies about the group’s reading of Bible passages. Considering my own background and interests, I especially was taken by Haddad's approach in breaking open the story of the rape of Tamar (2 Sam. 13:1-22) with the women. The group spent three weeks critically reading the text from Samuel and engaging Haddad’s questions about the characters and events in the text. Moreover, the women unpacked the story’s connections to their own experiences of rape, gender violence, and oppression. They became increasingly freer in the sharing of their feelings, and by the fourth week, the women were invited to role-play Tamar’s story within their own context (147-148):

"The play opened with one woman screaming loudly that her daughter had been raped. Other women then ran to her assistance and called a community meeting. The play ended with all the women marching to the police station with a memorandum demanding that the rapist be brought to trial...The opportunity to role-play rape in the group was an articulation and enactment of what was normally hidden" (Ibid.). 

By publicly articulating the previously hidden issue of rape for the first time through drama, the women were empowered to name for themselves potential future action steps, including organizing and protesting. The protagonist Tamar became a mirror for the women. Her ability to own her sexual oppression and speak out against it liberated the women in the group to begin to imagine and prepare for the day when they might do the same within their public sphere (149-150). Just one woman’s willingness to share her hidden story could provide another mirror in which the other women in the group could identify their own secret truths and eventually share them too. The collective storytelling and cooperative creation of shared narrative was contagious; it could very well lead to social transformation if sacred space is maintained (152-153).

As a singer-actor-minister-activist-intellectual (wannabe)-in-training (or some combination of those – take your pick!), I have been and continue to be seeking ways to integrate my passion for the arts into my ministry, particularly with youth and with people on the margins of society. In my previous two ministry positions, I have witnessed the power of the arts and storytelling in various ways. At Cristo Rey Houston, I had the privilege of creating and teaching a drama elective that culminated in sixteen students’ first full-scale play, Robert Fulghum’s All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Though the students were communicating a script, not their own stories, they undoubtedly grew by leaps and bounds. It was truly incredible working with them over the course of the year, throughout which they became increasingly confident in their own voices and comfortable in their own bodies. They took imaginative risks to embrace the realities of their characters, and they took ownership of conveying the heart of Fulghum’s message by working together, trusting each other, and being accountable for their roles within the communal effort.

DRAMA STUDENTS from CRISTO REY JESUIT after their successful performance of 
ROBERT FULGHUM'S ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN, 05.24.10

In Youth Ministry in Cicero, our Monday evening meetings were central in the building of our new community of teens and young adults. Every week, we came together for fellowship (during which we would share our stories from the past week), followed by prayer, the reading of Scripture, and a contemporary article or video around a particular theme/issue, culminating in our “so what?” discussion: how were we being called to live out the Gospel in our real lives? Over the course of two years, the safe space we created allowed for vulnerable, authentic sharing and genuine care for one another. The foundation we built within that space also propelled the group out into the world for service and Spirit-filled engagement in the larger community.

FUERZA Youth Ministry in LOS NEGRALES, ESPANA during their 
WORLD YOUTH DAY pilgrimage, August 2011 

I am inspired by the South African women about whom Haddad writes and by her amazing work as well. I hope to follow her example and contribute in my own small way to the creation of safe communities of self-expression that compel others and myself toward social transformation.

Work Cited

Haddad, Beverley. "Living It Out: Faith Resources and Sites as Critical to Participatory Learning With Rural
          South African Women." Journal of Feminist Studies for Religion 22.1 (2006): 135-54. PDF.

© 2012 Katie Davis

"On Beauty and Being Just," Part One: "On Beauty and Being Wrong"

This week, I began reading On Beauty and Being Just by Elaine Scarry, Walter M. Cabot Professor of Aesthetics and the General Theory of Value in the English department at Harvard. In her 1998 lecture, Scarry defends beauty against common arguments that it is subservient to people who are privileged and that it distracts people from more important issues, especially in the political world. Scarry seeks a revival of beauty in every arena, from the classroom to the home, by arguing that beauty in fact moves people toward a greater sense of justice rather than blinding them from it. She draws on her lived experience as well as the work of renowned thinkers and writers, such as Homer, Plato, Marcel Proust, Simone Weil, and Iris Murdoch, to substantiate her claim. As I made my way through Part One: "On Beauty and Being Wrong," I was reminded of several of my own educational, artistic, and personal experiences as well.

Scarry begins with the assertion that beauty prompts a copy of itself; that is, once beauty is experienced by the senses, people long to replicate it, whether through writing, music, or visual art , to comment on it, and to find new ways to make the original beauty more evident, more intensely experienced. She goes as far as to say that beauty is the cause of begetting children; the whole body longs to reproduce a beautiful human being. She writes, ”This phenomenon of unceasing begetting sponsors in people like Plato, Aquinas, and Dante the idea of eternity, the perpetual duplicating of a moment that never stops. But it also sponsors the idea of terrestrial plenitude and distribution, the will to make ‘more and more’ so that there will eventually be ‘enough’” (5).

Likewise, the desire for education, in Scarry's view, is a result of beauty. People are willing to move from place to place in order to be in the path of beauty. We submit our minds to teachers whose insights might "increase the chance that one will be looking in the right direction when a comet suddenly cuts through a certain patch of sky” (6). Looking at my own journey so far, I would definitely affirm connection between beauty and education. Most of my major life decisions have been guided primarily by my (or my parents') commitment to a particular academic institution or educational goal. For instance, my parents sacrificed a great deal of money and time (40 minutes each way every day) to send me to Merion because of our shared belief in its mission. I followed my desire for "more" to Catholic U in D.C., to work at Cristo Rey in Houston, and here to Loyola Chicago, all for continued education, and I have been incredibly blessed by the remarkable teachers who have pointed me toward those "comet sightings," both internal and external. It has been my yearning for connection to the Divine through learning that has determined my path.

Scarry analyzes parts of Homer's The Odyssey and gleans three primary realities of beauty from Odysseus' encounter with Nausicaa when he washes up on shore:
1) Beauty is sacred.
2) Beauty is unprecedented.
3) Beauty is lifesaving (17-18).

She also clarifies the ways in which beauty is bound up with truth:
1) It is associated with the immortal.
2) Its “clear discernability” provokes our longing for truth without satiating it, since beauty also reveals to us our ability to make mistakes (22).

”The beautiful, almost without any effort of our own, acquaints us with the mental event of conviction, and so pleasurable a mental state is this that ever afterward one is willing to labor, struggle, wrestle with the world to locate enduring sources of conviction—to locate what is true” (22).

A key question for Scarry is whether or not the metaphysical referent -- the belief in beauty's connection to the immortal -- is necessary to confirm beauty's abundance and relationship to truth (23). If the realm of the sacred is not believed in or aspired to, then a problem arises for beauty: how can something beautiful be so without some sort of metaphysical explanation? What is the reason for the weight and attention we give it otherwise? "If [beauty] calls out for attention that has no destination beyond itself," Scarry suggests, "[it] seems self-centered, too fragile to support the gravity of our immense regard” The possibility that beauty and the immortal (or the Divine, as I most comfortably refer to it) are not necessarily connected can leave people feeling bereft and void of meaning (32-33).

Looking back, I struggled through this confusion while determining my post-undergraduate plans. After fifteen years of encountering God in the music and theatre I was performing and studying, I began questioning the life trajectory for which I had always planned (you know, Broadway and all). Bereft indeed! If beauty is self-centered, then what the heck have I been doing with my life?! The most difficult aspect of my JV year was feeling disconnected from my artistic outlets. I felt a deep sense of loss and desire to reconnect, and I am still negotiating the way that desire can play out in my life today. I am convinced that music and theatre can be modes of spirituality for some people. In the beauty of a Bernstein Score or an Arthur Miller script, God is there. And I know I am not alone in that belief.

Referring to her spiritual experience with Matisse's art (, Scarry posits that "beautiful things...always carry greetings from other worlds within them...What happens when there is no immortal realm behind the beautiful person or thing is just what happens when there is an immortal realm behind the beautiful person or thing: the perceiver is led to a more capacious regard for the world.” (33). The question seems to be, then, not whether or not the Divine is present in beautiful things or people, but whether or not the viewer is able or willing to name it as such. I am immediately drawn to relating this to the "God in all things" notion within Ignatian spirituality, among other spiritualities, I'm sure. (To be honest, it also might just be a more multi-layered way of expressing that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder"...)

THE PALM TREE by HENRI MATISSE

In addition to the impulse toward begetting, Scarry includes the tendency toward error as a key attribute of being in the presence of beauty. What happens when something that used to be beautiful to you ceases to be so? And conversely, what happens when something you failed to appreciate emerges as remarkably beautiful in your sight? She writes, “This genre of error...has the peculiarity that when the beautiful person or thing ceases to appear beautiful, it often incites the perceiver to repudiate, scorn, or even denounce the object as an invalid candidate or carrier of beauty. It is as though the person or thing had not merely been beautiful but had actually made a claim that it was beautiful, and further, a claim that it would be beautiful forever” (36).

Lastly, Scarry sides with Kant, who observed that pleasure we take in beauty is uniquely inexhaustible; no beautiful thing, no matter how enduring, could outlast our yearning for beauty itself (36-37). Like many people, I have always struggled with the grief of transitions; I tend to invest my whole heart into experiences, relationships, artistic and ministerial endeavors, so moving on from them can take a real toll on my spirit for awhile, regardless of my excitement about and confidence in new adventures. Leaving my community and students in Houston as well as my most recent departure from my youth group kids in Cicero offer prime examples of this ache in recent years. During these times of change, my mom always reminds me that experiences and relationships last as long as they are meant to, as we grow into the people we are called to be. "Yeah, I know, Mom, buuuut..."

FUERZA YOUTH GROUP on my final night with them, 08.06.12

I could not help but think of Col when I read Scarry's assertion that “...the work that beautiful persons and things accomplish is collectively accomplished, and different persons and things contribute to this work for different lengths of time, one enduring for three millennia and one enduring for only three seconds” (37).

And so it is with our own crazy, beautiful life stories. We cannot compose them on our own; they are accomplished collectively. Different persons and things contribute to them for different lengths of time, as mysterious and sometimes painful as that reality can be sometimes. And in the midst of the beautiful and not-so-beautiful (or not-perceived-as-beautiful?), the clearly Divine and the covertly Divine, we come to know the God in ourselves, in others, and in the "something more" that is simultaneously present, yet always out of reach.

Work Cited

Scarry, Elaine. On Beauty and Being Just. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1999. PDF.
          http://tannerlectures.utah.edu/lectures/documents/scarry00.pdf

© 2012 Katie Davis