Veterans Day 2018

Although I get (and distribute) the New York Catholic Worker newspaper, I rarely read it all the way through – as I used to do when I was hanging around Chicago’s St. Francis CW House. But I’m older and cranky and tired most the time now. When the CW bundle arrives in our mailbox every month or two, I’ll usually lay the pile out flat, scan the headlines for names I recognize, and then distribute them in our church’s vestibule the next time I’m there for Mass. “I’m sure somebody will benefit from these,” I’ll mutter.

Last week, however, for some reason, some providential reason, I leafed through a copy of the latest issue, page by page. That’s when I came across Dan Jackson’s moving testimonial, “Dorothy Was Right All Along.” He’s referring to CW founder Dorothy Day’s pacifism, which was unequivocal. Like Jackson, I found Day’s Christianity inspiring in my youth, but I held back from her call to total nonviolence. “I might get married and have children someday,” I argued (with anyone who’d listen), “and I’d have responsibility for protecting them, even if it required returning violence for violence.” And I am married, and I do have children today, and I would do whatever was necessary to protect them.

But war is another matter altogether. It seems impossible to reconcile modern, total war with the relative niceties of just war criteria. The aims of today’s wars are especially elusive and fungible, yet the costs are always incalculable. Jackson’s poignant reflection was a stark reminder of the latter. He describes an epiphany he had while working at a Catholic cemetery one summer. He’d witnessed numerous military burials, but one in particular jarred his soul.

No one spoke. No one coughed. The twenty-one gun salute reverberated under the arches of the nearby Whitestone Bridge. The only sound at the gravesite was the uncontrolled sobbing of this boy’s father. As they never had before, my eyes filled with tears. That was the day I stopped doubting Dorothy. That was the day I became sure that she was right all along.

I had Jackson’s testimonial in mind as Veterans Day arrived this year – the hundredth anniversary of the end of World War I. A friend of mine posted a recording from that day in 1918 when the guns went silent along the front. It’s surreal: one moment Europeans bent on slaughtering each other across stretches of land, the next moment there was calm. You can even hear the birds begin singing after the pause.

But it was a calm arranged by the very parties who’d initiated the conflict in the first place, and it prompted me to track down a movie that depicts a different, more organic ceasefire that preceded the Armistice by several years. The movie is Joyeux Noël (2006), and it tells the tale of the Christmas Truce that spontaneously occurred along the French battle lines in 1914. German, French, and British soldiers put down their arms and fraternized across enemy lines. They ate and drank; they shared photos and played soccer.

We watched it tonight, and I couldn’t help thinking that this silencing of guns was accomplished by those who were most directly affected. The men who were killing and being killed themselves decided to stop the slaughter. In time, their superiors compelled them to take up arms again against each other, but the men had chosen, even for a brief period, to choose against killing as a way of solving problems. It didn’t make sense to them. The cost was too high.

It’s still too high.

Veterans Day is the day we honor the living, and I do thank vets for their service and sacrifice. I’m also committed to praying for peace so that fewer of those who follow them in service will have to be commemorated on Memorial Day.
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The Random Scourge of Violence

Scourging is having a renaissance—at least in the prayer petitions on Sunday mornings: “…for an end to the scourge of abortion, we pray to the Lord,” and “…for an end to the scourge of war, we pray to the Lord.” 

Such uses of the term “scourge” have a good precedent in the Church. Pope John Paul II used it in his encyclical Evangelium Vitae in his plea for an end to all violence: “Today this proclamation is especially pressing because of the extraordinary increase and gravity of threats to the life of individuals and peoples, especially where life is weak and defenceless. In addition to the ancient scourges of poverty, hunger, endemic diseases, violence and war, new threats are emerging on an alarmingly vast scale” (EV 3). 

As if to buttress and expand his predecessor’s appeal, Pope Benedict XVI himself used the word in his 2007 Easter Urbi et Orbi address: “How many wounds, how much suffering there is in the world!... I am thinking of the scourge of hunger, of incurable diseases, of terrorism and kidnapping of people, of the thousand faces of violence which some people attempt to justify in the name of religion, of contempt for life, of the violation of human rights and the exploitation of persons.” 

But what exactly does “scourge” mean, especially when used in these ways?

Caravaggio, Flagellazione di Cristo (ca. 1607)

Technically, a scourge is a whip that was utilized in the ancient world for punishment and torture. Most scourges had numerous lashes, and frequently each lash had a knot or some hard article attached to its end. As a result, scourging generally resulted in the literal flailing of a victim’s back, with each lash catching and then ripping away chunks of flesh. 

The most famous scourging in history is the one Jesus endured—an event we recall and contemplate every time we pray the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary. This violent humiliation of our Lord at the hands of his captors is recorded in all four Gospels, and yet it is passed over as if it were but a prelude to the execution that was to follow. Nevertheless, it was unquestionably an excruciating ordeal, as every stroke of the whip brought new injury and introduced new pain to random areas of the Lord’s body.

And it’s this randomness of the scourge’s assault that makes it a particularly apt metaphor for both war and abortion, for both strike down human life without regard to identity or threat. This is absolutely true in the case of abortion—a reality Pope John Paul emphasized in his encyclical: 

The moral gravity of procured abortion is apparent in all its truth if we recognize that we are dealing with murder and, in particular, when we consider the specific elements involved. The one eliminated is a human being at the very beginning of life. No one more absolutely innocent could be imagined. In no way could this human being ever be considered an aggressor, much less an unjust aggressor! He or she is weak, defenceless, even to the point of lacking that minimal form of defence consisting in the poignant power of a newborn baby's cries and tears (EV58). 

The anonymity and complete vulnerability of abortion’s primary victim highlights the act’s utter irrationality. The baby—a gift from God and an icon of hope, no matter what the trying circumstances of her conception—is destroyed as if it were a rabid animal or a knife-wielding attacker. 

The insanity of modern warfare and terrorism is equally unnerving, particularly with regards to the comparable anonymity and vulnerability of its youngest victims. Consider the sons and daughters of our own courageous soldiers who will be orphaned as the result of war’s random violence. Consider, too, the sons and daughters of countless combatants and innocent civilians who will be left similarly stranded when parents are caught in the line of fire. Not to be forgotten are the high number of fatalities among the young themselves when the tides of violence sweep into war-torn areas, engulfing entire communities and often for no strategic purpose. 

Too easily do we dismiss such killings as “collateral damage” and “the cost of war.” Every human being is a child of God, created in His own image and extravagantly loved by Him. If a country’s efforts to secure its own interests and safety cause it to relativize the inestimable worth of human life, then that country is engaged in a morally dubious enterprise at best—a reprehensible and evil offense at worst. An army that heedlessly slaughters innocent children in the course of pursuing military objectives cannot possibly be fulfilling the will of God, no matter what justifications are offered. The Catechism, quoting Vatican II, puts it this way: 

The Church and human reason both assert the permanent validity of the moral law during armed conflict. “The mere fact that war has regrettably broken out does not mean that everything becomes licit between the warring parties.” Non-combatants, wounded soldiers, and prisoners must be respected and treated humanely. Actions deliberately contrary to the law of nations and to its universal principles are crimes, as are the orders that command such actions (CCC 2312-13). 

The scourge—universally feared in the ancient world, widely embraced in the modern world via the Culture of Death. Next time we meditate on the Scourging at the Pillar, let’s remember in a special way the victims of random violence throughout the world. Let’s pray, too, for an end to all war, especially the war on the unborn.
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A version of this story appeared in Sign of Peace, Catholic Peace Fellowship. 

The Straight Line

“You crumpled my paper!”

Naturally, this accusation is followed up with an indignant denial. “No, I didn’t! You crumpled your own paper!”

Sound familiar? If so, you’re a parent.

Scenes like that abound in my own home. A mom and dad, seven kids, a dog—flesh and fault and frailty abound, all in an abundantly finite space. Plus, it’s been a long winter and spring is taking its time getting here—not so easy to shoo everyone outside when the temperature is still hovering near freezing.

So, what to do.

When I’m around, and I’m privy to petty arguments and fighting, I have a standard response—and my kids know it well:  

You can draw a straight line between that kind of behavior and the war in  (fill in the blank) . 

Afghanistan. Darfur. Iraq. Uganda. Syria. Whatever the war du jour, and regardless of U.S. involvement, I impress upon my children that all conflict traces its roots back to personal selfishness and vendetta. Political leaders and pundits like to associate internecine conflict with abstract notions of economics, justice, and territorial sovereignty, but let’s face it: Wars are fundamentally bickering kids writ large.

And not just bickering kids, of course. It’s me driving aggressively in response to someone cutting me off on the bypass. It’s jockeying for a place in the shortest, quickest checkout lane at the drugstore. It’s gossip and backbiting at work. It’s nursing grudges and giving full rein to a bad temper at home.

The children, naturally, are incredulous—and maybe you, too: Straight line? Iraq? Syria? Really? 

Pope John XXIII signs encyclical ‘Pacem in Terris’ in 1963.

Yes, really. It’s not a new idea either. Consider these words from Pacem in Terris—Pope John XXIII’s landmark peace encyclical published fifty years ago: “The world will never be the dwelling place of peace, till peace has found a home in the heart of each and every man, till every man preserves in himself the order ordained by God to be preserved.” 

So, no peace in the world without peace in our hearts—my heart, your heart, every heart. All the negotiations and treaties, concordats and U.N. missions, and every flavor of international diplomacy is for naught, the Pope was telling the world, unless we make peace with our neighbors—unless I make peace with my neighbor.

St. James said it even more plainly: “Where do the wars and where do the conflicts among you come from? Is it not from your passions that make war within your members? You covet but do not possess. You kill and envy but you cannot obtain; you fight and wage war” (4.1-2).

Yet James doesn’t just diagnosis the illness; he also points his readers to the antidote: “The wisdom from above is first of all pure, then peaceable, gentle, compliant, full of mercy and good fruits. And the fruit of righteousness is sown in peace for those who cultivate peace” (3.17-18). War and conflict need no cultivation—they spring up around us like weeds. Countering discord and division, and creating true peace, is a work of cultivation—a work requiring dedication, attention, and constancy.

Any farmer will tell you that successful cultivation also requires good seed and good soil, and here’s where my bickering kids come in. “No one should ignore or underestimate the decisive role of the family,” Pope Benedict XVI wrote in his message for the World Day of Peace this year. “It is in the family that peacemakers, tomorrow’s promoters of a culture of life and love, are born and nurtured.”

In this regard, as in others, the family is truly a school—a residential academy that operates 24/7. We parents have a tendency to obsess about the bottom line: How to pay for the groceries and the electric bill, how to pay for another tank of gas. Such concerns weigh on us all the more in a tight economy, and some folks are struggling even to provide for essentials.

But Pope John and Pope Benedict are getting at something even more essential, more basic—that day in and day out formation in peacemaking, in shalom. As we go about our daily routines and the countless interactions we have with our children, we do well to keep in mind that we have been entrusted with the task of nurturing the peacemakers of tomorrow—and, in so doing, we allow ourselves to be similarly nurtured ourselves.

This all sounds Pollyanna-esque at best, hopelessly naïve at worst, I know. And it’s true that I wouldn’t want my sons and daughters to enter adulthood without a comprehensive and sophisticated grasp of all the origins of war. 

Even so, I'm convinced that it will serve them well that their visions for changing the world will be rooted in a personalist vision for changing themselves—that they will associate big plans with little ones.

For that straight line between global conflict and personal conflict is drawn right through our own hearts. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you,” Jesus said. “Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid” (John 14.27).

So, next time you break up a fight at your house, or you soothe a bruised ego, or you attempt to broker a reconciliation between the warring factions under your own roof, remember that you’re not only making peace at home—you’re also contributing to a peaceful world. Taking the time to trace the line between the two will equip your children all the more to bring true peace to a troubled world. 

A version of this story was published in The Visitation, Nativity House, Downers Grove, Illinois.

Blessed Franz Jägerstätter (1907-1943)

The lives of the saints are always edifying, sometimes exhilarating, but occasionally downright unsettling, even disturbing. Such is the case with Blessed Franz Jägerstätter, an Austrian husband and father who stood up to Hitler during World War II and paid for it with his life.

Born out of wedlock, Franz ran with a rowdy crowd, and he seems to have earned his reputation as a hellion. Among other things, he is remembered for being the first to own a motorcycle in his conservative rural village of St. Radegund.

Eventually, however, Franz’ Catholic upbringing bore fruit in a gradual and profound conversion. In 1936, Franz married, and he set himself to making good on his wedding vows by taking up the plow and working the family farm. He also became a daily Communicant, and served as the sexton at his local parish. Blessed with three daughters, Franz and his wife, Franziska, dedicated themselves to a simple, almost Benedictine-like rhythm of work and prayer, while Franz himself embraced a Franciscan spirituality by joining the Third Order of St. Francis of Assisi.

As the clouds of war gathered across Europe, Franz’ deep piety led him to reflect deeply on the Gospel call to always put Christ first, no matter the cost. In 1938, that reflection led Jägerstätter to publicly oppose the Nazi annexation of Austria—a singular act of defiance dismissed by many as madness. When called to serve in the army of the Third Reich two years later, Franz initially cooperated, but later became resolute in his refusal to serve. For this refusal, the young husband and father was jailed and then shipped off to Berlin for trial. 

Jägerstätter was no pacifist, and there is no indication that he would have avoided taking up arms in legitimate defense of his beloved homeland. Instead, Franz’ refusal to fight was based on his understanding of Catholic just war doctrine, for he discerned that there was nothing just in the Nazi cause. The Nazis, of course, rejected such arguments, and convicted Jägerstätter of sedition. He was executed by beheading on August 9, 1943.

Easter message to jailed Jägerstätter: "Dear father come soon!"

The unsettling character of Jägerstätter’s martyrdom has less to do with his refusal of military service than his rock solid commitment to his principles and his faith. Everyone around Franz—his wife, friends, priests, even his bishop—told him that the responsible, reasonable thing to do was acquiesce to the Nazi regime, serve in the army, and preserve his life to care for his family. Many thought Franz made a foolhardy choice borne of an extreme religiosity.

But Jägerstätter knew better. From prison, he wrote, “People worry about the obligations of conscience as they concern my wife and children. But I cannot believe that, just because one has a wife and children, a man is free to offend God."

Pope Benedict XVI beatified Jägerstätter on October 26, 2007. His feast is observed May 21.

A version of this story appeared in Franciscan Way, Franciscan University of Steubenville.

Gaudete Sunday

"The King of Israel, the LORD, is in your midst, you have no further misfortune to fear. On that day, it shall be said to Jerusalem: Fear not, O Zion, be not discouraged! The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a mighty savior" (cf. Zep 3.14-18a).

Newtown, Conn.

Comfort, comfort, O my people,
Speak of peace, now says our God;
Comfort those who sit in darkness,
Mourning 'neath their sorrow's load.

Speak unto Jerusalem
Of the peace that waits for them;
Tell of all the sins I cover,
And that warfare now is over.


"God indeed is my savior; I am confident and unafraid. My strength and my courage is the LORD, and he has been my savior" (cf. Is 12.2-6).

Homs, Syria

Hark, the voice of one who's crying
In the desert far and near.
Bidding all to full repentance
Since the kingdom now is here.

O that warning cry obey!
Now prepare for God a way;
Let the valleys rise to meet him
And the hills bow down to greet him.  



"The Lord is near. Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus" (cf. Phil 4.4-7).

O make straight what long was crooked, 

Make the rougher places plain; 

Let your hearts be true and humble, 

As befits his holy reign.  

For the glory of the Lord 

Now o'er earth is shed abroad; 

And all flesh shall see the token 

That his word is never broken.

"The crowds asked John the Baptist, 'What should we do?' He said to them in reply, 'Whoever has two cloaks should share with the person who has none. And whoever has food should do likewise'" (cf. Lk 3.10-18).

Adoration of the Shepherds, Gerard van Honthorst (1622)

Peace is not a dream or something utopian; it is possible....   The peacemaker is the one who seeks the good of the other, the fullness of good in body and soul, today and tomorrow....

There is a need, then, to teach people to love one another, to cultivate peace and to live with good will rather than mere tolerance.... 

Evil is in fact overcome by good, and justice is to be sought in imitating God the Father who loves all his children.
 ~ Benedict XVI