The Martyrs of Shanxi

In 2008, Pope Benedict XVI visited a shrine in Rome dedicated to the martyrs of the twentieth century. “So many fell while they were carrying out the evangelizing mission of the Church,” he commented. “Their blood mingled with that of the indigenous Christians to which they had transmitted the faith.” The Holy Father’s words are an apt description of the Franciscan martyrs of Shanxi—a small band of religious whose own sacrifice ushered in an epoch of sacrifice. 

The Catholic Church in China traces its beginnings to missionary efforts in the thirteenth century. The Christian practice of those early pioneers naturally had a strong European flavor that was hard to reconcile with ancient Oriental customs. With each new encounter between the West and the Far East, however, missioners grew ever more skilled at inculturating the Faith and accommodating it as much as possible to the Chinese way of life.

This approach was enthusiastically adopted by the seven Franciscan Missionaries of Mary who traveled to the Chinese province of Shanxi in 1899. Hailing from four different European countries, the sisters settled in Taiyuan, the provincial capital, and threw themselves into their work—serving the poor through hospitals, orphanages, vocational training, and numerous other apostolates.

The needs were great in Shanxi; the demands on the sisters unrelenting. Still, the seven knew great joy as they manifested their love for Christ through their service, and the people of their adopted homeland reciprocated with affection. Sr. Mary Amandina was particularly singled out for her cheerfulness despite challenging conditions and often grueling work. She was known to the Chinese as “The European sister who is always laughing.”

St. M. Amandina (1872-1900)

Some in Shanxi disapproved of the sisters’ work, especially the provincial governer, Yu Xian. This was the period of the Boxer Rebellion—a violent reaction to Western influence in China—and Yu Xian took advantage of the tumult to press an assault on the fledgling Christian community and the missionaries who cultivated it. This attack was not wholly unexpected, as Sr. Amandina had previously expressed in a letter home. “The news is not good, danger is approaching, but we are peaceful,” she wrote. “I confide myself to God’s care and I pray Him to console and fortify the martyrs and those who have to suffer for His name.”

On July 5, 1900, Yu Xian imprisoned the seven sisters along with almost two dozen friars, seminarians, and lay faithful. Four days later, after a mock trial, the execution order was given, and the sisters were forced to witness the demise of their brethren. This cruel act of intimidation had little effect, and throughout the ordeal the sisters could be heard praying and chanting the Te Deum until they themselves were slaughtered. 

Sr. Amandina and her sisters, along with 113 other martyrs of China, were canonized by Pope John Paul II on October 1, 2000. The next day in Rome, a group of 36 Franciscan Missionary Sisters of Mary pledged themselves to continue in the footsteps of the Shanxi martyrs and bring the Gospel to foreign lands—including two to be sent to China.

The feast of the Shanxi martyrs is July 9. 

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

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.

Channels of Grace

An address at a Nursing Dedication ceremony (19 January 2013, Bethel College, IN)

This day, this ceremony, marks a pivotal moment in your educational journey. It’s a resting place, an oasis of sorts, after having made it through—having survived, in other words—your first clinical rotation, and now you are well into the next stage of your preparation for a future in nursing.

Before you know it, we will all be gathering here again, in this very room, for Pinning—an event that will coincide with your graduation from Bethel, and the commencement of your nursing career. Between now and then, however, you will remain a nursing student—just a nursing student, some of you might be tempted to say. Not a real nurse—just a student.

With that in mind, I’d like to tell you a little story—a story I just came across recently, and one that involves a nursing student—a nursing student who was, I believe, a channel of grace.

Henri Matisse (1869-1954)

This is the French artist Henri Matisse—perhaps you’ve heard of him. Matisse did most of his work in the first half of the 20^th century, and is considered one of the forerunners, even a father, of what we call Modern Art. 

His innovative style, especially with regards to his simple designs and exuberant use of color, continues to influence art and graphic art, even today.

Here’s an example. It’s a still life, but there’s movement, and the rich blue is like a sea, a rolling sea—or like a water balloon burst.

Still Life with Blue Tablecloth (1909)

Or another, The Dessert, one of his most famous paintings, where red is the dominant feature—almost a shout, or a trumpet blast—with green in the corner adding a muted accompaniment.

The Dessert: Harmony in Red (1908)

You can see that Matisse’s creations were sumptuous, lively, sensual—some a bit too sensual to be included in a talk like this—and bursting with life. He clearly was acquainted with joy, but it was a joy that was tempered by a spiritual restlessness and yearning.

Although raised in the church, Matisse rejected faith as an adult. And yet, unlike many in his circle who were hostile to religion, Matisse instead simply became indifferent. “I don't know whether I believe in God or not,” he wrote. “I think, really, I'm some sort of Buddhist.” Worse than atheism, don’t you think?—as if, when it came to God, Matisse was grunting a flippant, “Whatever!”

But, even if the artist was done with God, God wasn’t done with the artist. And the great thing was that God chose to reach out to Matisse through a humble, unassuming student nurse—just a nursing student, as they say, one just like you.

The student’s name was Monique Bourgeois, and she served Matisse as a home health aide of sorts for several months during his recovery from cancer. Bourgeois was not interested in modern art, and so was not fazed by her patient’s fame. Instead, she went about her duties with competence and compassion—attributes that all nurse educators seek to instill in their students.

But with Bourgeois, there was something more, something different—a frank openness and simplicity, perhaps a kindness and generosity, that went beyond her professional duties. She was, in fact, a devout Christian, and I’m guessing that her deep faith was reflected in her care in such a way that Matisse couldn’t avoid it or deny it. It was too real, too present.

Whether the student nurse and the artist talked about matters of faith during the convalescence, we don’t know. But we do know that when Bourgeois later decided that she wanted to become a nun, Matisse vigorously objected. From his point of view, Matisse saw no value in a life totally dedicated to God, and he didn’t want his friend to throw her life away.

Nevertheless, Bourgeois persisted and entered the Dominican order, taking the name Sr. Jacques-Marie—and here’s the startling thing, here’s the kicker: As a result of her choice to heed God’s call, the young nun’s friendship with Matisse—far from fading away or ending abruptly—instead, transformed and intensified.

Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence

The artist stayed in contact with Sr. Jacques-Marie, and when he discovered that her convent required a new chapel, he took on the job himself, throwing himself into the work. The result? Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence—or simply the Matisse chapel, considered by the artist himself as his crowning achievement, his masterpiece.

Design, inside and out, furnishings, liturgical objects, religious art, even vestments—Matisse saw to every detail. Aesthetic considerations were, of course, a priority, and his use of color and light, line and space are beautifully harmonized throughout the small enclosure. It’s quiet, airy, and calm—almost ethereal.

But even above aesthetics, even above the art, Matisse attended most of all to the use for which the chapel would be dedicated—namely, prayer. And even today, public access to the chapel is very restricted in order to protect the sisters’ ability to use it as it was intended to be used—a place for worship and praise of God.

Vence Chapel interior

So, the utterly secular artist, at the end of his life, poured his talent and passion into creating a profoundly religious environment—something that many found surprising, even shocking. And the question naturally arises: Why?

I think the outlines of an answer are clear: The artist desired to honor his friend—the nursing student turned nun—and the life she had embraced, but not only her. Matisse was also honoring, perhaps reluctantly, or even unconsciously, the One who called her to that life.

Matisse seemed to have been rattled by Bourgeois—something about her was different, even holy in an understated way—and it bothered him. It bothered him so much that the aging, agnostic artist was moved to create a “spiritual space,” as he called it, and one that his friend, the nun, as well as many others, declared to be inspired by God.

So, what’s my point? Am I suggesting that you should all take care of aging artists and share your faith with them? Better yet, am I suggesting that you all join the convent?

Matisse with Sr. Jacques-Marie (1921-2005)

Far from it. What I am suggesting is that you can be—you are—channels of God’s grace right now—even now, while you’re still “just” student nurses! Like Monique Bourgeois, you can and will have a profound impact on the lives of those you care for—you’ve seen it already in your first clinical rotation; we’ve seen it, and the residents you cared for last semester saw it, too!

All the skills you’ve learned, all the knowledge you’ve gained, all the critical thinking you’ve been practicing—it’s all good, all essential, of course. But what sets you apart—what makes a Bethel student nurse (and a Bethel graduate) different is beyond all that.

And you know what it is: It’s love. And not just any love. It’s sacrificial love—love expressed in service.

It is, in fact, the love of Christ—and it’s not optional for us, as the Evangelist John relates in this scene from the Last Supper:

Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, rose from supper, laid aside his garments, and girded himself with a towel. Then he poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel with which he was girded.

“For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you,” he told them. “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

Go then, just nursing students. Go, be good nurses, but also be good lovers—as He showed us, as He commanded us—and be channels of his grace.
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