The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything (22 page)

Battle, therefore, is a key metaphor for Ignatius. He believed in the presence of evil in the world, and not simply as a vague impersonal force, but as a personified entity—Satan, who is always at work trying to move us away from God. The Exercises refer to whatever moves us toward God as the “good spirit,” and what pulls us away as “the enemy” or “the enemy of human nature.”

Lately I’ve been suggesting to people J. R. R. Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy—either the books or the films—as a way of understanding what Ignatius had in mind: on one side, the army of the evil wizard Saruman and his awful Orcs; on the other that of the noble Frodo and his trusty Hobbit, human, and elvish companions. The
Harry Potter
series—again, either the books or the films—is another contemporary illustration of this kind of battle: on the one side, Voldemort and his evil minions; on the other, Harry and his stalwart friends.

But you need not understand things precisely as Ignatius did to profit from Ignatian spirituality. In his book
The Discernment of Spirits,
Timothy Gallagher, O.M.V., helpfully sums up the concept of the “enemy” as “those interior movements that would pull us away from God.”

More important than this battle imagery is understanding the way that the two sides operate. In the Two Standards, Ignatius asks us to imagine Christ calling people to his side, to a simple life, renouncing the desire for honors, and desiring a life of humility. In other words, Christ invites us, as he did with the rich young man, to enjoy a life free of attachments.

Ignatius then invites us to imagine Satan advising his “uncountable devils” on how to ensnare men and women
through
attachments. This same clever literary technique—advice from an experienced devil to his younger counterpart—was used, centuries later, by the British writer C. S. Lewis in his book
The Screwtape Letters
.

The enemy works like this, says Ignatius: first by tempting people to desire
riches,
which leads to
honors,
which often leads to an overweening
pride,
the gateway to a gamut of sinful behavior. As any Jesuit will tell you, the shorthand phrase is “riches to honors to pride.”

The process is insidious because riches and honors are seductive. I know this from personal experience.

Over the past few years, I’ve published several books and have written articles for newspapers, magazines, and Web sites. Consequently, I’ve been invited to speak in a variety of places as well as on radio and television. Overall, I’m happy that others find my writing helpful, especially since the work of a Jesuit is supposed to “help souls.” The more people who read books about the spiritual life the more chance that at least a few more souls will be helped.

Speaking on television and radio is also valuable not only because it helps sell books, and therefore helps more souls, but because you can talk about God with millions of people—more than I could in a Sunday homily. (It’s also fun.) John Courtney Murray, an American Jesuit theologian who worked as adviser to the Second Vatican Council, once said that the Jesuit should explain the world to the church, and the church to the world. Working with the media is one way of doing this.

But there is a danger. Even though I try not to let this go to my head, all those things—books, articles, media appearances—are what the larger culture considers as “success.” They are one example of what Ignatius meant by “riches.”

In the wake of these occasional successes comes praise from family, friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. Those are the “honors” that Ignatius talks about. And while I have been grateful for the compliments, something else was at work. Something insidious.

After experiencing some success, I began to notice within myself a creeping sense of entitlement.
Why do I need to sign up to celebrate Mass in our community? I’m busy! Why should I have to empty the house dishwasher? I have important things to do!

Though I never acted on these feelings, I was saddened to discover them within me, especially after knowing the Exercises. My spiritual director smiled and said, “Riches to honors to pride!” Even though I’ve been a Jesuit for over twenty years, I’m still subject to the same temptations that everyone else is.

It was a potent reminder not only of my own humanity, and the need to be vigilant, but also of Ignatius’s keen insights into the love of “riches” of all kinds, as well as into the “good spirit,” the “enemy,” and plain old human nature.

B
RING ON
P
OVERTY
?

The most popular joke about Jesuit poverty is this: A first-year novice is visiting a large Jesuit community during a big celebration of the feast day of St. Ignatius Loyola, on July 31, usually an occasion for grand dinners. The novice spies the immense dining room, the tastefully appointed tables, the flower vases, and the filet mignon ready on the table and announces, “If this is poverty, bring on chastity!”

No one laughs harder at that joke than Jesuits. Jesuit poverty is meant to be a true poverty that helps us to identify with the “poor Christ.” It’s also meant to be “apostolic,” something that frees us for work. The early Jesuits were diligent in their following of poverty, preferring the worst lodgings, the worst food, and the worst dress in order to more closely followJesus.

But contemporary Jesuit living arrangements can sometimes be quite comfortable, at least in the United States. In Jesuit communities in some colleges and high schools, for example, as many as fifty Jesuits might live under the same roof. This means certain practical arrangements are unavoidable: large living rooms and dining rooms (to accommodate so many men), a cook and a kitchen staff (especially in houses with elderly Jesuits), several washing machines (try juggling one washing machine among fifty men), and sufficient amounts of food.

To the outside eye this institutional life can look lavish. Some Jesuits ruefully call these “full-service” communities. To the inside eye as well. Every Jesuit community tries to live simply, but in the midst of plenty, sometimes it’s hard to feel that you’re doing so. In other words, Jesuits are often in the same boat as everyone else when it comes to a simple lifestyle: they must strive to live simply—some-times in a culture of plenty.

“You take a vow of poverty,” said an unemployed friend. “But I live it!” It’s a fair critique. With everything owned in common, our most basic needs—food, clothing, shelter—are provided for.

It’s also an inaccurate critique. A vow of poverty means living very simply on a limited budget. Our monthly stipend for personal needs and expenses, which we call our
personalia,
is modest (in my novitiate it was $35). No Jesuit owns a car or house. All income—salaries, donations, gifts, royalties on books—is given to the community.

We must request permission for long trips, as well as money needed for expensive items like eyeglasses, a new suit, or a new coat, which are not covered by our
personalia
. That permission is sometimes not given. After working in Nairobi for a year, some lay friends asked if I could join them on a week’s vacation on the coast of the Indian Ocean, in a student hostel, which would cost $100. The Jesuit superior told me it was out of the question. When I tried to convince him otherwise, he chuckled. “It’s not a question of whether or not I think it’s a good idea, Jim,” he said. “We simply can’t afford it.”

Compared to some—affluent Americans—we live extremely simply. Compared to many—the destitute around the world—we do not live so simply. Still, every Jesuit priest and brother desires to be as free of possessions, to love poverty, and to live as simply as he can, as Ignatius intended. As one of my spiritual directors told me, “The vows allow you to live simply. How simply is up to you.”

Fortunately, besides Ignatius, I have had many role models in this regard—“living rules,” as I mentioned in the first chapter, men whose lives serve as models for their brother Jesuits. Many of them are revered specifically for their simplicity.

For several years I lived with an older Jesuit named John. Wise, clever, and compassionate, he was a living rule if there ever was one. In the style of his own training, which had taken place in the 1940s and 1950s, he used to call me “Mister.” “Good morning, Mister!” he would say over breakfast. The week after my ordination he greeted me with, “Good morning, Father!”

One day, while still a “Mister,” I knocked on John’s door to ask him to hear my confession. His room was simplicity itself: a threadbare carpet, nothing on his walls but a few framed photos, a crucifix nailed above a rickety wooden kneeler, ancient plastic-covered chairs, and low-wattage lightbulbs.

Then I spied his bed, a single. Without any headboard, it was nothing but a box spring and a mattress perched atop a rickety metal frame. But what caught my eye was the yellow bedspread. An inexpensive polyester spread barely covering the mattress, it looked ancient, thin nearly to the point of transparency, faded in color; it was the most meager bedspread I could imagine.

“Father,” I said, “I think it’s time for a new bedspread.”

“Mister,” he said with a laugh, “that
is
the new bedspread!”

Guiltily, I remembered that just the week before I had asked for money for a new bedspread (which I really didn’t need). My visit reminded me that for Jesuits, there is little that we really
need
in terms of material goods.

Voluntary poverty can also be a goad to help the truly poor. As the early Christians used to say, the extra coat hanging in your closet does not belong to you; it belongs to a poor person.

Jesuits who work directly with the poor—here and abroad— often seem more able to embrace a poverty that is closer to what Ignatius probably intended for his men. Part of this is because of the limited resources in those countries. But part of it has to do with the experience of living with the materially poor themselves, from whom Jesuits learn more about real poverty than they can even from the Spiritual Exercises. Closeness to the poor offers insights into why Ignatius called poverty something “which should be loved as a mother.” This is something I learned when I worked in East Africa.

G
AUDDY
, A
GUSTINO, AND
L
OYCE

Midway through my Jesuit training, my provincial superior sent me to Nairobi, Kenya, to work with the Jesuit Refugee Service, an organization founded in 1980 by Pedro Arrupe, then the Order’s superior general.

The Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) is part of the Society of Jesus’ efforts to work with the poor, a central part of Christian discipleship since the time of Jesus. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus reminds his disciples that the test of a good disciple is not how often he prays, or what church he goes to, but how he treats “the least of these who are members of my family,” that is, the poor (Matt. 25:40).

The “corporal works of mercy” (including feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and visiting the prisoner) have always been at the heart of Christian service. Many of the most well known saints are known specifically for their work with the poor, from St. Francis of Assisi to Mother Teresa. Ignatius was no different in his desire to heed the call to care for the “least.”

From the beginning, working with the poor was a focus of the Jesuits’ mission, rather than simply founding schools, which is often thought to be the case. And, by the way, the original purpose of the schools was not simply to educate youth and help them in their development of character, but also to serve the common good. The early Jesuits hoped that the graduates would “grow up to be pastors, civic officials, administrators of justice, and will fill other important posts to everyone’s profit and advantage,” as Juan de Polanco, Ignatius’s secretary, wrote.

After the Society was approved by Pope Paul III in 1540, Jesuits began visiting hospitals and prisons, ministering to the dying, and working with orphans, reformed prostitutes, and the children of prostitutes. And when famine, flood, or the plague broke out, the Jesuits quickly organized to provide direct physical or financial assistance to victims.

Of course, other religious orders engaged in charitable work, too; it is simply part of the Christian life. What was unusual about the Jesuits was what John O’Malley calls the “explicit articulation” of those charitable works as an essential element of the new order.