New Wineskins Winter 2006-2007

New wiNeSkiNS

A Journal of the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley

Volume 1 tt t NumBer 2 tt t wiNTer 2006/2007

kurt Denk, SJ

Neela kale

Cecilia González-Andrieu

Charlie rodrigues, SJ Greg Schenden, SJ

Daniel Syauswa, SJ Dung Tran

Rock and Roll Saved My Soul 2Greg Schenden, SJ, thought he was ‘losing his religion’ as an adolescent. Surpris-ingly, so-called secular music lured him back to the Church as a young adult.

Methods and Challenges of Inculturation: 12 The Case of the Montaña of Guerrero, Mexico Neela Kale articulates the need for faithful inculturation of the liturgy in the native communities of Guerrero, Mexico, where the people live by the seasons, close to the land.

Why I Preach What I Preach 21Charlie Rodrigues, SJ, puts homiletic theory into practice, preaching on the sanctification of time and memories on the 5th-year anniversary of September 11th.

The Apologetics of Beauty 26Kurt Denk, SJ, elucidates a ‘dialogue of the beautiful’ as a bridge to overcome the divisiveness surrounding liturgical praxis.

150 Years of Bringing People to Faith 37Dung Tran was looking for a job in San Francisco. What he found first was a spiritual home, at St. Ignatius Church.

Reclaiming Lament, Reclaiming Justice 42Daniel Syauswa, SJ, advocates for the recovery of lament in the Hebrew tradition of the psalms, while applying it to issues of justice and solidarity in the face of the forces of globalization.

My Abuelita 54Cecilia González-Andrieu fondly remembers her grandmother as a “theologian,” and reflects on the role of women in theology today.

Table of Contents

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‘Define your terms’ is an exhortation that one hears quite often in philosophical and theological discussions, i.e., ‘What do you mean when you use terms x, y, and z?’

Take the term “the Church,” for instance. Based on a more concrete, material understanding of the term, “the Church” constitutes ‘the congregation of the baptized gathered to hear the Word of God and receive the sacraments’; and/or, ‘a building dedi-cated to the worship of God and the sanctification of His people.’

Conversely, if one’s operative ecclesial lens tends toward a more expansive and poetic viewpoint, then “the Church” emerges along the lines of ‘the mysterious, salvific activity of God in Jesus Christ, manifest throughout the world’; and/or, ‘a community with a memory for wonders.’

In what follows, the reader will discover that this second edition of New Wineskins connects with each of the dimensions of the term “the Church” delineated above. For the Church is a particular house of worship—a place of encounter with sublime beauty connected to sight and smell, to touch and taste and feel, and therefore capable of placing a claim on one’s heart and imagination. The Church is also the abiding fellowship of the Holy Spirit which draws forth the sacred from the supposedly profane, thereby leading to a transformation of consciousness. Moreover, the Church is relational and inter- generational, transmitting life and love and values—for example, from grandparent to grandchild—as well as a particular ethnic community’s experience of God within time and place. The Church is comprised of ministers trained to convey the Good News of Jesus Christ. And the Church is also a source and locus for experiencing and expressing poignant emotions, and fostering commitment to peace and justice, both locally and internationally.

To be certain, “the Church” is not a univocal term. Rather, it typifies Paul Ricoeur’s concept of “surplus of meaning,” precisely because it expresses a multiform reality. Viewed in this light, each definition/understanding of “the Church” is valid, for each one presupposes and subsumes the others while also striving to express the essence of the divine reality, mysterium fascinans et tremendum.

Finally, with this second edition of the journal, the editorial staff hopes to have demonstrated that New Wineskins need not be a one-shot deal: the proverbial flash in the pan. Rather, a genuine collaboration is underway; a new intellectual apostolate has been created at JSTB, one whose momentum will be sustained to the extent that a deepening student-faculty partnership continues to guide our paper submissions, editorial board composition, and, ultimately, the quality of the final product. In other words, just like the Church, this venture depends on all of us.

Tim Manatt, SJ, Editor in Chief†Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam

Editor’s Foreword

Editorial Staff

Tim, Corinna, Pius, Bobbi and Sean

Sean Dempsey, SJ, is a member of the California Province of the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits), and a 2nd-year Master of Divinity student at JSTB. He has previously studied English literature and philosophy, and holds a master’s degree in American Studies. His research interests include American religion, history, and urban ethnography.

Bobbi Dykema Katsanis is a doctoral student in Art and Religion at the GTU. Her re-search interests include images of the Magdalene and the visual culture of the Reforma-tion. Her poetry has appeared in Ruah, Rock & Sling, Collision, and The Chaffin Journal, and her chapbook The Magdalene’s Notebook appeared in the fall from Finishing Line Press. She shares her home with her husband, Jason.

Corinna Guerrero is completing the Master’s of Arts in Biblical Languages at the GTU and hopes to pursue doctoral studies. Her current area of interest is Wisdom Literature—in particular, the persuasive use of the ‘under the sun’ metaphor in the Book of Ecclesiastes. Apart from the GTU, she works with The Easily Distracted Theatre as a researcher and consultant concerning the integration of biblical and theological concepts with film.

Tim Manatt, SJ, is a member of the Wisconsin Province of the Society of Jesus and a 3rd-year Master of Divinity student. He has an academic background in history, modern languages, and philosophy. His narrative writing has appeared in the magazines of the California and Wisconsin Provinces, Missions and Jesuit Journeys. He also had a scholarly article published in The Journal of the Bronx Historical Society.

Pius Ojara, SJ, Ph.D., a native of Uganda and a Jesuit of the Eastern Africa Province, is pursuing a Licentiate in Sacred Theology. Formerly, he was a faculty member at the Jesuit School of Philosophy and Humanities in Harare, Zimbabwe. His second book, entitled Towards a Fuller Human Identity: A Phenomenology of Family Life, Social Harmony and the Recovery of the Black Self, appeared in the fall 2006 from Wipf and Stock Publishers.

Rock-n-roll Saved My Soul

by Greg Schenden, SJ

The legendary American folksinger Woody Guthrie once said that music has to be more than just good, it has to be good for something. Throughout history, music has been held as “being good” for a myriad of functions. Plato recognized the power of music in The Republic regarding the role of the poet; he understood how music and poetry could be used to sway the emotions of the people. More recently, Theodor Adorno, from the Frankfurt School of philosophy, saw popular music as another dangerous tool in the capitalist control over the masses. Yet there is one function of music that predates (and will, quite possibly, post-date) all others—music as religious medium. From the earliest drumming incantations to Bach’s Mass in B Minor, music has always played a crucial role in religious encounters with the transcendent.

Although I certainly appreciate and can be moved by explicitly religious, sacred music, a vast part of my experience of music as religious experience has been far more secular. That is to say, as a “child of this age,” my experience of music occurred far more often via the radio and in concert halls than within a sacred space. However, this does not imply that my experience of popular music has not, quite remarkably, brought me to “that properly religious experience of transcendence.”1

My intention in this reflection is to offer my own first-person experience of the powerful encounter between faith and culture, more specifically, within the realm of secu-lar musical experience. As theologian Robert Schreiter points out, one of the voices for a theologian to heed is that of the poet, who “has the task of capturing those symbols and metaphors which best give expression to the experience of the community.”2 It is my assertion that this holds true in every culture, including the so-called popular cul-ture of the United States. Therefore, I will explore my own experience of encountering “poets” within the realm of popular music who offer an avenue toward the experience of the transcendent. To further interpret this experience, I will elucidate and reflect upon David Tracy’s notions of both the “classic” as well as “religious classic.” Hopefully, what will become apparent in the midst of this enterprise is that we live in an age in which, for some, the sacred-profane duality has been transformed into a sacred-secular distinction,

1 Karl Rahner, “The Religious Meaning of Images”, from Theological Investigations, Vol. 23 (New York: Crossroad, 1992), p.159.

2 Robert J. Schreiter, Constructing Local Theologies (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 2003), p.19.

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one in which Jesus Christ is found permeating so many aspects of the secular popular culture arena.3

A Journey in‑Faith and Popular Culture

Born in 1968, I fall into the somewhat ambiguous generational category known as Gener-ation X. Attempts to properly characterize and understand my generation vary. However, theologian Tom Beaudoin offers four central themes intrinsic to Generation X and its re-ligiosity. Two are noteworthy for my own reflection: first, that “institutions are suspect”; and second, and more crucially, “experience is the key” to one’s religiosity.4

Institutional Distrust

My generation’s institutional distrust was born in the midst of the Watergate scandal, the precipitous rise in the divorce rate, and the rise in career instability. Institutions that were once understood as solid, unshakable, were now seen though my generation’s eyes (when we were impressionable children) as suspect. I always viewed the President of the United States with suspicion and longed for heroic past presidents like Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, and Kennedy, who were regarded as selflessly devoted to the betterment of the United States of America.

Likewise, the sanctity of marriage was a thing of the past. Although my parents remain married today, I watched fearfully through childhood and adolescence as the foundation of numerous friends’ family life crumbled. Additionally, the economic reces-sion of the late 1970s destabilized faith in the corporate world. The mounting nuclear hostilities of the Cold War also increased this anxiety and lack of stability. Anything could happen, from the familial to the global.

Alas, there was the Church—the one place I could place my faith and find stability. My upbringing was stereotypically Catholic. I attended Catholic school, went to Mass on Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation, fasted in Lent, confessed my sins at the

very least twice a year. Moreover, I was an altar boy and my family prayed the Rosary together each night during the month of May. All of this gave me a sense of hope and security in the midst of so much other turmoil.

Then it happened. The Church—the one place that offered hope and stability—

As a child, it had been easy to ‘try to be like Jesus.’ This simply meant cleaning my room and obeying my

parents. However, with the onset of adolescence and the emergence of hormones and peer pressure, Jesus as a

model for my life had become an impossibility . . .

3 The Christ the Transformer of Culture notion, from H. Richard Niebuhr, Christ and Culture (New York: Harper & Row, 1951).

4 See Tom Beaudoin, Virtual Faith: The Irreverent Spiritual Quest of Generation X (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1998).

It was as if these four musicians from England were summing up everything I was feeling—frustration, fear, confusion, hopeful long-ing—in the very sound of their music; as if the very music was pulling me out of myself, summoning me to something greater.

began to crumble for me. It was not that my belief in God crumbled. Rather, sometime around the age of 13 my experience of the Church became increasingly distant. The music during the liturgy sounded either painfully dated or, worse yet, an awkwardly executed at-tempt at sounding contemporary. Moreover, the Jesus with whom I was presented, both from the pulpit as well as in religion classes, was becoming utterly irrelevant. As a child, it had been easy to ‘try to be like Jesus.’ This simply meant cleaning my room and obeying my parents. However, with the onset of adolescence and the emergence of hormones and peer pressure, Jesus as a model for my life had become an impossibility, for although I was taught that Jesus was fully human and fully divine, I understood him as God in a human shell. Consequently, in my mind, this Jesus never truly struggled as I did.

Experience is Key

As my positive experience of Church was waning, it is not surprising that something would begin to emerge as an equally powerful and valid force in my life. As I entered adolescence in the early 1980s, music was an enormous force in popular culture. Radio and recordings had already made music a daily experience. The rise of the media event known as MTV furthered this, making it possible to experience music on television, twenty-four hours a day. As a child of the technological and media age, I found myself saturated in music. It was around me all of the time. When I was not listening to the radio, I was listening to an album or cassette, or watching it on television. Much of the music was enjoyable and interesting, or provided ‘background noise’ while driving to and from school. However, something far more profound was emerging from this musical ocean in which I was swimming. Two events still stand out as definitive moments in this experience of faith in the midst of secular life. It was the spring of 1981, and I was spend-ing the night at the home of Mike MacGowan, my best friend through grade school. Mike lived close to Our Lady of Sorrows, the parish and school we attended. I would of-ten spend Saturday nights at his house when we had to serve at the early mass on Sunday

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morning. This particular Saturday night, while sitting in his bedroom passing the time, Mike pulled a cassette out of his backpack and told me he had something I must hear. An “older kid” (he was in high school!) from his Boy Scout troop had let him borrow this tape from a new punk group from England called The Clash. The album was entitled London Calling.

Twenty-three years later, I still can recall the wonder and awe with which I listened to that album for the very first time. Mike and I sat there, silent, listening to every note and to every word. It was as if these four musicians from England were summing up everything I was feeling—frustration, fear, confusion, hopeful longing—in the very sound of their music; as if the very music was pulling me out of myself, sum-moning me to something greater. Moreover, their words articulated the sentiments. Somehow, I wasn’t alone in feeling all of this. Yet there was something more about the music of The Clash that was so stunning—the sense back then, and even now, that they weren’t simply bemoaning the state of affairs. Instead, they were offering a sense of hope in the midst of a confused world:

I’ve been beat up, I’ve been thrown outBut I’m not down, I’m not downI’ve been shown up, but I’ve grown upAnd I’m not down, I’m not down . . .5

Mike and I talked excitedly about the sounds and words over repeated listenings late into the night. While serving at Mass the next morning, the electric chords still ringing in my ears drowned out the sound of the stale church organ; the words of frustration and liberation from four British punk musicians eclipsed the words from the pulpit about a Jesus I couldn’t reach.

The second pivotal event occurred three years later, on December 8, 1984. In the three intervening years, while my experience of faith in the traditional sense had waned, my experience of faith was being nourished, curiously enough, by my passion for music. Aside from The Clash, another musical import from across the Atlantic, the quartet U2, had seized my soul. As an Irish band, much of their music emerged from the violence within their country.6 Like The Clash, U2’s music articulated the dread of the present situation, as well as a refusal to give in to such violence. Again, there was an incredible, otherworldly longing and hope captured in their music, as well as in their lyrics:

5 “London Calling.” from the album by the same name. Lyrics and music by Strummer/Jones, Nineden Ltd., 1979.6 For example, U2’s song “Sunday, Bloody Sunday” was an outcry against the 1972 massacre of thirteen people at the

hands of British troops in Derry, Northern Ireland.

By entering into the experience of listening fully, we allow the music to “play us,” i.e., to obliterate our self-consciousness and self-awareness; to elevate us into a realm of musical truth.

He inclined and heard my cryHe brought me up out of the pitOut of the miry clay

I will sing, sing a new songI will sing, sing a new song

How long to sing this songHow long to sing this song . . .7

With these words to the song “40,” U2 concluded their concert on that December eve-ning 21 years ago. One by one the members of U2 left the stage, the house lights rising to indicate the concert’s conclusion. Nevertheless, we the audience continued to chant passionately the song’s questioning refrain—How long to sing this song—as we filed out of the theater, through the lobby, and out into the empty streets of downtown Detroit on a cold, damp night. I found myself truly awestruck as the refrain continued, slowly dissipating as the crowd disbanded, slipping into cars to return home. It was as if each of us, continuing to repeat these words together, were asking ourselves, how long can we keep this feeling going? How long can we sustain it? The refrain finally died away as we sat in my buddy John’s car, replaced by awestruck silence. The silence was finally broken when John said: “Going to a U2 concert was a lot like going to church . . . in a good way.” This startling remark was further compounded on the drive home when I discovered from John why this song was entitled “40”: the lyrics are based upon Psalm 40 from the Old Testament!

This deep and profound experience of music was truly life-giving, yet also prob-lematic. To say that listening to popular music—rock-n-roll—was providing what amount-ed to a religious experience for me sounded terribly blasphemous. At best, rock-n-roll was understood by many adults as shallow, albeit entertaining, music aimed at rebellious ado-lescent sensibilities. At worst, it was yet another purveyor of Dionysian mores in our contemporary, godless culture.

The key to resolving this conundrum lies in the role of experience in religion. That is, by placing emphasis on the experiential nature of music, the validity of a musical piece does not rest solely (or even primarily) in the hands of the artist and his or her work. Rather, when viewed experientially, the validity of music lies in part with the listener. Indeed, certain musical experiences are so compelling precisely because they reveal some-

7 “40,” from the album War. Lyrics and music by U2, Island Music Inc., 1983.


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thing essential about human nature. Moreover, whether or not we are able to articulate it, we recognize a normative element in our cultural experience. An artistic medium (in this case music) that accomplishes this transcendent interplay between an individual and a work of art is what contemporary theologian David Tracy insists is the hallmark of the true “classic” work of art, “a realized experience of an event of truth.”8

The Artistic Classic

[The album] begins with one of the best opening songs of any record ever, the title track. The song starts cold. Two guitar chords ring on the downbeats, locked in step with the drums, marching forward with no dynamic variation. A second guitar introduces dif-ference, coming toward us like an ambulance Dopplering into range. The bass guitar, sounding like someone’s voice, heralds everybody over the hill and into the song. If you can listen to it without getting a chilly burst of immortality, there is a layer between you and the world.9

Tracy identifies four elements basic to any work of art: the artist who creates the work; the work itself; the world the work creates or reveals; and the audience the work affects.10 He further acknowledges that each of these elements has its own multitude of methods and readings. However, Tracy emphasizes that what must necessarily serve as both “first word and final criterion” for the adequacy in the attempt at understanding and explaining a work of art is the “realized experience.”

Regarding music, I maintain that Tracy’s artistic classic requires of the listener the ability not only to characterize the music so as to aptly describe their musical experience. The classic in music places an additional demand on the listener, namely, to discern from the listening experience whether or not this experience is a transcendent experience of truth. An authentic listening experience, therefore, must have “some recognition of the event-character of truth [which] will finally count for evidence.”11

To explain both this experience and discernment, Tracy uses the analogy of game-playing to reveal the necessity of truth as well as relinquishing of self-consciousness as components in the process of discerning the experience of a classic work of art: “In enter-ing into an experience of a genuine work of art we risk entering a ‘game’ where truth is at stake: the truth of the recognition of our actuality and possibility.”12 Prima facie, the

8 David Tracy, The Analogical Imagination (New York: Crossroad, 1981), p.108.9 Sasha Frere-Jones, “1979: The Year Punk Died, and was Reborn,” from The New Yorker (November 1, 2004). This

article, a review of the aforementioned album London Calling by the band The Clash, was written to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the album’s release. The chilly burst of immortality of which Frere-Jones writes seems to me to be exactly what Tracy understands as classic.

10 Tracy, p.113.11 Ibid.12 Ibid.

analogy of discovering a truth-bearing experience to a game seems precarious, for what is less serious, more private and subjective, than playing a game?

Yet quite to the contrary, Tracy highlights that nothing is more serious, less pri-vate, and less subjective than genuine game-playing. To play a given game authentically, one must truly enter the game. In doing so, the individual becomes “lost in the play.” Though lost in this play, Tracy maintains that the individual is not passively adrift. Rather, a new self is actively gained by allowing oneself to wholly enter into the game. Concern-ing music, the listener (in the act of listening) becomes “lost” in the giving over to the very experience of the music. In doing so, the subject’s self-consciousness is transformed into a new one. Game-playing, therefore, requires the individual to relinquish subject-object notions and to move into the rules of the game itself. In so doing, the musical game (in our case) becomes not an object over/against the self-conscious listening subject, but a relational and releasing mode of being in the world distinct from the ordi-nary, non-playful world. “In every game,” Tracy explains, “I enter the world where I play so fully that finally the game plays me.”13 Self-awareness and self-consciousness melt away in this genuine experience of authentic listening.

The essence of experiencing a classic musical work is difficult to define.14 We speak of how moving a piece of music is—‘the new Bob Dylan album absolutely blows me away’—without being able to say precisely what occurred in the experience. By entering into the experience of listening fully, we allow the music to “play us,” i.e., to obliterate our self-consciousness and self-awareness; to elevate us into a realm of musical truth. Granted, not all music will do this. Authentic, attentive listening, coupled with genuine surrender can be a process of discernment of how different musical styles and voices ac-complish this ‘elevation’ for the listener. In allowing ourselves to truly enter into the musical experience,

We are transformed, however briefly, into the mode of being of the (music) where we experience the challenge, often the shock, of a reality greater than the everyday self, a reality of the paradigmatic power of the essential that transforms us. Here the back-and-forth movement of every game becomes the buoyant dialectic of true freedom: surprise, release, confrontation, shock, often reverential awe, always transformation.15

Music has a public and communal dimension in this expression of a universal truth great-

Even though an individual may no longer consider him or herself a practicing person of faith, the after-image of their religious experience permeates the way that person views reality.

13 Tracy, p.114.14 I refer here not to classical music as commonly understood as a genre, but rather as a piece of music defined as a

classic according to Tracy’s theory.15 Tracy, p.114.


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er than our individual selves. For when an experience of music proves capable of captur-ing a paradigmatic moment of truth, it becomes in that moment truly normative: “Its memory enters as a catalyst into all other memories and, now subtly, now compellingly, transforms our perceptions of the real. It becomes a classic: always retrievable; always in need of appreciative appropriation; always disclosing and transformative with its truth

of importance; always open to new application and thereby new interpretation.”16 It is undeniable that music is capable of disclosing this experience, not merely an event of taste, genius or beauty, but an experience of actual truth.

Given this complex claim of an authentic listening experience of music as transcendent and therefore truth-bearing, some clarification is required. When I listen to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, or U2’s album All That You Can’t Leave Behind, there is a genuinely transcendent experience occurring in my listening. That is, music can and does genu-inely elevate us, altering our consciousness in our momentary ‘removal’ from reality into a transcendent ultra-reality of the musical experience. Tracy’s definition thereby frees the clas-sic work of music from being understood as merely an object or symbol that is purely nostalgic, a Proustian madeleine that triggers a remembrance of things past. Rather, Tracy’s con-

cept validates a musical classic as the experiential bearer of an unfolding, eternal truth—the transcendent.

The Catholic Imagination

I turn now to the work of Jesuit priest and film critic Richard Blake, SJ, as a final com-ponent of this reflection on my experience of, for lack of a better term, a ‘Gen Xer’s spirituality of music.’ The title of Blake’s work, AfterImage, comes from his concept by the same name.17 Like the after-image experience that occurs visually after exposure to a bright light such as a camera flashbulb, Blake delineates the concept whereby religious faith produces a similar after-image, i.e., “the image that remains after a stimulus ceases or is removed.”18 This after-image, Blake maintains, is neither self-conscious nor volun-tary. Rather, even though an individual may no longer consider him or herself a practic-ing person of faith, the after-image of their religious experience permeates the way that person views reality. Consequently, for the artist, his or her work contains at least vestiges

16 Tracy, p.115.17 Richard A. Blake, AfterImage: The Indelible Imagination of Six American Filmmakers (Chicago: Loyola Press, 2000)18 Blake, p.xiv.

of this after-image. Blake further elucidates this concept by averting to the distinct characteristics of a uniquely Catholic after-image. Among these distinctively Catholic characteristics is a love of each of the following: sacramentality; the physical; narratives of moral growth; conscience; and a love of the ordinary.19 And it is from the artist’s own religious experience that he or she in turn is capable of producing a specifically religious work of art, whether explicit or implicit. Moreover, it is this uniquely religious after-image burned into an artist’s mind’s eye that creates the uniquely religious classic.20

I would be mistaken to impose this standard of religious after-image upon any musical artist whose music fits into Tracy’s category of classic. However, I can maintain that artists such as Bruce Springsteen and U2 are bearers of a Catholic after-image in light of two facts: first, both artists are products of a Catholic upbringing, as they have publicly stated. And second, and more important, one need only to appeal to their respective musical ‘canons’ to find positive evidence of the aforementioned characteristics of a Catholic af-ter-image. For instance, many of the characters populating Bruce Springsteen’s songs are men and women of conscience, striving for moral improvement. As for U2, their Catholic blend of the spiritual with the physical is evident in the lyrics to the song “Grace”:

Grace, she takes the blameShe covers the shameRemoves the stainIt could be her name . . .Grace, it’s the name for a girl

It’s also a thought that changed the world . . . 21

Conclusion

Ironically, the experience of music, especially rock-n-roll music, contributed to my eventual reinterpretation of the primary symbols of my faith. This occurred on account of music’s capacity to place a listener in touch with the transcendent on the one hand, as well as my capacity to experience even secular music through the lenses and filters of my Catholic after-image on the other. For while I was an undergraduate at John Carroll University, I worked as a radio-show host on WUJC, the university radio station. Continuing to immerse myself fully in the sea of popular music, I slowly began to reflect upon the spiri-tual nature of my experience of music. Consequently, I recognized the many similarities

19 Blake, pp.15–20.20 This would be in keeping with Roger Haight’s assertion that one individual’s initial revelatory experience is the impe-

tus for the creation of a religious symbol, be it written or, for the sake of this reflection, a musical symbol. See Roger Haight, Dynamics of Theology (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2001).

21 “Grace,” from the album All That You Can’t Leave Behind. Lyrics and music by U2, PolyGram International Music Publishing, 2000.


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between both the experience and the content of music, and the primary symbols of my faith—the Church and its texts and rituals. In this manner, my ongoing experience of music opened up the possibility for me to return to those primary Catholic symbols and to reinterpret them, understanding them as truly relevant and authentic. In this way, they took on an equal power to that of my musical experience. Remarkably, the secular reig-nited the sacred in my life.

Music gives voice to universal human experiences and lifts us up to that in which we place our ultimate hope. I recognize that much of rock music provides something that is indeed good—the opportunity for the realized experience of an event of truth. Furthermore, rock provides something that is more than just good. It provides a pure voice that speaks the language of emotion, of spirit, of soul. All we need to do is listen.

Greg Schenden, SJ, a member of the Maryland Province of the Society of Jesus, is in his second year of the Master of Divinity program. Drawing on his experience as a radio DJ at John Carroll University and Loyola University Chicago, Greg taught Media Communications and English at Gonzaga College High School in Washington, D.C., prior to coming to JSTB. Occasionally, he daydreams about reuniting his punk band from high school, the Reign of Terror.

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Inculturation of the Liturgy in the Montaña of Guerrero, Mexico:

Methods and Challenges

by Neela Kale

The need for cultural adaptation is as old as the Church itself. From the struggle of the first Christian communities to incorporate both Jews and Gentiles and their differing customs of meals and worship, to the challenges of the present day in embracing cultures within cultures, the Church has lived in the tension between unity and diversity. On the one hand, there is a powerful value in unity, manifest in the feeling of being at home at liturgy anywhere in the world, regardless of setting or language. On the other hand, there is an equally powerful value in diversity, manifest in the ability to express and live one’s own precious culture in the liturgy. Somewhere in this tension lies the true catholicity of the Church—a Church that is universal for all people, but also inclusive of all people.

Over time, this tension between unity and diversity has led to an effort among the Church hierarchy to distinguish between changeable elements of liturgy—i.e., adaptabil-ity to new peoples, places and situations—and the unchangeable elements that constitute the core of faith and liturgy. The task is as relevant in what are considered “mis-sion lands” as in “established” churches, whose social context is nevertheless in flux. This brings us to the challenge of inculturation. Theologian Anscar Chu-pungco calls liturgical inculturation “the process whereby the texts and rites used in wor-ship by the local church are so inserted in the framework of a culture, that they absorb its thought, language, and ritual patterns.”1 Inculturation is thus both a theological and an anthropological concept, “touch[ing] on everything that touches on the relationship between God and his people, everything that the Word of God took up when he became flesh and came to dwell among us.”2

Only in the post-Vatican II era has the topic of inculturation been explicitly

1 Anscar Chupungco, Liturgies of the Future: The Process and Methods of Inculturation (New York: Paulist Press, 1989), 29.

2 Chupungco, 28.

Only in the post-Vatican II era has the topic of in-culturation been explicitly acknowledged in Church documents and approached deliberately on all levels of Church activity.

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acknowledged in Church documents and approached deliberately on all levels of Church activity. The Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy (henceforth, Sacrosanctum Concilium) from that Council addresses inculturation with brief guidelines. First and foremost, the document recognizes the intrinsic value of human cultures as authentic expressions of human life and flourishing. Thus, in referring to the various human races and cultures, it states that “anything in these peoples’ way of life which is not indissolubly bound up with superstition and error [the Church] studies with sympathy and, if possible, preserves intact.”3 The document further accepts that some aspects of a particular culture may be incorporated into the liturgy itself. Therefore, Sacrosanctum Concilium explicitly allows that “provisions shall also be made… for legitimate variations and adaptations to differ-ent groups, regions, and peoples, especially in mission lands, provided that the substantial unity of the Roman rite is preserved.”4 Here one sees a concern for achieving a balance between the values of unity and diversity. Finally, the section on adapting the liturgy establishes appropriate procedures for adaptations as well as the competent authorities to specify such adaptations, including the local bishop and any territorial body of bishops which may act with the consent of the Apostolic See.

With the preceding affirmations, Sacrosanctum Concilium laid a foundation for subsequent development of methods of inculturation. Chupungco has identified three such methods: dynamic equivalence; creative assimilation; and organic progression. In the balance of this article, I will endeavor to explicate these methods and show how they have been applied in a particular cultural and historical setting, that of the predominantly indigenous Montaña region of the state of Guerrero, Mexico. As a necessary preliminary, I will offer a definition and description of the term popular religiosity. Finally, I will sug-gest what these methods have to offer in the ongoing process of the inculturation of the liturgy both in Guerrero and, by extension, anywhere in the world.

Popular religiosity is a critical factor in any discussion of inculturation. The Latin American bishops define popular religiosity as “the whole complex of underlying beliefs rooted in God, the basic attitudes that flow from these beliefs, and the expressions that manifest them. It is the form of cultural life that religion takes on among a given people.”5 Furthermore, popular religiosity constitutes “a storehouse of values that offers the answers of Christian wisdom to the great questions of life.”6 This essence is expressed externally in a multitude of gestures ranging from processions and veneration of images to

3 Second Vatican Council, Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy (SC) (December 4, 1963). Collegeville, MN: The Litur-gical Press, 1963, 37.

4 Ibid., 38. 5 Consejo Episcopades Latinoamericano, Puebla: Evangelization in the Present and Future of Latin America, 444, in

John Eagleson and Philip Scharper, eds., Puebla and Beyond: Documentation and Commentary (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1979).

6 Ibid., 448.

dramatic presentations and novenas. This overwhelmingly positive assessment of popular religiosity on the part of the bishops resonates with the brief statement in Sacrosanctum Concilium that “popular devotions of the Christian people are to be highly commended.”7

While such recognition of the religiosity of the people is noteworthy, the fact remains that devotions are not liturgy, and some would argue that more focused effort needs to be undertaken to bring them into relationship with the liturgical practices of the universal Church. Chupungco aptly expresses the difficulty involved: “For a good num-ber of the faithful, today’s revised liturgy with its solemn and exalted language is still very much an exclusive activity of the elite group in the church.”8 This is where the question of inculturation becomes urgent, i.e., how can it help us bring liturgy and popular religiosity into a close and mutually enriching relationship?

To examine this query in a particular context, I draw attention to some elements of popular religiosity in Guerrero. The Montaña region of Guerrero is approximately 85% indigenous, home to the Na savi, Me’phaa and Naua indigenous peoples. The rest of the population is monolingual (Spanish-speaking), and identifies as non-indigenous. Overall, the population is predominately Catholic, which raises an interesting issue with respect to inculturation, namely, the indigenous people of Guerrero are already Christian, having developed over the course of five centuries a form of Catholic Christianity that incorpo-rates elements of their indigenous culture. As such, no form of indigenous religion exists in Guerrero that has not been blended to some extent with Christianity.9

Critical to popular religiosity in the Montaña of Guerrero is the connection between the liturgical and agricultural cycles of seasons. Since life there is shaped by the passing between rainy and dry seasons, two Christian feasts have been appropri-ated to mark the transitions: the Feast of Saint Mark in April ushers in the rain, while the Feast of Saint Michael the Archangel in September signals the harvest and the subsequent onset of the dry period. Similar manifestations of popular religiosity sur-round the liturgical seasons. For instance, just before the beginning of Lent, Carnival celebrations anticipate the arrival of the force of hunger in the community as the dry

7 SC, 13; It is important to note that the same bishops acknowledge that popular devotions have a shadow side, inas-much as they can become outlets for superstition and abuse.

8 Anscar J. Chupungco, Liturgical Inculturation: Sacramentals, Religiosity, and Catechesis (Collegeville, MN: The Litur-gical Press, 1992), 99.

9 While the three indigenous cultures of Guerrero are distinct, displaying even regional variations within each one, nev-ertheless, for the purposes of this paper, I will mention overarching elements of religiosity that are shared by all three cultures. I do so while acknowledging the fact that I neither indigenous nor Mexican. Rather, I humbly offer these observations based on three and a half years of service as a missionary in the diocese of Tlapa, Guerrero. A thorough discussion of inculturation in Guerrero and the ongoing practical application of these methods can only be performed by the indigenous pastoral agents of the diocese of Tlapa.

One could argue that a Eucharistic value system underlies the celebration of the village fiesta in the indigenous cultures of Guerrero.

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season stretches on. Another key element of popular religi-

osity in Montaña consists in sharing food with one’s neighbors and with the larger community. For example, at the yearly fiesta of the patron saint of each village, a meal is prepared in which every member of the community shares. Simi-larly, during the celebrations surrounding the feasts of All Saints and All Souls (November 1st and 2nd), offerings displayed on altars in honor of the dead are distributed among one’s family and neighbors. This responsibil-

ity of providing food in abundance so that all may partake is considered a sacred duty within the community. Moreover, the custom resonates with the Eucharistic theology articulated by the late theologian Monika Helwig, who suggests that the central action of the Eucharist is not eating food per se but sharing it. As such, one could argue that a Eucharistic value system underlies the celebration of the village fiesta in the indigenous cultures of Guerrero.10 With the richness of these customs in mind, we can now turn to Chupungco’s three methods of inculturation and the ways they have been employed in the context of the Montaña.

The first method that Chupungco develops is “dynamic equivalence.” This entails “replacing an element of the Roman liturgy with something in the local culture that has an equal meaning or value.”11 He contrasts dynamic equivalence with a stationary or static process that is more akin to translation, in which a word or concept is transferred directly from one culture into a supposed equivalent in another “without due reference to the people’s cultural pattern, history and experiences of life.”12 Dynamic equivalence can apply to language, as when a word in the liturgy is translated not directly but colorfully, in words that express in the idiom of a local culture what is meant by the original. It can also apply to physical gestures, as when actions are sought that within the local culture convey the attitudes of reverence, attention, fellowship and so on that are expressed in liturgy.

In the Montaña of Guerrero an example of this is the practice of the “limpia” (literally, “cleansing”) as a penitential rite. This ritual, performed by an elder of the com-munity who has served in the traditional positions of community authority, employs a cup of incense and a bundle of herbs. While praying aloud, the elder waves the incense

10 Monika K. Helwig, The Eucharist and the Hunger of the World (Lanham: Sheed and Ward, 1992), 2.

11 Chupungco, Liturgical Inculturation, 37.

12 Ibid., 38.

over the body of each person as a gesture of purification. The ritual is sometimes per-formed at the door of the church before participants process inside for liturgy. For the indigenous people of Guerrero, this gesture expresses penitence and purification. The limpia is also a powerful symbol of reconciliation within the community, particularly as the people prepare for Lent. Chupungco’s method helps us to understand the limpia as an expression suited to the people of a particular culture which still preserves the substantial unity of the Roman rite, as envisioned in the Sacrosanc-tum Consiliium.

Chupungco names the second method “creative assimilation.” He explains that this was the normal practice of liturgical incul-turation in the Patristic period, involving “the assimilation of pertinent rites and linguistic expressions, religious or otherwise, used by contemporary society.”13 In this period of development spanning the 4th to the 8th centuries, the Roman liturgy absorbed elements from within different Christian communities while gradually acquiring the shape it retains today. For example, Chupungco attributes the post-baptismal anointing and clothing with white garment to this process.14

According to Chupungco, the development of new liturgical texts proper to a specific culture may be one of the best applications of the method of creative assimila-tion. This is especially true in light of the challenges inherent in making translations of liturgical texts that will truly express the meaning of an original text in another language, time and place. In addition, Chupungco argues that the method of creative assimilation furthers the cause of identifying those elements which can be incorporated into the sac-ramental rites of a particular culture, such as marriage and baptism, since “these rites can readily accommodate new features, because they do not exhaust all that can be said about the sacraments.”15

The third method suggested by Chupungco is called “organic progression,”

13 Chupungco, 44. 14 Chupungco, 45. 15 Chupungco, 46; In the state of Guerrero and other parts of central and southern Mexico, the presentation of infants,

as well as of three-year-old children, provides an example of a rite incorporated through creative assimilation. Suppos-edly derived from a pre-conquest indigenous custom of presenting a young child in the temple before God, today it involves both the presentation of newborn infants before God after a period of house-bound quarantine, as well as bringing three-year-old children to church for a thanksgiving Mass in an manner reminiscent of the presentation of Mary in the Temple of Jerusalem by Anna and Joachim according to venerable Church tradition found in the Proto-Evangelium of St. James.

Dynamic equivalence can apply to language, as when a word in the liturgy is translated not directly but colorfully, in words that express in the idiom of a local culture what is meant by the original. It can also apply to physical gestures, as when actions are sought that within the local culture convey the attitudes of reverence, attention, fellowship and so on that are expressed in liturgy.


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which connotes “the work of supplementing and completing the shape of the liturgy established by the Constitution on the Liturgy and by the Holy See after the council.”16 This method involves ‘filling in the gaps,’ as it were, that have been left in the treatment of liturgy since Vatican II. While offering principles that serve the universal Church and preserve the unity of the Roman rite, the Coun-cil could not possibly have envisioned all the possible expressions and situations that would bear on the in-culturation of liturgy. Consequently, Sacrosanctum

Concilium made provision for local bishops or synods of bishops to carry forward the process of addressing situations in need of inculturation. Chupungo equates this provi-sion of the document with “a way of saying that the new liturgical forms, which were not envisaged by the Constitution on the Liturgy or the typical editions, should have been there all along, that they would surely have been included in the liturgical rite had it been

drawn up today.”17 Finally, Chupungco attributes to the method of organic progression a number of developments, including the use of the vernacular in liturgy, which grew organically out of the exist-ing forms.

In the case of the Montaña region of Guerrero, the process of inculturation of the liturgy is in its infancy. As yet, there is no translation of the Eu-

charistic prayer into the three indigenous languages spoken in Guerrero, to say nothing of a text developed originally in any of the languages and submitted to Rome for approval. Indeed, the issue of language is of paramount importance, for until the Church, in both liturgy and ministers, can speak in the language of the people, it will always remain to some degree foreign to the indigenous peoples of Guerrero. And that is precisely where the three methods proposed by Chupungco offer a viable pathway. For, in my estimation, work in the method of organic progression could reasonably be-gin with the use of the vernacular in liturgy, so that other expressions true to the indig-enous cultures of the Montaña can then emerge from it organically. There are also more expressions in the indigenous cultures that might be adapted into liturgy through the method of dynamic equivalence, such as the practice of drinking from a common cup at

16 Chupungco, 47.

17 Ibid., 48–9.

The issue of language is of paramount importance, for until the Church, in both

liturgy and ministers, can speak in the language of the people, it will always remain to some degree foreign to the

indigenous peoples of Guerrero.

fiestas which could be incorporated simply by moving to the distribution of the Eucharist under both species. Additional elements of popular religiosity could be incorporated through creative assimilation; for example, the Naua people’s custom of having the elders of the community bless and advise a newly married couple could be included in the marriage rite.

People can and do find meaningful ways to participate both in popular devotions and in the liturgy when such participation is encouraged by the official Church hierarchy and supported by popular catechesis. It is important to remember that in the minds and hearts of the people, there is no distinction between their indigenous religious expressions and their Catholic practices. Rather, their prayers to God are true and powerful whether spoken in the midst of the liturgy of the Eucharist or as a petition for rain prayed on the hilltops during the Feast of Saint Mark. However, in my experience, some members of the Church hierarchy have failed to recognize this spiritual reality and have even discouraged the popular devotions, regarding them as distractions from the liturgy. The challenge for the leaders of the universal Church, then, consists both in providing a culturally appropriate catechetical formation so that people may understand the central role of the liturgy as the source and summit of Christian life, as well as affirming the deep value of extra-liturgical expressions of faith, and seeking ever more ways to incorpo-rate these expressions into a truly inculturated Church—one that celebrates a truly inculturated liturgy.

This is indeed both a challenge and a delicate balancing act. Without a doubt, Sacrosanctum Concilium has its critics. For instance, liturgical theolo-gian Phillip Tovey notes that forty years after the Council very few inculturated rites have received approval from the Congregation of Divine Worship in the Vatican. Moreover, Tovey questions the very premise of changeable and unchangeable elements of liturgy that underlies the understanding of

In the minds and hearts of the people, there is no distinction between their indigenous religious expressions and their Catholic practices. Rather, their prayers to God are true and powerful whether spoken in the midst of the liturgy of the Eucharist or as a petition for rain prayed on the hilltops during the Feast of Saint Mark.


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inculturation, and poses the question: “What is this unchangeable core and how is it determined? Are not all aspects of liturgy and of doctrinal formulation an expression of a particular cultural form?”18 In addition, the values expressed in the document itself, such as noble simplicity, do not hold in all cultures, as members of non-Western cultures know all too well. Another challenging issue is what to do with elements of culture that, while not being bound up with “superstition and error,” cannot easily be brought into the Roman rite. The liturgical calendar in Guerrero offers a case in point.

As alluded previously, the celebrations of Carnival elegantly combine indigenous rituals associated with the dry sea-son with the beginning of Lent in the Christian calendar. But in the cultural vision of the peoples of Guerrero, it is not Easter but the Feast of Saint Mark which ushers in the rainy season that represents new life and resurrection. Does this make their culture incompatible with a truly Christian understanding of Easter? Or, is there a way to encourage, catecheti-

cally and pastorally, a different understanding of the celebration of Easter, while still preserving the Feast of Saint Mark as an essential celebration tied to the onset of the rains?19 Today these are the pressing questions in the process of inculturation in Guerrero.

The discussion on the inculturation of the liturgy in Guerrero demonstrates how immense and complex the process of inculturation must be. Indeed, it is as immense and complex as the totality of every human culture. Moreover, it is a mistake to consign inculturation to the realm of the “mission” churches in non-Christian cultures or in areas recently converted to Christianity. Instead, inculturation must be understood as the continual re-interpretation of each and every evolving culture. Even in the Montaña of Guerrero, a seemingly idyllic place of rural villages and simple people, cultural change moves with lightning speed and threatens the integrity of indigenous cultures. For, as Mexico plunges headlong into the twenty-first century, and global economic phenomena force the indig-

18 Phillip Tovey, Inculturation of Christian Worship: Exploring the Eucharist (Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Com-pany, 2004), 114.

19 Chupungco addresses this issue in “The Future Shape of the Liturgical Year,” mentioning the challenge posed by the fact that seasons are reversed in the southern and northern hemispheres. Seasonal phenomena invoked by a liturgical feast in one hemisphere cannot possibly be reproduced in the other. He explains that at times an appropriate response may be to shape a new set of language and rites that associate the liturgical feast with the seasonal experience of the people; in other situations it may be necessary to introduce new feasts into the calendar of the local church. For Chupungco, the essential underlying theological premise is that “at every turning point of the year and at every criti-cal moment in the cycle of a people’s life and activity there should be a liturgical feast to assure the faithful of God’s abiding presence.” Chupungco, Liturgies of the Future, 172.

In the cultural vision of the peoples of Guerrero, it is not Easter but the Feast

of Saint Mark which ushers in the rainy season that represents new life and resur-

rection. Does this make their culture incompatible with a truly Christian

understanding of Easter?

enous peoples into ever-greater assimilation, the perception grows that some traditional ways are no longer capable of fulfilling the people’s dreams of human flourishing, espe-cially those of young people. Faced with the possibility of cultural extinction, people are thus forced to seek ways to preserve the traditional elements of their cultures. The role of the inculturated liturgy adds a fascinating twist, namely, the possibility that at least some elements of the indigenous cultures of Guerrero be rescued by means of the liturgy, mak-ing both those cultural elements and the liturgy itself speak anew.

Neela Kale is in the second year of the Master of Divinity program. She

served for three and a half years with the Incarnate Word Missionaries in

the Diocese of Tlalpa, Guerrero, Mexico, on behalf of youth, indigenous

women’s cooperatives, and human rights. Currently, she is involved in

ministry at St. Patrick’s Parish in Oakland.

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Why I Preach What I Preach

by Charles Rodrigues, SJ

As a member of the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits) preparing for ordination to the priest-hood, preaching is one of the most important apostolic ministries I will undertake. The responsibility and privilege of heralding the gospel message to God’s people was central in the vision of St. Ignatius of Loyola, our founder, and remains central to every Jesuit’s appropriation of that vision today. For St. Ignatius, the purpose of preaching was to in-struct, move, and inspire people in order to draw them closer to a union with Our Lord, Jesus Christ. For Jesuits today, these principles still remain essential. However, in a vastly different world as compared to the 16th century, it becomes important to go beyond these basic functions of preaching in order to construct a theology of preaching that ap-plies to the multi-faceted Church in which we find ourselves today.

Precisely because the contemporary Church is so diverse, it becomes useful to take ecclesiology as a starting point in the development of a theology of preaching. As Avery Cardinal Dulles has pointed out, believers subscribe to different models of what

the Church is and should be. As a preacher, I first have to be aware that I am preaching to people who might have a different understanding of the Church than I, one which must be accepted as well as challenged or broadened. My own theology makes me see the Church primarily as a sacrament and a servant against the backdrop of the Church as an institution. Translated into a the-ology of preaching, first of all, this means that the institutional Church

has empowered and commissioned me to preach the gospel message. I must therefore represent this Church as faithfully and accurately as possible. From this vantage point, I see the Church as a sacrament: a visible entity that manifests God’s invisible presence. I hold a similar theology of preaching, namely, that preaching is the event through which

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God’s presence is communicated through the preacher to the people. Thus, preaching is a sacramental moment, i.e., a moment when the invisible, ineffable, and transcendent presence of God becomes incarnate in the ears, hearts, and minds of the hearers. The event of preaching means that through very human, concrete and familiar symbols, the presence of God is experienced amongst all those who share in the experience of preach-ing, including the preacher.

In light of this incarnational dimension, Christology remains central to a theology of preaching. While the presence of God may be experienced as the power and majesty of the Creator, or the wisdom and the energy of the Spirit, for me at least this presence is mostly experienced as the love, compassion, and ser-vice of Jesus Christ. For certain, Jesus Christ means different things to different people. But for me, Jesus is first and foremost the living experience of a love that is so compel-ling, so selfless, and so consoling, that it can only be divine. Thus my preaching should always, at least in some ways, incorporate these aspects of Christology: the continual offer of Jesus’ love; the challenge to imitate a love such as this; and the joy and fulfillment that comes from accepting and offering such a Christ-like love.

Such a Christology inclines me toward a “continuum” eschatology in my theol-ogy of preaching. That is, God, through Christ, has given us everything we need—by way of word, deed, and promise—to prepare for the coming of His kingdom. Preaching is an opportunity to remind myself and the people of God that we have what we need to prepare for Christ’s second coming. Preaching the gospel, therefore, means translating the unique events associated with the life of Jesus into examples and invitations that allow people to experience the workings of God today. In this way, God, through the life of Christ, continues to prepare us for our eternal life.

This “translation” of the life of Christ into contemporary experience already hap-pens within the larger commemorative event of the Eucharistic Liturgy. Preaching must there-fore complement this commemorative function of the liturgy while also including people who approach the liturgy with somewhat different liturgical theologies. Through the power of ideas, preaching can influence the “thinkers”; through the use of inclusive and relational dynamics, preaching can appeal to the “feelers”; and through insightful and imaginative interpretations, preaching can reach out the “intuiters.” All these aspects must therefore be incorporated into a theology of preaching.

For certain, Jesus Christ means different things to different people. But for me, Jesus is first and foremost the living experience of a love that is so compelling, so selfless, and so consoling, that it can only be divine.

As a preacher, I first have to be aware that I am preaching to people who might have a different understanding of the Church than I, one which must be accepted as well as chal-lenged or broadened.

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It is indeed comforting and humbling to realize that a preacher is first and fore-most a theologian. It is comforting because preaching is an opportunity to distill complex theological concepts into life-giving applications for a diverse group of people. It is hum-bling because it makes one realize how challenging, well nigh impossible, it is to preach a ‘one size fits all’ theology. Perhaps the first and most important step in constructing a theology of preaching is to acknowledge the promises and pitfalls of one’s own theologi-cal underpinnings, while at the same time acknowledging that it is through our unique blends of strengths and weaknesses that God continues to proclaim the Good News of salvation in Christ.

Homily on the 5th Anniversary of September 11th

In recalling the horrific events that took place on this day five years ago, there are several approaches that people will take in honoring the memory of the 3,000 people who lost their lives on this fateful day. For some, watching TV programs and listening to special radio shows is their way of remembering this day; for others reading stories and transcripts and biographical works of people directly involved with 9/11 is what helps them the most. Some people will want to gather in public places to express their sorrow; others will want to retreat to extremely private places to express theirs. For our part, we have chosen

to assemble here in Gésu Chapel to pray the Liturgy of the Hours as our way responding to this tragic anniversary. I would like to suggest that there could hardly be a more appropriate way for us to commem-orate this anniversary than through this particular form of prayer.

The Liturgy of the Hours is the prayer of the Church. In the face of the horror, the tragedy and the shock of the events of 9/11, all of us realize how puny, how impo-tent, and how alone we are in the face of such dastardly evil. We well

realize that we simply cannot confront such evil alone, and so we gather to pray the prayer of the Church, for the Church, as the Church. To offer unashamedly to God our prayers of lamentation, of supplication, maybe even of desperation. The very same psalms that Our Lord would have offered as he tried to cope with the violence, brutality, and injus-

tices of his time. And we gather not only to offer these prayers. Rather, with the firm be-lief that this is a conversation with God, we gather so that we can collectively listen to the response of God as He speaks to us and reassures us through the readings that: “the bones that were crushed will leap for joy before the Lord,” that “His favors are not exhausted, but are renewed each morning,” that “He is the Resurrection and the Life and to believe in Him means life in spite of death.” (Psalm 51:8; Lamentations 3:23; and John 11:25)

But perhaps even more signifi-cantly, by gathering to pray the Liturgy of the Hours today we are fulfilling one of the primary functions of this form of prayer, for, as the name suggests, one of its primary purposes is to sanctify the hours of the day, and if there was ever an hour in the recent history of this nation that needs sanctifying it was that fateful hour on September 11th, 2001, when violence, death and terror became a part of the very fabric of our lives. And by praying this prayer we are, with God’s grace, sanctifying the horrible memories of that day.

We spend so much time puzzling over the mystery of evil, and rightly so, since the experience of evil seems to question the very existence of a good and gracious God. But in spending so much energy in trying to understand the existence of evil we often lose sight of what our faith and tradition encourages us to do in the face of evil: to sanctify it however we can. In this regard, we have before us some truly extraordinary examples of people who, in the face of abject evil, found a way to sanctify it. For instance, today is the centennial anniversary of the non-violence movement initiated by Mohandas K. Gandhi. He, in his day, was confronted with the evils of racial hatred, oppression and colonization. He chose non-violent resistance as his way of sanctifying the evils that tormented him. In an even more powerful way, we recall today the examples of those hundreds of police officers, firefighters, service personnel, chaplains and ordinary people who willingly gave up their lives on September 11th. We look upon them as bonafide heroes, for what can be more heroic than the act of sanctifying the evil that surrounded them that morning at Ground Zero with the sacrifice of their very lives? And always, as we gather to pray, we keep before us the example of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and his action of sanc-tifying evil with those words of forgiveness issuing from his lips as he gave up his life for the love of us: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34)

We have just prayed the Miserere, that famous Psalm 51which begs God to sanctify the evil within each of us. Could we do any better than to leave this chapel with the firm resolve to sanctify henceforth the evil that we encounter outside us in the

If there was ever an hour in the recent history of this nation that needs sanctifying it was that fateful hour on September 11th, 2001, when violence, death and terror became a part of the very fabric of our lives. And by praying this prayer we are, with God’s grace, sanctifying the horrible memories of that day.

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world? Wouldn’t that be the highest tribute we can pay to our brothers and sisters who succumbed to the forces of evil on this day?

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Charles Rodrigues, SJ, is a member of the Chicago Province of the Society of Jesus, currently in his 2nd year of the Master of Divinity program at JSTB. Formerly, he taught in the Religious Studies Department of St. Xavier High School, Cincinnati.

The Apologetics of Beauty:The Promise and Catholicity of Liturgical Aesthetics

by Kurt M. Denk, SJ

Introduction: liturgical divisiveness and the apologetics of beauty

“Liturgy should be enjoyable,” so proclaims Andrew Greeley, the ubiquitous commentator on Catholic culture, as he introduces “The Apologetics of Beauty.”1 Obviously Greeley implies that enjoyment does not universally describe liturgical experience today. Indeed, it is fair to claim that, especially since the reforms of the Second Vatican Council, liturgy has become a locus for Catholics to project their conflicts over any variety of personal or theological values. This unfortunate trend is ironic. For the Council’s normative statement on liturgical renewal, Sacrosanctum Concilium, proclaims a laudable, opposite intention: to build up the hearts and spirits of the faithful, in a manner more consistent with the fundamental mission and spirit of Jesus’ Good News.2 And yet, that we live in an era of conflict over liturgical practice is evidenced by the very fact that Francis Cardinal Arinze, prefect for the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, recently saw fit to issue firm directives aimed at correcting a perceived drift in liturgical praxis.3

One especially finds such conflict in academic settings, where individuals skilled at the craft of argument appear even more readily poised to carry theoretical disputes into the arena of communal faith praxis. And here Greeley’s apologetics of beauty may well emerge as a promising antidote. For Greeley submits that, while theological apologetics typically aims precisely at argument, beauty tends not to ‘argue.’4 Rather, it has a unique capacity to attract and to enchant, to “hint at the transcendent and even [to] provide an opportunity for

1 Andrew M. Greeley, “The Apologetics of Beauty,” in America (16 September 2000: 8–14), 8. Greeley attributes the quote, “liturgy should be enjoyable,” to Pope John Paul II.

2 Second Vatican Council, Sacrosanctum Concilium (1963) in E. Hoffman, ed., The Liturgy Documents: A Parish Re-source, vol. I, 4th ed. (Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 2004), nn. 2, 9–10, 19. Note that further references to this document are cited parenthetically.

3 Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments, Redemptionis Sacramentum (Vatican City, 2004). Available online: http://www.usccb.org/liturgy/documents/instruction.pdf. Notably, many find Redemptio-nis Sacramentum’s attack on alleged “abuses” of protocol heavy-handed, and its norms to counter such abuses over-zealous. While this is obviously a matter of interpretation, it is worthwhile to cite some instances which detractors may claim point to heavy-handedness—e.g., the firm instruction that “all should conform to the ordinances set forth by legitimate ecclesiastical authority” (7), or the equally firm (and maybe patronizing) prohibition against homilies’ inclusion of “notions derived from contemporary pseudo-religious currents” (67).

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Catholicism’s beauty may indeed be its “most powerful appeal” ….This leaves us

with several questions. First, what does beauty have to do with liturgy?

the transcendent briefly to break through our lives and illumine them.”5 Here emerges the incisive twist of Greeley’s contribution: Catholicism’s beauty may indeed be its “most powerful appeal,” and a corresponding apologetics of beauty can actually subvert divisive argument.6 This leaves us with several questions. First, what does beauty have to do with

liturgy? Is there such a thing as liturgical aesthetics? And if so, can a liturgical aesthetics founded on the apologetics of beauty subvert the liturgical divisiveness that often charac-terizes Catholic academia?

This essay aims to answer these questions affirmatively and thereby to serve a combined practical,

theological, and pastoral purpose. To do so it begins with Sacrosanctum Concilium, and highlights therein a liturgical aesthetics that echoes Greeley’s apologetics of beauty. It then further elucidates this still rather broad notion of liturgical aesthetics via Hans Urs von Balthasar’s contemporary contributions to theological aesthetics.7 And finally it proposes how the apologetics of beauty intrinsic to liturgical aes-thetics can inspire dialogue that might better realize Sacrosanctum Concilium’s vision of uniting and uplifting the faithful via sacred liturgy’s encounter with the ultimate Beauty which we find in Christ’s gift of himself in word and in sacrament.

Liturgical aesthetics in Sacrosanctum Concilium

For the purposes of this essay, liturgical aesthetics will be defined as those dimensions of liturgical worship which draw upon and/or point towards a perception of sacred creativity or beauty. While this definition is my own, it resonates with discussions of liturgical aesthetics in a variety of contemporary sources. For example, John Foley posits that aesthetics inheres in any “systematic vision of the liturgy itself.”8 Aidan Kavanagh proposes that liturgy is “ordered and accomplished through a variety of artistic media” and “like poetry and art and music … provides us a means of knowing the kind of thing that can only be known transrationally.”9 And Albert Rouet offers that “the relationship between the arts and liturgy is … existential,” for “liturgy requires beauty in order to achieve meaning.”10 And yet, is liturgical aesthetics little more than a fad? Or, as some might argue from the title itself—Creativity and the Roots of Liturgy—is liturgical aesthetics

4 Greeley, 8.5 Ibid., 9.6 Ibid., 8.7 This second step serves to clarify the theoretical foundations necessary for liturgical aesthetics, and thereby explicitly

addresses the specific context which this essay has in mind: Catholic academia.8 John Foley, S.J., Creativity and the Roots of Liturgy (Washington, DC: The Pastoral Press, 1994), 5.9 Aidan Kavanagh, On Liturgical Theology (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 139, 142, 169.10 Albert Rouet, Liturgy and the Arts, trans. Paul Philibert, O.P. (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1997), xii, xiii.

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one of those ‘pseudo-religious notions’ in the crosshairs of Cardinal Arinze’s Redemptionis Sacramentum?

Sacrosanctum Concilium never uses the term “liturgical aesthetics” itself. As it turns out though, liturgical aesthetics is both historcally and textually imbedded in Sacrosanctum Concilium For instance,senstivities to the tremendous artistic merit of Gregorian chant and to the need to foster the congre-gants’ more spirited participation in liturgywere pre-eminent in the liturgical movement which preceded Sacrosanctum Concilium by about six decades, and which culminated in the wide-ranging reforms that it confirmed and directed to be further implemented.11 We might say, then, that the liturgical movement’s mindfulness for both the perceptive and per-formative dimensions of liturgical aesthetics was at least one historical factor that influenced Sacrosanctum Concilium.12

Turning to the text itself, three interpretive points are worth highlighting. First, the tone of Sacrosanctum Concilium suggests an underlying sensitivity to liturgical aesthetics. A brief digression should illumine this point. This essay’s definition of liturgical aesthetics stresses dynamic language, as evidenced by the following italicized words: “liturgical aesthetics concerns those dimensions of liturgical worship which draw upon and/or point towards a perception of sacred creativity or beauty.” Generally speaking, things-aesthetic seize our attention and imagination, call forth deep emotion, and stimulate penetrating thought. With this in mind, it is interesting how the Council Fathers cast this first of their documents in terms which profess a parallel, aesthetic concern for that which evokes the sacred beautiful: “this Sacred Council . . . desires to impart an ever increasing vigor to the Christian life of the faithful . . . to strengthen whatever can help to call the whole of humanity into the household of the Church” (SC 1; emphases added). Such a tone of sacred, aesthetic dynamism continues throughout the document.

Sacrosanctum Concilium’s structural organization represents the second aspect which bespeaks aesthetic sensitivity. Of its seven chapters, two are respectively directed to the role of music and of arts and furnishings within liturgy. Admittedly, these chapters are much briefer than those which examine other topics. Still, that music and the arts were

11 Cf. Pierre Jounel, “From the Council of Trent to Vatican Council II,” in Irénée Henri Dalmais et al., eds., The Church at Prayer: An Introduction to the Liturgy, vol. I, Principles of the Liturgy, new ed., trans. Matthew J. O’Connell (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1987), 72–6.

12 Aesthetics involves perception, but also usually includes an active, responsive component. The reference here to the ‘performative dimension’ of aesthetics alludes to this active aspect—i.e., to that which pertains to its dynamic element or, to use the terminology of this essay’s definition, to that which “draws from and/or points towards” the beautiful.

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deemed worthy of their own chapters in the very least affirms that liturgical aesthetics is in play within the document. Recalling this essay’s claim that liturgy has built within it a capacity to evoke the beautiful, it is notable that the Council’s seminal document on liturgy closes with reflections on music and art as manifestations of the beautiful.13 Furthermore, these closing chapters are no dead letter. Subsequent authoritative Church statements have picked up where Sacrosanctum Concilium leaves off, and have sought to clarify and develop further the role of aesthetic media (i.e., music, art, even architecture) in the Church’s worship.14

The third aspect of Sacrosanctum Concilium that reveals a liturgical aesthetics comes through in its theology. The document correlates liturgy itself with the sacramental principle.15 And it does so in terms which specifically evoke a deep sense of aesthetic consciousness:

For the liturgy, “making the work of our redemption a present actuality”16… is the outstanding means whereby the faithful may express in their lives and manifest to others the mystery of Christ and the real nature of the true Church. It is of the essence of the Church to be both human and divine, visible yet endowed with invisible resources, eager to act yet intent on contemplation, present in this world yet not at home in it; and the Church is all these things in such wise that in it the human is directed and subordinated to the divine, the visible likewise to the invisible, action to contemplation, and this present world to that city yet to come which we seek (SC 2).17

This clarion call to liturgical renewal reveals a profound theological aesthetic. More will be said of ‘theological aesthetics’ per se in the subsequent section of this essay. Here it suffices to underscore that Sacrosanctum Concilium proceeds from the theological-anthropological premise that human consciousness exists in dynamic relation with the beautiful, and thus it endorses liturgical aesthetics as a means to both signify and effect the implications of this theological-anthropological premise.18

Once it becomes clear that one legitimately reads Sacrosanctum Concilium as embodying a liturgical aesthetics, the remainder of the document comes alive in this

13 In stirring terms, Sacrosanctum Concilium describes the aesthetic media of music as “oriented toward the infinite beauty of God” (122), and of art as serving “to uplift the faithful and to foster their devotion and religious forma-tion” (127).

14 Cf., for example, the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops’ Music in Catholic Worship (1972), Liturgical Music Today (1982), and Built of Living Stones (2000), or the preamble and fifth chapter especially in the newly revised General Instruction of the Roman Missal (2002).

15 The sacramental principle claims that things from this world reveal and disclose God’s presence and action among us.16 Here Sacrosanctum Concilium quotes from the Roman Missal, prayer over the gifts, Holy Thursday and Second

Sunday in Ordinary Time.17 Here SC references Hebrews 13:14.18 In effect, then, this essay posits that liturgical aesthetics itself is a manifestation of the sacramental principle—the very

point which the previously-cited authors Foley, Kavanagh, and Rouet all suggest if not claim outright.


respect. Thus, for example, it speaks of the use “of signs perceptible to the senses” as the means for evoking praise of God and the call to sanctification (SC 7). Rich aes-thetic imagery accompanies this relation of the sacramental principle to liturgy itself as ‘both fount and summit’ of all Church activity (10).19 And the normative injunction for the faithful’s “full and active participation” (14) lends a further ‘performative’ element to this aesthetic ideal for liturgy: “the people should be en-couraged to take part by means of acclamations, responses, psalmody, antiphons, and songs, as well as by actions, gestures, and bearing. And at the proper times all should observe a reverent silence” (30).20 Anyone who has been to a ballet, or has taken time to absorb a fine paint-ing, recognizes in this demand a cultivated aesthetic sensibility, now transposed to the most sacred of contexts.

As mentioned above, Sacrosanctum Concilium devotes two chapters to sacred music and to sacred art and other furnishings. It is attentive to color, form, and texture as well as to the value of artistic discretion and inculturation (SC 123). Thus, “the musical tradition of the universal Church is a treasure of inestimable value . . . adding delight to prayer, fostering openness of spirit, or investing the rites with greater solemnity” (112). Similarly, “the fine arts are deservedly ranked among the noblest activities of human genius and this applies to religious art and to its highest achievement, sacred art” (122). Extending from this and from the points made in the preceding paragraphs, it is instructive that even before spelling out what liturgical rubrics should require of these sacred media, Sacrosanctum Concilium underscores that certain general aesthetic principles inform liturgical rubrics.

From the preceding historical and textual analysis of Sacrosanctum Concilium it should be clear that the document advances a rather profound liturgical aes-thetics, without using this term per se. But something

Sacrosanctum Concilium’s liturgical aesthetics represents a dynamic tendency, something akin to the sacramental prin-ciple itself, in that it “overwhelms us, enchants us, fascinates us, calls us.”

19 In other words, the very means by which sacramental experience mediates religious truths are via the senses and the affect—via liturgical aesthetics.

20 See the specification of what is meant by the ‘performative’ aspect of aesthetics, p. 3, n. 12.21 Pope Benedict XVI offers an incisive critique of “aestheticism as an end in itself” in his chapter, “‘Sing Artistically for

God’: Biblical Directives for Church Music” in A New Song for the Lord: Faith in Christ and Liturgy Today, trans. Martha M. Matesich (New York: Crossroad Publishing Company, 1996), 133–4.

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else should be clear by this point as well, and which hearkens back to Greeley’s dis-cussion of the apologetics of beauty. And that is that Sacrosanctum Concilium does not advance a simplistic ‘aestheticism’—i.e., a sense that anything appealing to the senses evokes the divine.21 Rather, in its “striving after noble beauty rather than mere sumptuous display” (SC 124) it advances a liturgical aesthetics grounded in the beautiful as transcendental.22 In line with Greeley’s apologetics of beauty, Sacrosanctum Concilium’s liturgical aesthetics represents a dynamic tendency, something akin to the sacramental principle itself, in that it “overwhelms us, enchants us, fascinates us, calls us.”23

‘The beautiful’ and Balthasar’s contributions to theological aesthetics

Can the “noble beauty” that orients Sacrosanctum Concilium’s liturgical aesthetics also serve as an apologetics in the manner Greeley has in mind?24 For what must now be answered is how the liturgical aesthetics of Sacrosanctum Concilium might address this essay’s specific contextual concern: liturgical divisiveness within Catholic academia. Here

it becomes important to elucidate the broader notion of liturgical aesthetics via theological aesthetics as a specific theoretical enterprise. This serves as the ‘bridge’ from the liturgical aesthetics of Sacrosanctum Concilium to an aca-demic community’s primary frame of reference: theoretical exploration. Here we turn to no-tions of the beautiful, and specifically to the

theological aesthetics of Hans Urs von Balthasar. The main advantage of his thought lies in its rootedness in longstanding Catholic philosophical and theological categories, all the while representing a substantially new contribution to Catholic theology in its incorporation of a variety of contemporary insights both Catholic and secular.25

A number of contemporary Catholic scholars point to Balthasar next to,

When disagreements over dogmatic theology center on the liturgical context, it might be best to begin the conflict mediation by sorting out what the participants to the disagreement indeed perceive, aesthetically, in the very context they are arguing about.

22 The notion of the beautiful as a transcendental will be explored in the subsequent section of this essay.23 Greeley, 10.24 To recapitulate this key point: Greeley proposes that a powerful sense of appeal inheres in Catholicism’s beauty, and

because of its capacity to draw and attract rather than “argue” as a solely rationalist apologetics would tend to do, an apologetics of beauty can actually subvert divisive argument.

25 Balthasar is rooted in Catholic tradition, and thus can be a ‘friend’ to those concerned to uphold liturgical tradition, such as one finds in Sacrosanctum Concilium but even more so in subsequent documents such as Liturgiam Authen-ticam (2001), the newly revised General Instruction of the Roman Missal (2002), and Redemptionis Sacramentum (2004). On the other hand, Balthasar’s freshness, originality, and dialogue with a broad array of intellectual sources not exclusively coterminous with Roman Catholic magisterial authority make him both accessible and appealing to broader constituencies. From these two points, it should be clear that Balthasar’s contributions may occupy a uniquely suitable position which can mediate the ideological conflicts one tends to find within Catholic academia.


if not ahead of, Karl Rahner, as the most articulate as well as systematic advocate of theological aesthetics.26 In the first volume of his multi-volume The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics, Balthasar offers a crucial development of contemporary Catholic doctrine when he identifies aesthetics as the foundation of theology, not as a mere adjunct to or species within it.27 In doing so, Balthasar orients his theology around the transcendentals—more specifically, around ‘the beautiful.’28 Notably in this regard, and as a tie-in to the preceding discussion, the transcendental category of the beautiful appears to be an implicit premise in Sacrosanctum Concilium’s reflection on the role of sacred arts in the liturgy as being “by their very nature…oriented toward the infinite beauty of God, which they attempt in some way to portray by the work of human hands” (SC 122; emphasis added).

When the beautiful as transcendental serves as an organizing principle for theological method (and here we might presume to include liturgical theological method), it becomes integral to all theological reasoning. Crucially, Balthasar’s version of this claim appears to be anthropological as much as speculative. For, as Oliver Davies argues, Balthasar posits that the ‘qualifiers’ in any act of aesthetic perception are not merely taste and enjoyment, as a minimalist conception of aesthetics may lead us to believe. Rather, the aesthetic act of perceiving the beautiful is also a form of cognition. Thus, it retains an intrinsic link to the other transcendentals of the good and the true, and indeed resonates with “the depths of Christian revelation.”29 In this sense, Balthasar advances ‘theological aesthetics’ rather than ‘aesthetic theology,’ insisting that beauty ought never

26 Greeley cites both Balthasar and Rahner. Others tend to highlight Balthasar if not exclusively, at least seminally. Here, cf. Oliver Davies, “The Theological Aesthetics” in Edward T. Oakes, S.J. and David Moss, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs von Balthasar (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 131–42; or Raymond T. Gawronski, S.J., “The Beauty of the Cross: The Theological Aesthetics of Hans Urs von Balthasar” in Kenneth D. Whitehead, ed., The Catholic Imagination: Proceedings from the Twenty-Fourth Annual Convention of the Fellowship of Catholic Scholars (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 2003), 30–49.

27 Hans Urs von Balthasar, The Glory of the Lord, vol. I: Seeing the Form, trans. Erasmo Leivà-Merikakis (San Fran-cisco: Ignatius Press, 1982).

28 The transcendentals were of particular interest to medieval scholastic philosopher-theologians, and the most widely-accepted version is found in St. Thomas Aquinas, who developed his account as an adaptation of Aristotle. The transcendentals are properties identifiable in every mode of existence, i.e.: being (in Latin, ens), one (unum), good (bonum), true (verum), beautiful (pulchrum), and also thing (res) and something (aliquid). Over time other theorists accepted, revised, or rejected Aquinas’s version, or the notion of transcendentals altogether. In any case, W. Norris Clarke emphasizes that Aquinas included beauty among the transcendentals only later in his work, and even then limited beauty as a transcendental to the realm of ontology, not aesthetics. This very point, though, serves to illumine how Balthasar (among others) has developed the Catholic position in this regard, and thus also how the present theological discussion of aesthetics that uses the beautiful as a transcendentals is particularly innovative and incisive. cf. W. Norris Clarke, S.J., “The Transcendental Properties of Being,” in The One and the Many: A Contemporary Thomistic Metaphysics (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001), 290–302, esp. 298–301; and also Scott MacDonald, “transcendentals,” in Robert Audi, ed., The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy, 2nd ed. (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 926–7.

29 Davies, 133.

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be divorced from the good and the true, or from the theological enterprise as a whole.So understood, Balthasar’s theological aesthetics, and the pre-eminence he assigns

to the beautiful in particular, is a foundational theory in the technical sense. That is, it stands as a ground from which we explore whatever else it is we try to understand.30 Thus, the fact that in Balthasar’s scheme aesthetic perception serves as the subjective ground for the objective aspects of faith which inform dogmatic theology, offers an important

methodological insight for this essay’s practical concern. At times, aesthetic perception can be dismissed as ‘mere taste.’ And yet, Balthasar offers an important contribution in his claim that aesthetic perception is not simply a matter of taste. Consider an analogy: the old rule of lex orandi lex credendi (roughly translated, “as we pray, so we believe”) reminds us of the primordial character of liturgical worship itself, and of its capacity to inform subsequent dogmatic formula-tions. Similarly, here is where Balthasar is helpful: allegedly ‘subjective,’ aesthetic perceptions—such as those which in-form prayer—also have a primordial character, and aesthetic perception itself can serve as a foundation for dogmatic the-ology. As such, when disagreements over dogmatic theology center on the liturgical context, it might be best to begin the conflict mediation by sorting out what the participants to the disagreement indeed perceive, aesthetically, in the very context they are arguing about. Then our aesthetics will be

protected from merely projected subjective idiosyncrasy, but perhaps so too will our pur-suit of goodness and truth.31

There is hope, then, in the prospect that Balthasar’s foundational theological assertion about the primacy of the beautiful might also serve as a pragmatic starting point for the kind of dialogue that needs to occur if a liturgical aesthetics is to overcome the dividedness evident in some Catholic academia. But if it is to do so, it must have both a broad base of appeal and also an objective point of unity. It must, in other words, possess

30 Davies, 139.31 Godfried Cardinal Daneels offered precisely this argument in an intervention at a consistory of cardinals held in

Rome, 21–24 May 2001: “the human person hesitates before the True, is impotent before the Good, but loves Beauty.” He goes on to offer, along lines that parallel Greeley’s sociological argument, that beauty “disarms” and is “irresistible for contemporary men and women.” And along lines that echo Balthasar’s theological position, he argues that “beauty can make a synthesis of the true and the good. Truth, Goodness, Beauty. Here are three names and three access roads to God.” See Daneels, “The Contemporary Person and the Church: An Intervention at the Consistory” in America, 30 July – 6 August 2001: 6–9.

32 Greeley, 8.


the promise of true catholicity, and in the fullness of the beauty that Greeley reminds us is Catholicism’s “most powerful appeal.”32

The beautiful in dialogue: the promise and catholicity of liturgical aesthetics

An insight from Pope Benedict XVI’s reflections on liturgical aesthetics, offered sev-eral years before his election in April 2005, offers a helpful guidepost for orienting the kind of dialogue described above. As Benedict states, “people entering the realm of faith must leave behind what is merely their own and let catholicity, the turning of themselves over to the whole, happen to them as an ongoing process.”33 The specific context of Benedict’s remark was the millennial anniversary of the Mainz Cathedral, and he used that occasion to reflect on the broader link between physical church buildings, and the living structure of the Church in all her believers. But it seems reasonable to propose that his remark might link the immediately preceding discussion of theological and liturgical aesthetics, with this essay’s ultimate aim to propose conceiving of aesthetic dialogue itself as an antidote for liturgical divisiveness. Here it is crucial to examine briefly each part of his remark.

To begin with, Benedict presumes the ‘big picture’ or, we might say, the transcen-dental dimension. For his starting point is people “entering the realm of faith.” This activity requires something of the individual. One must “leave behind … their own” self-concern. He then sug-gests that from this activity something much larg-er, something transcendent, results: catholicity— the view of the whole—takes over one’s religious imagination. And crucially, this result is neither singular nor unidirectional, but rather a process that simultaneously and dialectically points one outward and within, within and outward, from and toward the One who is True, Good, and eminently Beautiful.

Ultimately, does liturgy not attempt something similar? Does it not explore and endeavor to understand human existence in relation to the Beautiful One, and to do so

33 Benedict, 113.34 Davies, 139. In these last paragraphs the concepts have become perhaps more abstract than would be desired

in an essay the prime concern of which is liturgy. But this is done so as to explore the concepts that ultimately root liturgy and that frame its Christic content. Indeed, as Davies argues, Balthasar’s own theological aesthetics is quite Christocentric by definition: “Balthasar understands Jesus himself to be the one in whom absolute Being makes its appearance, and in whom, through an act of perception, which is simultaneously theological and aesthetic, the Christian faithful come to the realization that existence is in truth the self-communication of the Trinitarian Creator God” (139).

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via the sacred aesthetic that is part and parcel of the sacramental principle that itself guides all liturgy? If so, then a Catholic aesthetics that finds in the perception of beauty a primor-dial foundation for the transcendental exploration that occurs in liturgy, is indeed a good place from which to begin when we find in liturgy a place for conflict, rather than shared exploration. For the celebration of the liturgy is not just a shell of actions that correspond to certain normative beliefs. Rather, the principle of lex orandi lex credendi reminds us that the form and action of liturgy—both of which bear aesthetic characteristics at their

very core—mediate and state the norm of our belief. Therefore, when there is conflict—whether over liturgical form and action because it suggests divergent beliefs, or

over beliefs proposed as normative because they therefore demand different liturgi-cal form and action—perhaps the best place to begin is at the primordial beginning, at the aesthetic. Here we benefit from taking a cue from Balthasar, who “is concerned to consider doctrines and teaching in terms of their reception,” and turn to the aesthetic perceptions of contesting parties first because “transcendental beauty must be mapped not from above so much as from below.” 34

These last points may seem painfully obvious: ‘Of course, if there’s argument, talk about what’s causing it!’ But if we accept Balthasar’s claim that aesthetic perception has a cognitive, rather than a simply subjective, ‘emotive’ dimension, then starting the conversation at the level of aesthetic perceptions may indeed provide normative clues as to where the doctrinal discussion needs to proceed. For the dialectical experience itself of conflicting parties submitting to one another both what they ‘feel’ and ‘think’ via their aesthetic perception of liturgy may well reveal not just points of conflict, but also points of convergence. Ironically, then, the value in aesthetic perception’s very subjectivity lies in its capacity to lead us to those common points from which objective inquiry might proceed less divisively.

As Aidan Kavanagh observes, the liturgy “like a superb act of music or poetry… [exists] to upend and subvert that terrestrial abnormality which maims and kills all things and people.”35 Given this gloss on liturgical aesthetics’ apologetics of beauty, both Father Greeley and Cardinal Daneels, compliments of Hans Urs von Balthasar, may indeed be correct in asserting that beauty can synthesize and lead to the true and the good. Dia-logue in and about the beautiful, and specifically the transcendent beauty that persons of faith find in the sacred liturgy, becomes apologetic in the best sense. It is reverent of God and humble before the other. It does not anathematize a perceived opponent, but

35 Kavanagh, 166.36 Benedict, 133–4.

Sacred liturgy itself is an aesthetic medium of a high order. It mediates between everyday, material

life and the ultimate desires of the spirit for God.


37 Greeley, 14.

is open to being receptive of another’s communication as it is to communicating one’s own belief. In the end the apologetics of beauty derives from the liturgical aesthetic itself and vice versa, and conceiving the question this way subverts any temptation to division among the faithful.

Sacred liturgy itself is an aesthetic medium of a high order. It mediates between everyday, material life and the ultimate desires of the spirit for God. And just as the sac-ramental principle that informs it stands as the ultimate guarantor against metaphysical dualism, so too its apologetics of beauty might serve as the ultimate guarantor against academic faith communities’ tendency to ideological dualism and interpersonal division. In the end, the subversion inherent in liturgical divisiveness indeed boils down to the sacramental principle itself, and to our role in perceiving its aesthetic contours. And there is reason to believe we can achieve this, for we too “come from God’s ‘art’ . . . and as perceivers can think and view God’s creative ideas with him and translate them into the visible and the audible.”36 As Andrew Greeley eloquently proclaims, “encounters with beauty open us up to their own alchemy, which gently guides us to goodness and truth. There is simply no other way, because faith and ethics cannot be imposed from the out-side. They can be embraced only as a consequence of an act of love.”37 This occurs all the more fruitfully when those who participate in liturgy recognize they together form one manifestation of Christ’s fourfold presence within it, receive the Beauty therein, and give themselves over to it and to one another in return.

Kurt M. Denk, SJ, is a member of the Maryland Province of the Society of

Jesus, currently completing his third year in the Master of Divinity program.

Presently an assistant with the Catholic chaplaincy programs at San Quentin

State Prison, he has also worked in Jesuit higher education and retreat minis-

tries, and has done international service work in Mexico and China.

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St. Ignatius Church, San Francisco: Leading People to God for 150 Years

By Dung Q. Tran

Introduction

According to the renowned Jesuit theologian, Avery Cardinal Dulles, Fundamental The-

ology “must ask not only how we get to God, but how God comes to us.”1 This insight

simultaneously challenges and invites the Christian faithful to be critically aware of the

multivalent ways in which God is revealed, particularly in a house of prayer. For genera-

tions of San Franciscans, as well as for visitors to the city and students at the University of

San Francisco (henceforth, USF), St. Ignatius Church has done just that, namely, provided

a stable and unifying source of hope, as well

as a reminder to the faithful of the dynamic

heritage of the Catholic Church and of the So-

ciety of Jesus (the Jesuits). St. Ignatius Church

(henceforth, St. Ignatius) continues to accom-

pany USF and the Golden Gate Park section of

the city through good times and bad, reminding all those who enter the church of their status as

a pilgrim people who belong to a God whose magnificence transcends our understanding.

With all of this in mind, the chief aim of this essay is threefold: 1) to uncover the ‘big story’ of St. Ignatius Church; 2) to access the ‘little story’ of my experience of the church; and 3) to draw connections between the two.

The Big Story of St. Ignatius Church

The history of Saint Ignatius is inseparable from the history of San Francisco. The current church is the fifth in a succession of Jesuit churches in the city, the first of which was dedicated in 1855 on Market Street between Fourth and Fifth Streets.2 As the con-gregation grew, the assembly hall of St. Ignatius College became the second St. Ignatius Church. When property taxes proved unbearably high in 1880, the Jesuits moved St.

1 Avery Dulles, The Craft of Theology: From Symbol to System, New Expanded Edition (New York: Cross-road Publishing Company, 1995), 56.

2 University of San Francisco, Historical Profile: St. Ignatius Church. 1998.

After its destruction by fire during the Great Earthquake of 1906, the location of

St. Ignatius moved once again, this time to a small stucco building near Golden Gate Park.

Ignatius Church and College to the corner of Hayes Street and Van Ness Avenue. After its destruction by fire during the Great Earthquake of 1906, the location of St. Ignatius moved once again, this time to a small stucco building near Golden Gate Park. Within two years, engineer John E. Pope persuaded the Jesuits to acquire a piece of land atop a hill at the corner of Parker Avenue and Fulton Street. Pope envisioned this as a perfect site to construct a building “with towering outlines visible from all parts of the City . . . [its] stately towers piercing the air above the break-ers.”3 Soon, architect Charles J. I. Devlin was drawing up plans for the church, which entailed a blending of Italian and Spanish Baroque elements, often referred to as Jesuit Baroque, its floor plan following that of the Roman ba-silicas. Ground breaking occurred on December 8, 1910; the laying of the cornerstone on March 24, 1912; and dedication on August 2, 1914. The current church seats some two thousand people, but on occasions such as Easter and Christmas capacity swells to over two thousand five hundred. The church rises 540 feet from the city base, with the east and west towers rising more than 200 feet above street level.

St. Ignatius receives natural light via eighteen circular windows in the east and west aisles and eighteen clerestory windows. The stained glass windows along the nave are 25 feet in height and were designed by Norbert Graves. The baldachino (canopy) over the altar is carved from white Appalachian oak, and was added in 1949, along with the marble floor and communion rail.4 Suspended from the baldachino is a nine-foot crucifix made of dark oak.

Throughout its ninety-year history, St. Ignatius has been the site of innumerable ceremonies and events in the life of USF. For instance, the church accommodates ap-proximately 50 weddings, 20 funerals, and 130 baptisms per year.5 St. Ignatius has also been the site of numerous ordinations of Jesuits to the priesthood and episcopacy, as well as USF baccalaureate and commencement exercises. The church even hosted his holiness, the Dali Lama, during his visit in 2003.

The ‘Little Story’: My First Encounter with St. Ignatius Church

I stood alone in the open field, in the shadows of Saint Ignatius Church on a brisk Febru-ary afternoon. The towers and dome rose in creamy grey, warm against the uniform silver

3 St. Ignatius Church, The On-line Docent Tour, http://www.stignatiussf.org/docent.htm4 St. Ignatius Church, The On-line Docent Tour, http://www.stignatiussf.org/docent.htm 5 University of San Francisco Press Release, St. Ignatius Turns 90, http://www.usfca.edu/usfnews/news_

stories/2004/stignatius90.html

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of the hazy sky. Standing there I felt an overwhelming sense of intuitive gravity, as if the taproot of my soul had suddenly been driven deep into that soil, as deeply as the roots that supported the towering pine tree beside me. I knew at that mo-ment that this would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.6

I recall the day I sat on a slow-moving, crowded city bus during a job-hunting visit to the Bay Area almost two years ago. I was anxious to arrive to the USF campus. Then, at a bus stop on a hill, I looked up and caught sight of two magnificent towers that glis-tened in the sunlight. In an instant, my angst and apprehension gave way to a soothing sensation inspired by the very image of the church. Indeed, those familiar with Ignatian spirituality would undoubtedly refer to this moment as an experience of consolation. In any case, after my arrival and interview on campus, I made sure to explore the church. For one thing, I was very curious as to what a European-style church was doing in the middle of San Francisco!

When I entered the cavernous building from a side door, I discovered craftsmen restoring stained glass windows and installing carpet in the aisles, while the sacristan was watering flowers near the altar. Needless to say, so much activity made it difficult to pray, so I sought quiet refuge in the numerous side chapels. One by one, as I visited the chapels, I was struck by the dedication of those kneeling in quiet prayer, that is, by their commitment to prayer despite the loud ac-tivity in the main hall of the church. The sight of two elderly Latina women praying the Rosary with two young children in the chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe was especially moving.

Inspired by the example of these faithful souls, I decided to spend a moment of quiet prayer in the St. Ignatius Memorial Chapel.7 The focal point of this chapel is the head of St. Ignatius set upon a vertical beam, which, when seen at night, creates the illu-

6 From a journal entry on the occasion of my first visit to USF—an interview for my current position in University Ministry, in February 2005.

7 Designed by USF Jesuit, Fr. Tom Lucas, SJ, the St. Ignatius Memorial Chapel was awarded a 1998 National Honor Award for Liturgical Design by the American Institute of Architects. Fr. Lucas has worked on cathedrals and chapels in the Bay Area and China, including the stained glass restoration project of Xujiahui Cathedral in Shanghai, China. He also created the stained glass and sacred furniture in the recently dedicated Gésu Chapel at the Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley.

I looked up and caught sight of two magnificent towers that glistened in the sunlight. In an instant, my angst

and apprehension gave way to a soothing sensation inspired by the very image of the church. Those familiar

with Ignatian spirituality would undoubtedly refer to this moment as an experience of consolation.

sion that his head is suspended in air. Meanwhile, two prayer texts, central to the mission and vision set forth by Ignatius in his Spiritual Exercises, adorn the walls. On the left wall, the inscription reads: “To the greater glory of God and in grateful remembrance of all our benefactors, this chapel is dedicated in honor of our patron, St. Ignatius.” On the opposing wall appears the so-called Suscipe prayer:

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will. All I have and call my own. Whatever I have or hold, you have given to me. I restore it all to you and surrender it wholly to be governed under your will. Give me only your love and grace and I am rich enough and ask for nothing more.8

As I departed from this exquisite house of prayer, my entire being was overwhelmed by the rich, diverse and faith-filled artistic representations and images that convey the story of the Catholic tradition. I could also feel the heartbeat of a pilgrim basilica that has been a spiritual home for so many. Silently I vowed that if I were to be hired at USF, St. Ignatius would become my spiritual home too.

Saint Ignatius Church during the Day and at Night

Superlatives spring to mind when I think of Saint Ignatius; it is beautiful, magnificent, and gorgeous. It has a classical elegance—a timelessness that carries all the beauty and faith of the Italian Renaissance. On clear days St. Ignatius shines white against the brilliant blue of the sky. On gray days it glows beige before the silver tones of the clouds. And when the fog begins to swirl around the towers of Saint Ignatius, they become translucent, losing themselves in its forgiving and familiar embrace. Yet St. Ignatius is most spectacular at night. Indeed, since the celebration of its 90th anniversary in 2004, Saint Ignatius has been illumi-nated every evening from the outside, transforming the entire structure into a shining beacon, a sentinel of faith in a metropolitan city comprised of diverse faith traditions.

Sunday Evenings at Saint Ignatius Church

The ‘little story’ between St. Ignatius and me continues to unfold. For example, as I make my way home from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley to USF, often late

8 Ignatius of Loyola, Spiritual Exercises, translated and adapted by David L. Fleming, SJ, in Draw Me Into Your Friendship: The Spiritual Exercises, a Literal Translation and a Contemporary Reading (Saint Louis, Missouri: The Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1996), 176.

On clear days St. Ignatius shines white against the brilliant blue of the sky. On gray days it glows beige before the silver tones of the clouds. And when the fog begins to swirl around the towers of Saint Ignatius, they become translucent, losing themselves in its forgiving and familiar embrace.

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at night, I mark my passage with each approach to those golden towers which illumine the way home through the darkened streets. A second aspect of the relationship revolves

around my role as an assistant to the director of liturgy at the university. In particular, each Sunday evening at 9 p.m., approximately one hundred twenty-five undergraduates gather in the sanctuary of St. Ignatius for the student Mass. Meanwhile, since the church is such an enormous space, the liturgy team made a decision to arrange chairs in a U-shape with the altar as the center and focal point. Within a few weeks of the change, many students and some staff commented positively on how the new configuration creates an intimate and welcoming worship space. Personally, I

felt gratified to be associated with the creativity of the liturgy committee and the trans-formation of a marble floor sanctuary and communion rail from a sacred ground not to be touched, into a sacred space that welcomes, supports, and challenges college students to develop a prayer life while living for the greater glory of God.

Conclusion

For the past two years, Saint Ignatius has influenced me in a unique and profound way. I would compare the experience to the phenomenon of a plant taking root in God’s vine-yard. This image of taking root can further be interpreted as a sort of homecoming. For certain, I know that I have found a home there as a believer and minister. Moreover, like my own ‘little story,’ St. Ignatius has gifted USF and San Francisco with myriad other little stories of faith, each one contributing to the larger narrative of a triune God whom we encounter, and who encounters us, amidst the liturgy, private prayer, and splendor of St. Ignatius.

I felt gratified to be associated with the creativity of the liturgy committee and

the transformation of a marble floor sanctuary and communion rail from

a sacred ground not to be touched, into a sacred space that welcomes, sup-

ports, and challenges college students to develop a prayer life while living for the

greater glory of God.

Dung Q. Tran, a student in the Master of Theological Studies program, currently serves as a resident minister at the University of San Francisco. Prior to coming to JSTB, he was a wedding coordinator, resident chaplain and administrative assistant at Loyola Marymount University. He holds a masterís degree in Education and has taught in Catholic elementary and secondary schools in Los Angeles.

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Reclaiming Lament, Reclaiming Justice

By Daniel Syauswa, SJ

“How long, O Lord? Will you utterly forget me? . . . How long shall I harbor sorrow in my soul,

grief in my heart day after day?” (Psalm 13: 2–3)1

Introduction

This essay considers the inescapable tension between the concept of lament on the one hand, and the quest for justice on the other. I ground my reflection in the biblical tradition embod-ied in the psalms of lament. Furthermore, I will concentrate on the following aspects: first, the person who laments refuses both to remain silent in the midst of suffering, and to be rec-onciled with the injustice and the violence of the world.2 Second, the cry of lament expresses anger and resistance, often on behalf of others—for instance, in remembrance of their suf-fering. Third, the cry of lament in the biblical tradition is done in the presence of God with a deep trust that God will respond. Thus, the spiritual resistance present in lament is “both a protest to and a waiting on God . . . [as it] holds open the possibility of again praising the God of justice and new life.”3 I will draw extensively on the writing of Walter Brueggeman and apply the crucial function of lament to the context of globalization in which both our suffering and the suffering of others are intrinsically related. As such, the essay represents something of a personal response to the Second Vatican council’s call to “read the signs of the times.”4

“In the evening, and at dawn, and at noon, I will grieve and moan,and [the Lord] will hear my voice.” (Psalm 55: 18)

Biblical lament, its loss, and subsequent implications

In the context of the Hebrew Scriptures, lament refers to a passionate expression of grief in the form of a song or poem.5 Related to this, the verb “to groan” similarly

1 Psalm citations from the New American Bible, Donald Senior, gen. ed., (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990). 2 Kathleen D. Billman and Daniel L. Migliore, Rachel’s Cry: Prayer of Lament and Rebirth of Hope (Cleveland, Ohio:

United Church Press, 1999), 2.3 Billman and Migliore, 2.4 Vatican II, Gaudium et Spes, n. 4. 5 The Oxford American Dictionary and Language Guide (NY: Oxford University Press, 1999). Suffering can be experi-

enced as human grief and loss, injustice and oppression, self-hatred and guilt or physical pain. But these categories can be simultaneously present in one another.

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The person who laments refuses both to remain silent in the midst of suffering, and to be reconciled

with the injustice and the violence of the world.

connotes a deep expression of pain, grief, or disapproval. Both lament and groaning relate to the reality of suffering in its various forms—for instance, the suffering that results

from injustice and/or oppression linked directly or indirectly to human responsibil-ity.6 Such suffering requires a radical kind of response, i.e., a form of resistance and positive commitment to promote just struc-

tures.7 Therefore, as we examine briefly the leitmotif of lament in the psalms, we will keep in mind the connection between suffering, lament, and injustice.

The psalms of lament represent the largest single genre within the psalter.8 In them, Israel moves from an articulation of hurt and anger, to submission of the people to God, and finally to relinquishment.9 The first two aspects—verbal articulation of pain and the faithful submission to God—are, in fact, prerequisites for relinquishment. Two addi-tional aspects are noteworthy. First, the psalms of lament are best understood as reflecting the life experience of a community whose members participate in the ritual reenactment of hope. Second, the faith that both permits and requires the lament to be expressed is a faith that takes risks in order to challenge God. In other words, lament shifts the calculus and redresses the redistribution of power between the two parties, so that the petitioning

party is taken seriously, while the God who is addressed is newly engaged in the crisis in a way that puts God at risk. In essence, in the psalms of lament, God is questioned and made available to the petitioner.10 Thus, the petition always concludes with the petitioner being heard and taken seriously.11 Consequently, the prayer form of lament effects

a redistribution of power in a way that gives initiative to the individual suffering and calls for God to intervene.12

In the Hebrew Scriptures, the prayer form of lament is directly connected to an experience of suffering and the hope of liberation. Indeed, the founding experience of

6 Cf. L. Bregman, “Suffering,” in Dictionary of Pastoral Counseling, ed. Rodney J. Hunter (Nashville: Abingdon Press), 1230–1232.

7 Related to the issue of resistance to suffering, few would dispute the fact that the terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001, drastically changed U.S. foreign policy and its relationships with the rest of the world. Less attention, however, has been given to the events of 9-11 as a reference point for ongoing theological reflection regarding dominant power structures and the experiences that result from them. Nevertheless, it is my hope that this essay will contribute to that very reflection and generate dialogue in this sphere.

8 Michael Kolarcik (Professor of Old Testament at Regis College, Toronto); The Psalms. Course taught at Hekima Col-lege, Jesuit School of Theology, Nairobi, Kenya, in 2005; class notes, p. 15.

9 Brueggeman, “The Costly Loss of Lament,” in The Journal for the Study of the Old Testament (London, England: Sage Publications), n. 36, 63.

10 Brueggeman, 59.11 Except for psalm 88, the psalms of lament end by a vow to praise God for his intervention.12 Brueggeman, 59.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, the prayer form of lament is directly

connected to an experience of suf-fering and the hope of liberation.

Israel—the Exodus—begins not with God acting, but with the lamentations of a people enduring overwhelming hardship: “After a long time, the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under their slavery, and cried out. Out of the slavery their cry for help rose up to God.”(Ex 2:23)13 The community of Israel cries to the Lord, and the Lord delivers them.

If one understands the lament/groan/cry of Israel as expressing both anguish because of suffering, as well as the expectation that a responsive God will institute a new order, then one can argue further that deliverance is ultimately a gift from God at God’s proper time. Meanwhile, the need for deliver-ance comes from the awareness that there is a dysfunction and even breakdown in the three fundamental relationships, i.e., to one’s self, to others and to God.14 A new order of justice and mercy, compassion and peace, is initiated in this process of deliverance. As a result, the place where brokenness and hopelessness are experienced—Egypt and the Desert for the Hebrews; Calvary for Jesus’ disciples—becomes the rightful place for hope as prayers of lament break the cycle of denial and the temptation to despair.15

In contrast to the emotional honesty of lament, when a community is not able to put the hard questions of real life before the throne of God, as it were, serious repercus-sions manifest themselves in the socio-political sphere, for “a theological monopoly is re-enforced, docility and submissiveness are engendered, and the outcome in terms of social practice is to re-enforce and consolidate the political-economic monopoly of the status quo.”16 This statement of Brueggeman underscores the connection between the communal practice of prayer and the socio-political structures of society. For instance, when God is perceived as a sort of absolute monarch with unquestionable authority, then some combination of silence and/or submissive and reverential praise tends to dominate the way a community relates to God. Fortunately, however, the Hebrew Scriptures attest to the many figures in salvation history who took the risk of questioning God, while also challenging the public life of the community—Abraham, Moses, and the prophets come to mind. Therefore, the removal of lament from life and liturgy, even unintentionally or, by contrast, with good reason, can serve to legitimize unjust structures. In sum, that which is not articulated in prayer can easily be overlooked or ignored in day-to-day life.

Stating the case more strongly, one can say that the absence of lament results in the loss of the genuine covenant interaction which makes the lament possible in the first

13 Brueggeman, “The Matrix of Groan,” in Journal for Preachers (Decatur, GA), 24.3 (Easter 2001), 3.14 Brueggeman, “The Matrix of Groan,” 3.15 Ibid. 16 Brueggeman, “The Costly Loss of Lament,” 59.

When God is perceived as a sort of absolute monarch with unquestionable authority, then some combination of silence and/or submissive and reverential praise tends to dominate the way a community relates to God.

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place.17 For when worship is reduced to a celebration of joy and wellbeing, the human party to the relationship becomes voiceless, or voices only praise and doxology.18 To use a political analogy, the stronger party in the relationship (i.e., the one with authority) becomes surrounded by subjects who function as mere ‘yes men and women’ from whom ‘never is heard a discouraging word.’ Such flattering speech is ultimately a lie, for it does not correspond to the reality of the suffering being experienced. As Brueggeman puts

it tersely, “covenant minus lament is finally a practice of denial, cover-up, and pretense, which sanctions social control.”19

At this juncture, it will be helpful to avert to, and carry forward, an awareness of the four-fold structure that characterizes the tradi-tion of lament: first, the state of affairs is not right in the present arrangement. Second, things need not stay this way but can be changed. Third, the person who laments matters will not accept the present social order, for it is intolerable. And last, it is God’s obligation to change things.20 In light of this delineation, one can see that lament is not merely

a religious gesture. Rather, it has important and direct links with social processes. Indeed, in the psalms, it is the cry of suffering that “initiates history” and mobilizes God in the arena of public life. Through lament, “Israel kept the justice question visible and legitimate.”21

The loss of lament: Application to a contemporary context

I turn now to certain contemporary dimensions of societies from the perspective of loss/recovery of lament. Among the means by which a social institution may attempt to keep people from lamenting, corruption and repression figure prominently. Recognizing these mechanisms is an initial step in the painful process of restoring broken relationships.

The example of domestic violence illustrates this point. Although it is a real problem in families, rarely does one hear it voiced in worship services.22 And yet, domestic violence is a problem of injustice for which there is no hope of resolution until the

17 By covenant I mean the relationship between God and people, and the mutual obligations that result from that relationship.

18 Brueggeman, “The Costly Loss of Lament,” 60.19 Ibid.20 Brueggeman, 62.21 Brueggeman, 63.22 By no means do I limit domestic violence to Christian spheres. However, I consider the loss and/or recovery of la-

ment as a form prayer to have particular relevance for them (Christians).

suffering victim has been heard. Without this initial initiative, justice is impossible. Things will not be made right.

Very often too, when a community does not want to raise questions of justice in prayers of lament, there is a tendency to es-cape by means of distorted interpretations of Scriptures through evoking the issues of love and forgiveness. I recall the narrative of a woman who, after telling her pastor the story of her abusive husband, received the almost equally abusive advice ‘to endure that and forgive, because that is what the Lord asks of us Christians.’ This is a facile answer to a very painful situation; regrettably, it is an example of a minister not ready or not trained to listen to the lamenting voice of an abused person. For when representatives of a faith community negate or otherwise overlook the laments of their members, over time these same communities may soon conclude “that the hard issues of justice are improper questions to pose at the throne of God’s grace.”23 And if justice questions come to be viewed as improper in places of worship, then they are likely to appear improper questions in public places such as schools, hospitals, and the courts, as well as within government circles. Eventually, the questions of justice disappear alto-gether into civility and docility.”24

The situation of battered women and children defies easy solutions. However, any spirituality that forces people to swallow their own justified rage adds to the immeasur-able burdens they already bear by placing upon them the additional expectation of having to forgive the abusing relative(s). At worst, the victims are sent back to attempt recon-ciliation with the very ones who place their lives in danger.25 By contrast, the promotion of liturgical structures which remain open to the disquieting lamentations of those who suffer creates the conditions for the possibility of restoring just relationships.

Having discussed the practice of lament, essentially from the perspective of trust in God on the one hand, and keeping questions of justice open before the “throne” on the other, it is now time to examine how the recovery of lament can lead to compassion and genuine solidarity with the victims of suffering.

“Because they rob the afflicted, and the needy sigh, now will I arise,” says the Lord.“I will grant safety to [those] who long for it.” (Psalm 12: 6)

23 Brueggeman, 60. 24 Ibid., 64. 25 Cf. Leonora Tubbs Tisdale, “The Gospel We Don’t Want to Hear (or Preach),” in Journal for Preachers (Decatur,

GA), vol. 23, n. 3, Easter 2000: 23–30.

Any spirituality that forces people to swallow their own justified rage adds to the immeasurable bur-dens they already bear by placing upon them the additional expectation of having to forgive the abusing relative(s).


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The challenge of global lament

J. B. Metz points out the pitfalls of selfish attitudes embedded within our sensitivity to suffering. Retrieving and recreating a proper sense of solidarity requires “taking into memory of alien, foreign suffering, the suffering of the other.”26 Within this perspec-tive, Jesus’ first glance at the suffering of others (rather than upon their sins) becomes the paradigm for our responsibility towards a certain “universalism of suffering of the world.”27 In political terms this understanding implies, for example, that if one wants to honor the memory of the victims of suffering, be they the victims of the September 11th terrorist attacks or other painful experiences, then sensitivity to the suffering of families in New York and Washington becomes an imperative, without, of course, ignoring the anger and the suffering of residents in Kabul and Baghdad. In other words, one fails to honor victims “at home” if one ignores the lament of the poor of the world. In essence, accountability and responsibility cannot be limited to the local “neighbor” only; of neces-sity it also implies the taking into account the suffering of the others, “the suffering of the foreigne…even the suffering of the enemy…”28

In the context of globalization, we cannot afford to be oblivious to the universal lament of the world. Characterized by fast-developing technologies of communica-tion, globalization has resulted in a shrinking of space and time, “the intensification of worldwide social relations which link distant localities in such a way that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away and vice versa.”29 Globalization thus shapes a context in which the lament of the “distant neighbor” can be heeded. Consequently, we are no longer able to enjoy an existential experience of

having the world “out there,” for distant events have become, in many cases, part of our daily experience. Moreover, with worldwide media, global inequalities are rendered more visible such that, as

Jonathan Sacks puts it, “we can no longer claim that we did not know.”30 In light of these realities, to ignore the lament of the distant others becomes tantamount to a refusal of “global” responsibility.

Theologian Catherine Keller characterizes the present global order in terms

26 Johann B. Metz, “In Memory of the Other’s Suffering: Theological Reflections on the Future of Faith and Culture,” in The Critical Spirit: Theology at the Crossroads of Faith and Culture. Essays in Honour of Gabriel Daly OSA, Andrew Pierce and Geraldine Smyth, eds. (Dublin: The Columbia Press, 2003), 180.

27 Ibid. 28 Metz, 181.29 Anthony Giddens, “The Globalizing of Modernity,” in The Global Transformation: An Introduction to the Globaliza-

tion Debate, David Held & Anthony McGrew, eds. 2nd Edition (UK: Polity, 2004), 60.30 Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilization (New York: Continuum, 2003), 108.

Jesus’ first glance at the suffering of others (rather than upon their sins)

becomes the paradigm for our responsibility

of “mutually assured vulnerability.”31 Drawing from the work of sociologist Zygmunt Bauman, Keller averts to the “end of space” in the present era, a reality which exposes “the new condition of the mutually assured vulnerability of all politically separated parts of the globe.”32 From this perspective, Keller continues, “the sacrosanct division between inside and outside, that charted the realm of existential security and set the itinerary for future transcendence, has been all but obliterated. There is no ‘outside’ any more…We are all ‘in,’ with nothing left outside.”33 The question then arises as to whether human beings (or nations) will choose to honor and act within this mutual—and universal—vulnerabil-ity, evoking a ‘spiritual cosmopolitanism’ in accord with the imperative of hospitality to the alien or the immigrant.34

There is another reason why globalization provides a relevant context for articulating the link between the recovery of the lament tradition and justice—namely, while forces of globalization bring people into closer proximity to and with one another, this proximity does not ipso facto generate compassion and sensitivity to suffering. Indeed, they can set in motion processes of fragmentation and exclusion, as well as the disabling of moral agency. For instance, according to C.D. Moe-Lobeda, globalization in the form of neo-liberal capitalism cripples human capacity to make decisions at variance with the logic of the market forces.35 After all, the free market does not create economically sustainable, socially just, and compassionate communities by itself. Instead, in its economic manifestation, globalization is sustained by myths of the market that “tell people how to perceive the world and to make sense of it, but also what to for-get.”36 Overall, these myths exert a deceptive power that weakens and disables moral agency, for they render citizens of highly industrialized and technological societies such as those in North America and Western Europe blind to the suffering of others who are distant, yet at whose expense the former groups enjoys considerable comfort.37 Consequently, the logic of the market tends to distort human vision and memories by suppressing the faculties of imagination and hope.38

31 Catherine Keller, “The Love of Postcolonialism,” in Postcolonial Theologies: Divinity and Empire, Catherine Keller, Michael Nausner and Mayra Rivera, eds. (Chalice Press, 2004), 225.

32 Ibid.33 Ibid.34 Ibid.35 C. D. Moe-Lobeda, Healing a Broken World: Globalization and God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 47. 36 Ibid. 37 On p. 65, Moe-Lobeda defines moral agency as “the power to embody active love for creation including self, others,

and non-human creation. Moral agency suggests the power to orient life around the ongoing well-being of com-munities and of the Earth community, prioritizing the needs of the most vulnerable. Moral agency is the power to live toward social structures, relationships, policies, and lifestyles that build communities characterized by ecological sustainability and social justice.”

38 Ibid., 68.


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“Drag me not away with the wicked, with those who do wrong,who speak civilly to their neighbors though evil is in their hearts.” (Psalm 28: 3)

Global Compassion, Global Justice

The ethical ambiguity of globalization is revealed further though the concept of “remoteness” as articulated by Val Plumwood in the context of the crisis of ecological rationality.39 Remoteness refers quite plainly to the context in which decisions-makers within companies and governments are allowed to avoid the destructive consequences that their various enterprises unleash on both ecosystems as well as the human beings dependent on those damaged environments. In most cases, the decision-makers live far away from the places and the people affected, creating additional communi-cation and epistemological barriers. Thus, both the decisions-makers and their

investors remain remote from the first-hand knowledge of the dam-ages to ecosystems and to the people associated with them. In this regard, the claims of local populations against the Exxon/Mobil Corporation in Nigeria and Chad come to mind, whose profiles have been aided considerably by international press cov-erage.40 It is alleged that these oil companies both displaced local populations by polluting their environments and transferred refinement industries to benefit mainly people in the West. Another example of remoteness consists in the

dissociation between food production and its consumption, whereby consumers in say, San Francisco or Amsterdam, enjoy “off season” produce without being concerned by the ecological impact or human impact in the zones of production of, say, local suppliers in Chile or the Mexico, who bear most of the consequences.

Overall, this phenomenon of remoteness—geographic, psychological, epistemo-logical—tends to undermine the motivation of decision-makers to correct damages. It also renders a conscientious society incapable of heeding the lament or distress signals from affected societies and physical environments.41 Therefore, the context of globalization requires a surplus of sensitivity to the multiplicity of in-built mechanisms that often conceal and otherwise negate reality by projecting that “everything is all right.” In this con-

39 Val Plumwood, Environmental Culture: The Ecological Crisis of Reason (London & New York: Routledge, 2002), 71–80.

40 See, for instance, “Crude Poverty,” Global Envision, October 23, 2006. Available at http://www.globalenvision.org/learn/8/1304; “Senegal President sees light on Africa’s oil curse,” afrol News, 16 November, 2006. Available at http://www.afrol.com/articles/22699; and Elizabeth Harper, “Nigeria’s Oil Industry: A Cursed Blessing?” Online NewsHour, July 2003. Available at www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/africa/nigeria/oil.html

41 Plumwood, 73.

text, the role of Christianity must consist not only of extending compassion to the suffering, but also of being “listening Churches” which learn to bear and respond to the burdens of the most vulnerable. This is a stance of needful hope for people whose very existence is threatened by the status quo of neo-liberal capitalism.

A paradigm shift: Compassion as the test for authentic sovereignty

“A world in which few prosper and many starve offends our deepest sense of fairness and human solidarity. You do not have to be a convinced egalitarian to know that disparities of this magnitude—vast, concentrated wealth alongside widespread suffering—is intoler-able. The real problem, though, is one of responsibility.”42

The words of Rabbi and advocate Jonathan Sacks characterize well a global world in which wealth is unevenly distributed so that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. While each year there are more billionaires, there are also millions of people who die of starvation, poverty and preventable diseases.43 These tragic outcomes cannot be attributed to one single cause or to any specific country. However, this reality should lead to the questions underlying our discussion, namely, the recovery of lament in an urgent quest for greater justice and universal responsibility. As Sacks puts it: “What is our responsibility to humanity as a whole? What bonds of obligation link us to those with whom we do not share a country, a political structure, a language or culture? What proportion of our wealth, if any, are we duty-bound to share?”44 After the September 11th terrorist attacks, it is a point of debate as to whether these types of questions concerning responsibility and obligation towards the distant “enemies” have been asked. Rather, the emphasis seems to fall consistently on the right and obligation of the U.S. Government to defend its sovereignty. Yet this rhetoric of rights has not provided a basis for commonality. Instead, it has legitimized the logic of defending ‘us’ against ‘them,’ a base line established in the initial remarks of President George W. Bush after the terrorist attacks.

Religion provides some helpful resources for the task of grappling with our responsibility to-ward humanity as a whole in this era of globaliza-tion. Indeed, the biblical tradition teaches that those who are in need are our brothers and sisters, and that the privations of poverty are something we ought to feel in our bones. For example, the harsh realities that many people experience are reenacted every year on the Jewish Passover when “Jews eat the bread of affliction and the bitter

42 Sacks, 111.43 Sacks, 105. 44 Sacks, 111.

The biblical tradition teaches that those who are in need are our brothers and sisters, and that the privations of poverty are something we ought to feel in our bones.


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herbs of slavery. On the festival of Sukkot, [Jews] leave the comfort of their homes to live in shack…as a reminder of what it feels like to be without a solid roof, exposed to the elements, living as millions do today in Calcutta or Caracas.”45 Thus, a particular practice such as this one

holds out the promise of effecting solidar ty by inspiring individuals to action in light of shared human vulnerability.46 However, in a broader sense, to learn from tragedies requires a prior sensitivity to the suffering of others. This is true for individuals as well as for nations.

If one affirms the centrality of heeding the suffering of others,47 then the common ground for an ethical universalism becomes the authority of those who are suffering, not a sovereignty that anyone has to defend. On this point, Metz agrees with Sacks in acknowl-edging that such an authority is recognized in all great cultures and religions. However, this new way of thinking represents a paradigm shift, for, as Metz affirms, “this authority [of the suffering people, from a Christian perspective] is the only authority in which the authority of the judging God is manifested in the world for all people.”48 It is an authority that demands obedience before understanding. It also becomes the unconditional test of our morality.49 In other words, the respect of alien suffering becomes, paradoxically, the new test of sovereignty of cultures and religions.

This understanding is entirely consistent with the biblical tradition, although it is often forgotten. That is, the status which a be-lieving community affords to the most vulner-able remains the ultimate test for Christian love (Mt 25:14–30). Similarly, in the Hebrew Scrip-tures, the Hebrew people are told what kind of God they have and what kind of community they are called to become. Most of all, God, who is compassion, listens to the laments of Israel. In a certain sense, God accepts the sov-ereignty of the suffering of Israel and, in turn, Israel is called always to remember its suffering and God’s response. This act of remembrance forms the foundation for the obligation to care

45 Sacks, 112.46 Sacks, 112. 47 Metz, 18248 Ibid.49 Metz, 182.

The respect of alien suffering becomes, paradoxically, the new

test of sovereignty of cultures and religions.

for the stranger, the widow and the orphan.In the final analysis, the God encountered in the biblical tradition, especially in

the psalms of lament, is incompatible with any attempts to ignore or forget the suffering of others. For anytime a person pretends to protect him or herself with a “shield of amnesia” against the histories of suffering, then he or she sadly re-enacts cycles of violence occurring around the world.50 By contrast, recognizing the authority of those who suffer expands our capacities for solidarity with the human family.

“All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord;All the families of the nations shall bow down before him.” (Psalm 22: 28)

Conclusion

I have argued that, in the life of ancient Israel, the prayer of lament and the refusal to keep silent in the midst of injustice and suffering were rooted in an abiding trust that God would intervene. Such trust also sustained hope for liberation from the oppressive social order de jour, and ultimately resulted in God’s initiative to lead God’s people out of Egypt.

In our era, however, the dissipation of lament exposes the individual and the community to the temptation of denial and the risk of ignoring the question of justice and right relationships. And wherever lament is censored, repressed or unacknowledged, destructive responses of anger, grief and suffering tend to emerge. By contrast, believers who are encouraged both to lament and to listen compassionately, “dare to name the brokenness of reality rather than deny it; they refuse to pretend that it is other than it is.”51

In many contemporary contexts, the proper articulation of anger over injustice will often generate resistance and the entrenchment of political and economic monopo-lies. Nevertheless, by keeping us in touch with the reality of suffering, i.e., honing the human capacity for attentive listening and the nam-ing of realities, the tradition of lament makes it possible to monitor the quality of our relation-ships, both locally and globally.

In the context of globalization, we are confronted with worldwide suffering and the direct challenges that true discipleship requires the sensitivity to the alien suffering. In this regard, I have argued that contemporary capitalism often prevents people from heed-ing each other’s laments, thereby ignoring the claims that the suffering communities have

50 Metz, 187.51 Billman and Migliore, 126.

The God encountered in the biblical tradition, especially in the psalms of lament, is incompatible with any attempts to ignore or forget the suffering of others.


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on us. Consequently, the prophetic role of Christianity consists in empowering believers to rediscover that God is undeniably sensitive to the suffering of his creatures. Moreover, by embracing the mission of the Church, its members come to embody God’s compas-sion, rediscovering the sovereignty of those who suffer and responding to their need for justice, however uncomfortable these demands may be. As a guardian of the memory of suffering, the Church mediates a tradition that binds human communities together through solidarity, and thus fosters a sense of kinship with the most vulnerable. When it remains prophetic, the Church truly becomes a community of disciples that fosters and expands hope.

Daniel Syauswa, SJ, is a member of the Central African Province of the

Society of Jesus and currently pursuing a Licentiate in Sacred Theology

(STL). His training in the fields of agronomy and theology has deepened

his awareness of the ambiguities and the opportunities surrounding the

process of globalization. In the summer of 2007, he expects to return to

his native country, the Democratic Republic of Congo, as an instructor

in a Jesuit agricultural college.

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My Abuelita’s Theology

by Cecilia González-Andrieu

I remember the day in 1994 when I told my Abuelita (grandmother) that I was start-ing graduate studies in theology. She smiled and said softly, “We’re going to have to say about you what they used to say about Santa Teresa of Avila—Es mucho hombre esa mujer (that woman is a whole lot of man).”

My Abuelita was born in 1895, so even though her comment was hopelessly out of step with the times, it was very insightful: theology had always been the purview of men, while those few women who entered the world of theology, such as Santa Teresa, were admired for their courage. Yet what my Abuelita could not have know was that as I advanced in my theological studies, I discovered what an out-standing theologian she was, if by theologian one means a person with an intimate familiarity with the ways of God. For many people, certainly Latinas/os, it has been a singular blessing to count our mothers and our grandmothers as our first catechists. Indeed, it has been the women in our families who have passed on Christianity’s gift of faith from generation to generation. In light of this reality, an overarching question arises in my mind: More than a century after my grandmother’s birth, what is the place of women in Roman Catholic theology?

Knowing that this is not a question one can answer alone, and not wanting merely to quote statistics, I gathered with a group of women students at the Jesuit School of Theol-ogy at Berkeley to pursue the matter by conversing about our respective journeys in higher theological education. It is with their consent that I share what follows.

The first thing that was apparent to me was the di-versity among the women. For instance, the silver-haired visionaries of my mother’s generation were mainly women religious, who inspired awe by their unflinching commitment to ministry and caring for God’s children. For their part, the younger women represented a new generation living their call to serve the Church

“We’re going to have to say about you what they used to say about Santa Teresa of Avila—Es mucho hombre esa mujer (that woman is a whole lot of man).”

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as laypersons. On the whole, we represented a world community of women from many continents, as evidenced by lilting Asian accents, Irish brogues and sprinklings of Spanish; in sum, a beautiful and vibrant universal church.

In the course of the conversation, I listened closely for clues as to the common factors which motivate us to pursue intellectually rigorous and often exhausting theologi-

cal studies. First and foremost in this regard, the women theologians spoke of their conviction that there is an urgent thirst for spirituality in our world that needs to be quenched, and that it is precisely through a theological education that [these women] can fill their own vessels enough so as to be able to go out into the world and,

trusting in God’s abundant grace, help to fill the vessels of others. Another common thread among the circle of women was the challenge posed by

doing something unexpected. They recounted how sometimes the relationship between studying theology and working with the poor does not seem readily apparent, at least not to several members of their families and communities of faith. Yet most of those present felt that it was precisely because of their work with and for the poor that they were studying. “Don’t the poor deserve the best learning, the best we can give to them?” “Yes!” reverberated the response, and the stories poured out.

One religious sister recounted her work with catechists in Cameroon, where she understood her responsibility as supplementing the commitment to social justice with a solid foundation in Scripture and Church doctrine and history. Meanwhile, a young laywoman described her work in the jungles of Panama, where she realized the power that a robust Christian theology could have in helping the

poor regain a sense of dignity. For her it was important to learn as much as she could about the social ethics of the Church, and to become adept at teaching and spiritual direc-tion, thereby equipping her to assist in guiding a Christian community, wherever she was ultimately needed.

As we passed around a sponge cake, one of our elders commented that when she was younger, so much of ministry seemed to be about doing, i.e., rushing from place to place trying to help wherever she could. Now she was more focused on being, on having the kind of presence within the community of faith that makes it possible for anyone to approach her with their deepest spiritual questions. To be women who speak with au-

It is precisely through a theological education that [these women] can fill their own vessels

enough so as to be able to go out into the world and, trusting in God’s abundant grace, help

to fill the vessels of others.

This theological enterprise has not all been without its challenges, though. For instance,

we knew well the difficult experience of being the only woman in a class, and of not having

enough women’s voices in the books we read and in the history we learn.

thority about religious issues is indeed a gift we need to give our Church.

This theological enterprise has not all been without its challenges, though. For in-stance, we knew well the difficult experience of being the only woman in a class, and of not having enough women’s voices in the books we read and in the history we learn. Yet, on the positive side, we have often felt the apprecia-tion of our male classmates to the way women’s perspectives could challenge prejudices and add insights to our joint learning.

As our conversation gained momentum and openness, it seemed clear to me that women in higher theological education have several roles to play for our Church. To name a few: 1) the role of nourishing our communities with solid religious formation; 2) the role of publicly serving the universal Church by contributing to ongoing dialogue on important issues; and 3) the role of studying and working alongside men in order to broaden all of our horizons, thereby manifesting the reign of God in equality and dignity.

As the night wound down, the women in the talking circle shared embraces and expressions of gratitude. This group of very learned women finally knew that we were working together “para la mayor Gloria de Dios” (to the greater glory of God), as my grandmother, the crypto-Jesuit, always said. Abuelita, I think you would have liked this new world of women in theology. You would have felt right at home.

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Cecilia González‑Andrieu began her graduate theological studies at Loyola

Marymount University. She is currently completing a doctorate at the Graduate

Theological Union. She will return to LMU in the fall of 2007 to teach in

the department of Theological Studies. Another version of this essay was

first published on April 4, 2003 in The Tidings, the weekly paper of the

Archdiocese of Los Angeles, for which Cecilia was the recipient of the 2003

Best Regular Column Award from the Catholic Press Association. © The

Tidings 2003. Reprinted with permission.

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New Wineskins is intended to contribute to the intellectual life of the Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley (JSTB), while also forwarding the school’s mission to foster ‘a faith that contributes to justice.’ Moreover, New Wineskins strives to reflect the diversity of JSTB both in the composition of its editorial board and in the perspectives of the con-tributing authors. As such, the journal is meant to be a collaborative effort of Jesuits and other vowed religious, and lay persons.

Acknowledgements: The editorial staff wishes to thank T. Howland Sanks, SJ, for his time and counsel as faculty reader, and Kevin Burke, SJ, for his advocacy on behalf of the journal.

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