The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything

by James Martin

  Journaling is writing about your prayer or spiritual life. This method helps you both record and examine your prayer experiences, which are otherwise often dismissed as “just something that happened” or, more often, simply forgotten. Something in human nature works against remembering the fruits of prayer—for if we remembered all that we heard in prayer, we would have to change, and part of us recoils from that.

  Dorothy Day, the cofounder of the Catholic Worker Movement, kept a spiritual journal for almost fifty years, which was later published as The Duty of Delight (edited by Robert Ellsberg). She pointed to another benefit of journaling, in an entry from 1950. “It is always so good to write our problems down so that in reading them over 6 months or a year later one can see them evaporate.”

  Interestingly, in their book Birth: A Guide for Prayer, Jacqueline Syrup Bergan and Marie Schwan, C.S.J., distinguish between keeping a diary of one’s prayer and “meditative writing,” where the writing itself is a prayer.

  Meditative writing is like “writing a letter to one we love,” Bergan and Schwan say. They offer three ways of doing this: writing a letter to God; writing down an imagined conversation between you and God; writing an answer to a question, like, “What do you want me to do for you?” and then writing the answer in God’s voice. Meditative writing is useful for those who find it difficult to focus in prayer: it can free the mind of distractions and let God speak through the very act of writing.

  Nature prayer is my term for finding God in meadows, fields, gardens, or backyards; or peering up at the night sky, walking along the beach, or joining in bird-watching expeditions, all the while searching for the divine presence. It can be a powerful way of connecting with God, something that I discovered when one woman challenged me with her style of prayer during a retreat that I was directing.

  From Each Little Thing

  Pedro Ribadaneira, one of the early Jesuits, wrote about his friend Ignatius’s ability to find God in nature.

  We frequently saw him taking the occasion of little things to lift his mind to God, who even in the smallest things is great. From seeing a plant, foliage, a leaf, a flower, any kind of fruit, from the consideration of a little worm or any other animal, he raised himself above the heavens and penetrated the deepest thoughts, and from each little thing he drew doctrine and the most profitable counsels for instruction in the spiritual life.

  “What was your prayer like yesterday?” I asked a middle-aged Catholic sister on retreat. “Well, I spent a long time hugging a tree.” I had to suppress a laugh. Was she kidding?

  “When I hugged the tree, I felt connected to the earth and to the beauty of God’s creation,” she continued. “Stretching my hands around its trunk made me feel grounded, connected to the earth, in a way that I never had. And here I was holding on to a living creature, which reminded me that God is continually creating.” Her comments changed the way I look at that kind of prayer.

  My busy life in New York City means that I have few opportunities to appreciate nature. The view from my window is an array of brick walls with a tiny sliver of blue sky, visible only if I crane my neck. So I treasure any time outdoors. One fall, I traveled to Gloucester, Massachusetts, to direct a weekend retreat with Sister Maddy. The Jesuit retreat house is spectacularly situated only a few yards from the Atlantic Ocean. And only a few hundred yards from the house—separated from the ocean by a narrow spit of land—is a large, freshwater pond. To my mind, this is one of the most beautiful spots in the country.

  On that Friday, however, I arrived in the dark of night, after a seemingly endless series of subways and trains that took me from New York to Boston to Gloucester. So I could see nothing of the retreat house’s lovely grounds.

  But in the early morning, when I stepped outside into the bright autumn sunshine, the view almost took my breath away. Near the retreat house were tall trees with red and orange leaves that stirred in the cool breeze. Above me was the vault of a brilliant blue sky. As I walked behind the retreat house, I saw fishing boats chugging around the bay, plowing through the steel-blue water. And though the air was filled with the calls of seagulls, ducks, and blackbirds, it seemed as if a silence filled my soul.

  The colors, the smells, even the sounds, seemed ways of God comforting, calming, and consoling me.

  Most of the men and women on retreat said the same. “How are you experiencing God this weekend?” I asked one man. “With all this!” he said, making an expansive gesture toward the window. At a talk that weekend, Sister Maddy told the story of her young nephew, who once stood on the rocks overlooking the Atlantic, taking in deep breaths.

  “What are you doing?” said Maddy.

  “Trying to take all this into me so I can take it home!” he said.

  An Ignatian use of the imagination can aid us in nature prayer. (Ignatius himself used to gaze at the stars from the rooftop of the Jesuit headquarters in Rome.) Whenever I stand on a beach, I use the ocean as an image of a God who bears away my worries. With each wave that breaks on the shore and recedes, I imagine my fears and worries borne out to sea, to be received by God.

  Music is another way to pray. “Who sings well prays twice,” St. Augustine said. Ask any choir member or churchgoer who has felt lifted up during a worship service. Or ask a monk or nun who has chanted the psalms for years on end, until not only the words but the melodies become ways of expressing oneself to God. Sometimes the music itself can express what we are feeling better than words do. Lately, when I find it difficult to pray, I use a recording of the psalms, chanted by a monastery choir, whose songs pray for me when words do not come so easily.

  Olivier Messiaen, the twentieth-century composer, once said that music serves for humanity as a conduit to the ineffable. When asked if a listener needed to have a spiritual experience to appreciate his music, Messiaen answered, “Not at all. But it would be the highest compliment to me as a composer if you had a spiritual experience because of hearing my music.”

  Work can be prayerful if done contemplatively. “Hands to work, hearts to God,” as the Shakers used to say. Sometimes when I’m washing dishes or ironing or arranging the altar for Mass, I lose myself in the task and am reminded of doing small things with love.

  But you have to be careful. Busy Jesuits (including me) sometimes say, half-mischievously, “My work is my prayer.” This may mean our work leads us to God. Or it may be an excuse for not praying. Or it may mean we’re doing neither wholeheartedly.

  GOD COMMUNICATES WITH US in many ways. But prayer is a special time when God’s voice is often heard most clearly because we are giving God our undivided attention. Whether in Ignatian contemplation, lectio divina, the colloquy, the examen, or any other practice, the “still small” voice can be heard with a clarity that can delight, astonish, and surprise you.

  So when you pray, however you pray, and feel that God is speaking to you—pay attention.

  Chapter Eight

  The Simple Life

  The Surprising Freedom of Downward Mobility

  THAT’S PLENTY ABOUT PRAYER for now. I don’t want you to think that the way of Ignatius is about nothing but hours and hours of prayer. Remember that one of Ignatius’s ideals was the contemplative in action.

  So after all that praying, let’s stretch our legs a bit. Let’s talk about how the way of Ignatius will affect your active life, your walking-around life.

  And let’s start with three ideas at the heart of the Ignatian vision that strike terror into the hearts of many readers: Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. It would be hard to find three more threatening words.

  Everyone wants to avoid poverty, it would seem. Who wants to be poor? Doesn’t everyone want to be as rich, or financially secure, as possible? Work hard and get ahead, right? That’s the motivating force behind capitalism—Adam Smith’s insight that by following self-interest the common good can be best served. The Protestant work ethic and the notion that God will bless those who work diligently with financial success are parts of the warp and w
oof of American culture. Poverty in this framework is not only something to be avoided, it is shameful.

  Voluntary poverty, therefore, sounds absurd, almost un-American to many people.

  And chastity? Who doesn’t want sex? Sex is an extraordinary expression of love, and part of a healthy emotional life for most adults. But we inhabit a culture where everything seems to be about having sex, preparing to have sex, or trying to get more sex: prime-time television, magazine ads, popular music, movies, and the Internet. You don’t have to be a prude to admit that we live in a hypersexualized culture. In such an environment chastity is seen as a joke. Or just plain sick.

  And obedience? It’s seen almost as “ridiculous” as chastity. In a culture where people rightly celebrate the freedom to do, say, and be what they want, obedience is seen as mind control or, worse, slavery. As Kathleen Norris, author of The Cloister Walk, has written, obedience is viewed by many people as “desirable in dogs but suspect in people.” Why would you let anyone tell you what to do or say or think? And if “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” lies at the foundation of our political system, then obedience also seems un-American to many.

  In a culture that celebrates money, sex, and freedom, a religious life of poverty, chastity, and obedience is not only irrelevant but a threat—to the economy, the social fabric, our political system, and an individual’s well-being. All three should be soundly rejected, combated even, by any healthy adult. Right?

  Well, not so fast.

  Because those are precisely the values that St. Ignatius Loyola and the first Jesuits sought to embrace in the form of a lifelong vow to God.

  Why would Ignatius do that? Why do Jesuits still do that?

  WHY?

  Ignatius did not invent the idea of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The “vowed life” was the longstanding tradition of Catholic religious orders like the Benedictines, Dominicans, and Franciscans centuries before the birth of Ignatius. (All Catholic priests and bishops are expected to live simply, but technically, only members of religious orders take formal vows of poverty.)

  Why do members of religious orders do this? Let me give you just two reasons: one theological, the other logistical.

  The theological reason is that members of religious orders are trying to emulate Jesus of Nazareth. While Jesus was probably born into the lower middle class, he lived his adult life like a poor man. (“The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head,” Jesus says in the Gospel of Luke, 9:58.)

  Poverty.

  And though Jesus could have gotten married, he chose not to. There are plenty of reasons to believe this statement, chief among them this: the Gospel writers mention almost every member of his family. (“Your mother and your brothers and your sisters are outside,” says someone in Mark 3:32.) So omitting mention of his wife, if he had one, would have been unlikely.

  Chastity.

  And though Jesus could have done whatever he wanted to, he was obedient to his Father’s will, even when it took him to the cross. (“Not my will, but yours be done,” says Jesus in Luke 22:42.)

  Obedience.

  Jesus was poor, chaste, and obedient. This is the main reason that members of religious orders make these vows: in imitation of Christ.

  The second reason is more logistical. The three vows help with the daily life of the religious community. Poverty means that we own nothing of our own, but all things together. This makes community life simpler and encourages unity. Chastity means that we’re not married, and so we can devote more time to those with whom we minister. Obedience means that one person is ultimately in charge of things, which provides for clear-cut lines of authority. Each vow helps with the running of the community.

  At this point I’ll bet you’re thinking, Big deal. Or maybe, So what? Or even, Maybe I should skip this chapter! You’re thinking, I’m not in a religious order, and I have no intention of living out poverty, chastity, or obedience. What does this aspect of Jesuit life possibly have to teach me?

  More than you think. In the next few chapters we’ll deal with each of those “threatening” ideas and how they can help you lead a more satisfying life. First up: poverty.

  THE CAUSE OF GREAT DELIGHT

  Anthony de Mello was an Indian Jesuit priest renowned for his spiritual insights and, especially, his parables and stories. The author of many books on the spiritual life until his death in 1987, he was a popular lecturer within Catholic circles.

  Some of de Mello’s parables were drawn from Indian culture, others were his own creation, still others a sort of mélange. Here’s one about a sannyasi (a wise man) that illustrates de Mello’s outlook on wealth and poverty. As with many of his stories, it finds its inspiration in Eastern spiritualities but is quintessentially Ignatian. It’s called “The Diamond.”

  The sannyasi had reached the outskirts of the village and settled down under a tree for the night when a villager came running up to him and said, “The stone! The stone! Give me the precious stone!”

  “What stone?” asked the sannyasi.

  “Last night the Lord Shiva appeared to me in a dream,” said the villager, “and told me that if I went to the outskirts of the village at dusk I should find a sannyasi who would give me a precious stone that would make me rich forever.”

  The sannyasi rummaged in his bag and pulled out a stone. “He probably meant this one,” he said, as he handed the stone over to the villager. “I found it on a forest path some days ago. You can certainly have it.”

  The man gazed at the stone in wonder. It was a diamond, probably the largest diamond in the whole world, for it was as large as a person’s head.

  He took the diamond and walked away. All night he tossed about in bed, unable to sleep. Next day at the crack of dawn he woke the sannyasi and said, “Give me the wealth that makes it possible for you to give this diamond away so easily.”

  Poverty is a mystery for me. But not in the way you might think.

  The mystery is why more people don’t choose to live more simply. I’m not suggesting that all people need to sell everything they own, beg for alms, let their hair and fingernails grow, and live in a cave, like Ignatius did after his conversion. (And which even he realized was excessive.) Rather, as de Mello’s parable suggests, not being controlled by possessions is a step to spiritual freedom, the kind of freedom that most people say they want.

  Poverty enabled Ignatius to follow the “poor Christ” of the Gospels, to free himself from unnecessary encumbrances, and to identify with the poor, whom Jesus of Nazareth loved. As such, it was a source of joy. In a letter to the Jesuits in Padua, Italy, in 1547, who were struggling with the demands of the vow, he wrote that poverty “is the cause of great delight in him who embraces it willingly.” That surprising truth was something I discovered at the beginning of my Jesuit life.

  THE RICH YOUNG MAN

  After my eight-day retreat at Campion Center (when I thought about Jesus as a friend), I asked the Jesuits if I could enter the novitiate that same summer. Wisely, they counseled waiting for a year, until I had more experience of prayer and knew more about the Society of Jesus. Impatient, I asked them to reconsider. Eventually they agreed to let me commence the process, while cautioning that finding out so late meant I would have only a short time to quit my job, move out of my apartment, and prepare for the entrance date of August 28. So I embarked on the long process: undergoing several in-depth interviews, running through endless psychological tests, writing long essays, tracking down my baptismal records, and so on.

  On August 15, the vocations director phoned to say that I had been accepted for entrance. “Is that what they mean by getting the call? ” my sister asked dryly.

  Immediately afterward, and even though this is not recommended, I started giving away all my possessions. (Most Jesuits wait until they take vows at the end of novitiate before they fully divest themselves of their possessions.)

  My money and car went to my parents. My suits would sit in my parents’ house in case the novitiate
didn’t work out. (I wasn’t taking any chances.) The rest of my clothes went to Goodwill Industries, which would distribute them to the poor. My books went to friends who dropped by one sultry afternoon to scour my bookshelves. “I wish more of my friends joined religious orders,” said one friend.

  As I write this today, I can remember the initial burst of happiness I felt. How liberating it was! No more worrying about whether my suits were the proper shade of gray, my shoes the right brand, my ties the appropriate hue. No more worrying about whether I should rent an apartment or buy one. No more worrying about whether I needed a new this or a new that.

  At Sunday Mass a few months before, the Gospel reading was of the “rich young man” who asks Jesus what is needed for eternal life. Its inclusion in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke underlines its importance for the early Christians. When Jesus tells the man to follow the Ten Commandments, the man replies, in the Gospel of Luke, “I have kept all these since my youth” (18:21). Jesus can see that he is a good person. Mark’s Gospel says Jesus “loved him” (10:21).

  “There is still one thing lacking,” says Luke’s Jesus. “Sell all that you own and distribute the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

  But as Luke writes, the wealthy man “became sad.” He doesn’t want to give up what he owns. The Gospel of Mark is more poignant. “When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”