Rev. James R. Van Dyke, S.J., Georgetown Prep's president, was the keynote speaker at the Loyola Club of Washington, D.C., Luncheon on April 11. Fr. Van Dyke was introduced by Denis Dwyer, chair of the School's Board of Trustees.
According to the organization's website, "The Loyola Club gathers Jesuit-educated alums and friends for food, fellowship and inspiration. The Loyola Club probes ways to apply Jesuit Spirituality in our everyday lives and to use it as a means to strengthen our communities."
Fr. Van Dyke's talk was titled "Men and Women for-and-with Others Toward a Culture of Conversation."
Read the text of Fr. Van Dyke's remarks below.
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I was thinking the other day of one of my favorite moments in grad school. Grad school? Favorite moment? Those two do seem a little incommensurate, don't they? But you have to understand that my experience of grad school—at least what I think of as grad school—was very different. I had the good fortune to do the Graduate Institute at St. John's College in Annapolis over a series of four summers. Yes, I admit it: I am a Great Books nerd. I spent four happy summers at reading camp. I'm a card-carrying member of Aristotelians Anonymous. And I read Platonic dialogues for their dramatic content.
Anyhow, the moment came during one of the best summers I have ever spent doing anything. We had been studying Math and Natural Science, reading such heart-pounders as Plato's Timaeus and Descartes' Discourse on Method. On Friday and Saturday nights we would play Risk or Diplomacy—games so good that by the end of the evening we were all ready for the sacrament of reconciliation. And at the end of the summer I recall composing a ditty entitled "Somewhere over My Euclid" on the back of a bar napkin. I do still have that bar napkin somewhere, by the way, though I only remember, for obvious reasons, a few lines of the brilliant composition as it was performed at our annual Greek Dinner:
Somewhere over my Euclid
Lines are straight;
Da da da da da da da
Gee-ometry is great!
Now we did actually work very hard that summer, though, struggling together through tomes such as Darwin's On the Origin of Species, Harvey's On the Circulation of the Blood, Aristotle's Physics, and Euclid's Elements. That last one—the Elements—by the way, was an enigma...we worked with the original, trying to understand what Euclid was pointing to and how it all added up, working out each of the propositions. And when we got to Lobachevski toward the end of the summer...well, after puzzling for several days we finally walked—actually walked—the Lobachevskian parallels. If you know what I'm talking about, you know that Lobachevskian parallels are impossible, but we walked them. Together.
So, towards the end of the summer our tutor, Mr. Pastille, stopped us with a question about halfway through class: What is the point of this, he asked; why are we doing this? A good question; none of us were math or science teachers, after all. This stuff we were studying had no practical application in our lives. Yet day after day we got together and worked our way through it, and on Thursdays after seminar we argued late into the night about Euclid over beers at the Ram's Head or Harry Brown's. Why were we doing this?
The next hour or so of conversation was one of the most fascinating I have ever engaged in. Every epistemological reason to study, to learn, that humanity has ever imagined came forth in the comments of my fellow grad students. The beauty of learning, the beauty of the content itself, the utility of learning new languages and new ways of thinking, the importance of reasoning things through, of learning the possibilities and the limitations of human logic—all were there on the table. And yet, it was not enough. These were all true, but they were not sufficient. Finally, one of my classmates opined quietly that the real point was that we had done exactly what Plato suggests in the Meno is the singularly most important thing human beings can do: we had learned together. In a world of points-of view, we had labored towards common understandings. And as Mr. Pastille pointed out, in a world confronted with so many critical problems, the ability to sit and converse with one another—to think about every angle, to listen to one another and respond, to come to common understandings, to connect the dots if you'll pardon and Euclidean pun—these were the skills needed if human—truly human—culture is to continue to grow and to thrive.
That was a long time ago, now...a quarter of a century ago. Happily, many of us card carrying-members of Aristotelians Anonymous remain good friends and continue to share jokes and articles and commentary, as well as family pictures—thank God for social media! But the point haunts me. That was a quarter of a century ago—long before the age of tweetstorms and callings-out, before doxing, before viral videos, alternative facts, and all the toxic nonsense we have unfortunately become too accustomed to, even inured to.
Now, I don't raise these memories to evoke a sense of nostalgia; 1994 was no Golden Age. I noticed the other day that this week we are remembering the 25th anniversary of the Rwandan Genocide. No, I recall them because they offer a challenge—a challenge to me and to all of us who claim the Jesuit and Ignatian tradition as our own—that lofty concept of Men and Women for-and-with Others.
Men and Women for-and-with Others: we all know what that means—those wonderful occasions of service that we experienced in high school and college, those opportunities when we can pitch in a little more, those occasions when we can go out of our way to do something nice or good for someone, especially someone in need. It's a great slogan. It's even one that we can take into our professional lives—committing our work and our work places to service. I can't tell you how many Jesuit educated lawyers I know who offer pro bono services, and Jesuit educated doctors and dentists and nurses who even take chunks of time annually to serve in third world countries and call it vacation. I can't tell you how proud I am of all the Jesuit-educated friends and former students who have gone into teaching; they could do anything they want but they go into teaching, and not just in our relatively comfortable Jesuit high schools, but in grammar schools, and public schools, and Nativity schools, and in Cristo Rey schools. They take on the challenge, and not because it pays well, or because it's terribly satisfying (it frequently is not) but because there is a genuine and crying need. And that is good. It is all admirable and good.
But if it stops there, we really are missing the point that Fr. Arrupe was making in his address to the Jesuit alumni of Europe where he coined the phrase back in 1973. For these wonderful efforts, though truly wonderful, are all external. But something more, something greater, something far more difficult is asked: an internal conversion—a repentance, as it were—a rethinking, which is what repentance means from its Latin roots. For Fr. Arrupe is not just thinking about the things we do but also the people we are, the people we are becoming. Hence the entire talk is written not as a lesson from a teacher, but as a reflection from a fellow seeker. Its emphasis is always on the we, on all of us together, rather than on the individual hero. Its driving force is towards a justice that is coterminous with humanization, even as the justice of God is revealed in the humanity of the Christ. Reminiscent of the "Contemplation on the Love of God" from the Exercises, its focus is on our laboring for-and-with one another in the very way that God labors for-and-with us for our salvation. We can and should be working for justice in our world, but not sacrificing persons for our causes. Rather, persons—humanization, to use Arrupe's term—must be the cause itself. Or to paraphrase Dickens, mankind must be our business.
Why is this so important?
I think it is because it offers the more excellent way—the way of love, to quote St. Paul (1 Cor 12:31)—in contrast to something that is increasingly unjust in our world—what Arrupe refers to as a downward spiral—which is the profoundly negative and cynical way people imagine one another, speak of one another, and treat one another—the world that is increasingly divided between progressives and conservatives, allies and enemies, "deplorables" and right-thinking people, my friends and those people. It is a world marked by echo chambers and soundbytes and tweets and posts. What it excludes is conversation...respect...friendship...love. Not mere tolerance and dialogue in the fashion of our secular day, but genuine conversation, genuine respect, genuine friendship, genuine love.
To be truthful, none of this is new. If you read the life of Ignatius, you realize that in his various peregrinations around Europe, he is wandering through the wars of religion. And his first companions...they are each one of them from the warring countries, even Francis Xavier whose brothers were manning the cannons that fired on Pamplona even as Ignatius was defending it in May 1521. War, animosity, division, enmity are nothing new. But what is new is that these guys, in a warring world, managed to become friends—truly and deeply friends—indeed, brothers to one another. And it was not because they were necessarily easy people to get along with; there's funny stories about that. Rather it was a common understanding that they had about God and about their call, a common understanding that is at the very root of Arrupe's call for us to be men and women for-and-with others. It is best summarized as Ignatius states it in the Spiritual Exercises:
...let it be presupposed that every good Christian is to be more ready to save his neighbor's proposition than to condemn it. If he cannot save it, let him inquire how he means it; and if he means it badly, let him correct him with charity. If that is not enough, let him seek all the suitable means to bring him to mean it well, and save himself.
Notice what Ignatius highlights here: To be ready to save rather than to condemn, to inquire, to correct but only with charity, to seek suitable means...to mean it well and to save. The language is so different from that of Ignatius' day, when the means of communication on religious matters were frequently enough imprisonment and interrogation, as Ignatius himself knew too well from his experiences with the Spanish Inquisition. This is how Ignatius encourages his companions to help souls—in conversation that is disposed towards understanding rather than dismissal, towards relationship rather than argument, towards salvation rather than condemnation. It is so much in contrast to the tracts, anathemas, and screeds of his own day, and so very much in contrast to the tweets, the posts, and the soundbytes of our own.
And this is where I think Jesuit education and Ignatian spirituality—and all of us here—need to make our contribution. We need to commit ourselves to the re-humanization of discourse in our time, the creation of conversation—conversation which was so instrumental to Ignatius' own apostolic work, which was fundamental to the principles of discernment and to the founding of the Society of Jesus. Conversation that can indeed lead to common understandings but more importantly to relationship. Conversation which is precisely the forgetting of self in the engagement with the other. Conversation, not debate, not even dialogue. Conversation because it witnesses to the ongoing loving conversation that God has with God's creation, that God has with us, that God has with each of us.
It is very easy to do service projects. It is very easy to sign on to a cause. It is very easy to write a check. It's easy to introduce those ideas into our work places. But to engage ourselves in relationship—to go beyond the external and to let ourselves be affected—to, in high philosophical language, encounter the other as such, to allow ourselves to be transformed—that is what Arrupe is talking about. If we are not doing that we are, in fact, perpetuating that most unjust structure of all, that of our own habitual ego which makes everything we do about me.
Practically, what does this mean? The past several General Congregations has used language suggesting the relationships that Jesuit apostolates should promote among their staffs. Terms such as colleagueship, collaboration, and partnership were originally used to indicate a growing sense that the Jesuits, who had always controlled the institutions, should be working more closely with lay people. More recently, however, there has been a recognition of a further implication of these words, namely that collaboration, partnership, and colleagueship are not merely nice things that ought to happen in Jesuit apostolates but that indeed they are essential characteristics of Jesuit apostolic work. Indeed, they are constitutive of our work. Put most simply, in our partnership, collaboration, and colleagueship, we witness to the way God works with humanity, not imposing but accompanying, not from a distance at all (with apologies to Bette Midler) but in the very thick of it. Indeed, in our collaboration with one another—engaging in our common work, contributing our insights, receiving what others bring to the table, bearing the load for one another—we are doing nothing less than bringing that love of God that Ignatius speaks about in the "Contemplation on the Love of God" to life in the world for one another. This is not about the relationship of Jesuits to those other people, but about all of us! About our relationship with one another. Put incredibly succinctly, when we work with one another—really work with one another—we are working with God for the salvation of each other and the world.
Now, that's a lovely vision, but if you think about it, it's not as easy as it seems at first glance. I know that I am no picnic, and anyone who works with me—well, sainthood can't be too far off. Interestingly enough, after his initial and brutally penitential fervor, Ignatius steered more and more away from the traditional penances of fasting, brutal bodily mortifications, hairshirts, and all night prayer vigils and directed himself more towards that challenge of charity towards others. So strong was this impulse that in both the Exercises and in his other writings, Ignatius directs that a retreatant needs explicit permission to take on any of the traditional penances, as does a Jesuit. Dealing with people, dealing with the actual struggles of being human in a human community, dealing with others as such—these are the fora in which grace is found.
So where does that leave us? The Second Vatican Council emphasizes that we must read the signs of the times, echoing the admonition of Jesus (Mt 16:3). And to be honest, the signs of our times are pretty glaring—signs of bitterness, alienation, estrangement, anger, and hopelessness. And we do not need to look far to see them; they are very close at hand—perhaps more so in this city that in many other places. So while it is good that we do those wonderful service projects—those works that the Epistle of James commands us to—for they are works that bring hope, and hope is not to be sneezed at, there is so much more to be done. While it is good to see the feel-good stories—and my school is certainly replete with them in our service programs and the ethic of service we promote—we have to begin to address those other signs. For if faith without works is dead, works without respect...friendship...love... such works, as St. Paul reminds us, are hollow.
And so there is a challenge, a new challenge before us. Arrupe writes at the end of his introduction:
Today our prime...objective must be to form men and women-for-others; men and women who will live not for themselves but for God and his Christ — for the God-man who lived and died for all the world; men who cannot even conceive of love of God which does not include love for the least of their neighbors; men and women completely convinced that love of God which does not issue in justice for men is a farce.
And this is, and always has been finally true. But now the challenge before us is to understand what it is that has emerged in our own time: that a justice which is not filled with love—love that is finally the love of God, God's love for us each and all—is finally not just, not for others, not for ourselves.. It is not AMDG, just more AMDMe. A justice that remains captive to that cruelest of captors, that darkest of prisons—the ego.
So finally what I am talking about in the end is a challenge to us all—it certainly is for me. It is not a call to the correct causes, to the good projects, to the right side of history—those these are good calls—but to a personal re-humanization—a personal conversion to remember who I am and who others really are, a personal commitment to remember that I and all those I love—all those I encounter—are at once both dust as we were reminded on Ash Wednesday and at the same time sons and daughters of God and brothers and sisters to Jesus. Without this—this critical piece—Men and Women for-and-with Others will remain a posture, external, a powerful but finally shallow slogan in a world of shallow slogans. But with the embrace of the reality of who we are—the dust of the earth so beloved by God—we become friends: our appraisals of each other become both just and tender. We speak with each other as friends, which is precisely how in the Exercises Ignatius suggests that we should speak with Christ crucified: exactly as one friend speaks to another.
AMDG