Joseph Stoutzenberger

The Future is Peace

Young plants growing beneath sunlight in a crumbling stone ruin

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

I have been reading a book co-authored by two peace activists, a Palestinian and an Israeli, both of whom recently lost family members in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I was struck by the hopeful title, The Future Is Peace. Given the war-torn devastation in so many parts of the world, how can a peaceful future be affirmed in such an unambiguous statement: the future is peace? Most of the book recounts horrible stories of torture, destruction, and death. Is that all going to stop sometime in the future, hopefully sooner rather than later? Then I came to a stark realization. The future depends on there being peace and cessation of destruction. Otherwise, there will be no future. Not even a dystopian one, such as some novelists and movie makers have depicted for over a century now. Remember the constant state of warfare in Orwell’s 1984, or Jules Verne’s Time Machine, where the future is ruled by bloodthirsty Morlocks who feast on childlike, powerless Eloi. Endless warfare leads to the death of our species. Peace is the only future there can be. Unless we human beings find a way to renounce warfare, there will be no place for us in the future. The universe will continue to unfold without us.

Diverse group of people talking together beneath large trees in a park — A diverse group gathers in a sunlit park for a thoughtful outdoor conversation.

One of the peace activists in the book, the Israeli Maoz, writes that people in the Middle East have been told for centuries that one more war would bring about peace, but it never does. Only the painstaking process of dialogue and fostering the well-being of all people offers hope for a peaceful future. I was curious how the authors were going to end their book, focused as it is on the current disastrous Israeli-Palestinian state of affairs, especially after giving many more examples of violent incidents than peacemaking programs. The book ends with the two men attending a Vatican-sponsored program on peace and justice in Italy, overseen by Pope Francis. When they were invited to speak, they simply said who they were: a grieving Palestinian who had lost a beloved brother murdered by Israeli soldiers, and a heart-sick Israeli whose parents were murdered during the October 7 attack on a kibbutz. Pope Francis motioned to the two men to come up to him, despite his frail condition, and embraced them. They asked Pope Francis to do all that he can to help the situation in Gaza and Israel. The Pope said that they should not rely on political leaders to bring about peace. Only everyday people, such as themselves, who meet each other, share their stories, and dedicate themselves to peacemaking will make a difference. After that encounter, every day until his death, Pope Francis called the pastor of Holy Family Catholic Church in Gaza to inquire how everyone was doing amidst the turmoil and violence happening around them.

One example with a positive, hopeful message recounted in the book was the experience the two authors had in a Gaza hospital. Aziz talked about his battle with cancer, which was treated at Holy Family Hospital there. He had both Palestinian and Jewish doctors, Muslim and Christian caregivers. They were all dedicated to healing and care for the sick, regardless of their nationality. That struck me as a future-oriented oasis in a land being devastated by constant bombing. People throughout the world need to heed the same message: We are all in this together. In 1624, English poet John Dunne wrote about a realization he had while recovering from an illness: “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” We need to dedicate whatever gifts and talents we have to serve the good of one another. That’s what hope is: the only path to a future. The title of the book states a stark reality: No peace, no future. That’s not doomsday thinking. That’s reality, not imaginary dreaming. The message for believers of all faiths is that God expects nothing less from us than to be peacemakers. All people of good will have a stake in creating the future, and that future can only be a peaceful one.

The Magic of “We”

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

Many years ago, my brother Rich went off to a summer graduate program at Boston College. A few months later, he stopped off in Philly to see me with a woman he had met there. We chatted for a while, and then I suggested we go out to get something to eat. I told them that there was a Chinese and an Italian restaurant nearby. The two of them looked at each other; and the woman, Sharon, said, “We don’t like Chinese food.” I was taken aback. The simple, magical word “we” hit me like a lightning bolt. Here was my brother, whom I had shared a bed with growing up, with a woman I had never met, and after a few short months they were saying “we.” Some people never get to the point of experiencing “we” with one other person, let alone with friends or a community. What a blessing it is. Rich and Sharon married and continue to be “we” over forty years later.

It reminds me of the story of a saint we heard about in grade school, St. Damien of Molokai. He was a Belgian priest sent as a missionary to Hawaii. He took up residence on the island of Molokai, where people who had contracted leprosy, Hansen’s disease, were sent to fend for themselves. Damien established structures to make life more pleasant for these people, and saw to it that they were treated with respect and even buried with dignity. He, of course, celebrated Mass with the sick; and during one Sunday service he began his sermon with the words: “We lepers.” He had contracted the disease himself and was no longer an outsider helping them but was one of them. He had become a “we” with these people who were cast aside by the powers on the main island who went to great lengths to keep their distance. Damien is recognized as a saint because he lived the Christian message, entering into the joys and suffering of others, and paid a price for it. His experience mirrors what Christians believe about Jesus, that, despite his divinity, he became one of us, even unto death.

The Christian God is trinitarian in nature—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In other words, the Christian God is a “we.” In Jesus, God is not separate from human beings but one of us. That divine presence remains in our midst even today as the Holy Spirit. Despite Jesus’s best efforts, it is hard for us to grasp this intimate connection we have with God. The second half of the Gospel according to John has Jesus very powerfully telling his friends that they are one with God and with one another. “You will know that I am one with the Father. You will know that you are one with me, and I am one with you,” and then, “I have told you these things while I am still with you. But the Holy Spirit will come and help you, because the Father will send the Spirit to take my place” (John 11: 20,25-26). Jesus is exhorting them to recognize the cosmic “we” that he is intimately in touch with in his connection to the Father and that is still present among us.

A group of people placing their hands together in a circle — Image by Bob Dmyt from Pixabay

A discussion of the magic of experiencing we-ness must recognize that nearly half of American adults are not married, and that even being married is no guarantee of such an experience. To attain a sense of “we” with another is a great gift, a blessing from God and the work of human hands. It may or may not happen in a person’s life, married or not, but it is what we are designed to be. It is, in a sense, an art—the art of loving. Even fleeting moments of we-ness are holy. “We” can be a group of women who support one another and regularly gather for sharing stores; or older men who walk together and talk sports every Sunday, occasionally opening up about more personal matters. “We” is ultimately a profound longing we all have. St. Augustine tells us that “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” We don’t exist merely as isolated objects; rather, we are always in relationship, and God is present whenever we open our heart to another. In the words of philosopher Martin Buber, we are inherently not I-It but I-Thou. We can try to live otherwise, building physical and emotional walls as best we can, but we never succeed. That stranger across a crowded room always calls us, as the musical “South Pacific” reminds us.

We may not venture out into an unknown place, like my brother’s summer journey up north to Boston College, and come out of it with a breakthrough experience into we-ness. The Christian message is that all people are “we,” and the Christian vocation is to expand our realization of we-ness beyond those we are comfortable with. “We” is magic, but it is God’s work, the work of the Spirit, who works through us. Every encounter with another is an opportunity to experience that magic. To paraphrase a traditional Catholic hymn: Come, Holy Spirit, make our hearts ready to step outside of ourselves, to give and receive, to know the magic of “we.”

Jesus Laughing

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

In the early 1970s, a poster of Jesus became popular. It portrays Jesus as a handsome, long-haired young man with his head bent back in laughter. A problem is that nowhere in the gospels is there an indication that Jesus laughed, smiled, told jokes, or in general had fun. Those who defend the laughing Jesus portrait point out that the gospels were focused on the serious message of making the case that Jesus was Son of God and Savior of the world. The culmination of that message was when Jesus was arrested, tortured, and nailed to a cross unto death. That’s no laughing matter. His resurrection soon after is cause for rejoicing, but in the post-resurrection stories he isn’t laughing at what happened; and his closest friends faced the reality that they too had to take up the cross before the joy of resurrection awaited them. Defenders of the laughing Jesus also suggest that some gospel stories imply indirectly that Jesus laughed. Someone who beckons children to come to him and asks people to be like children themselves is certainly advocating for the laughter and playfulness we associate with childhood. They also suggest that some of Jesus’ parables were so outlandish that they would have brought a smile to the faces of his listeners. The image of Nicodemus climbing back into his mother’s womb to be “born again” is, if taken literally, silly. Jesus poked fun at pharisees and hypocrites, suggesting that a humble but good-hearted tax collector was more pleasing to God than a self-righteous, judgmental paragon of power. Nonetheless, it’s safe to say that the message of Jesus is no laughing matter.

By way of contrast, Buddhism has a long-standing tradition of portraying the Buddha as laughing, or at least smiling. Indian statues of Siddhartha often depict him as having a slight smile on his face, as if he knows something that makes him very happy. Anyone who has been inside a Chinese store or restaurant has seen a fat, jolly Buddha laughing heartily, symbolizing that the joy behind the message of the Buddha brings on unabashed laughter. Hadith, stories about Muhammad, recount that the prophet was known to smile frequently but not laugh. He advocated humor if it was truthful, moderate, and kind. His smile communicated to his followers that his message and his movement brought on happiness, something to smile about. Judaism has King David stripping off his clothes, laughing and dancing as the Ark of the Covenant is brought to his city, Jerusalem. Some of the psalms attributed to David talk of singing, dancing, even shouting with joy.

There are Christian saints who recognized the importance of laughter and humor. One who stands out is the sixteenth century patron of Rome, St. Philip Neri. He posted a sign over his door that read “House of Mirth” and played practical jokes on seminarians preparing for priesthood. Once he is known to have attended an important meeting with half of his beard shaved off. He recognized the importance of laughing at oneself and not taking oneself too seriously, even calling himself a “fool.” Hopefully the seminarians he played tricks on learned to lighten up and to find humor and laughter as a fitting entry into the joy of the gospel. One commentator remarked that Philip Neri “laughed his way to heaven.”

St. Francis of Assisi and his early Franciscans were also known for laughter. The lifestyle they chose ran completely counter to the culture of the time, marked by accumulating wealth and grasping onto material things. (It was during this time that a middle class was emerging in Europe, when money and material goods were supplanting the power of the nobility whose status was connected to their land holdings.) When young men who joined Francis ran into each other they would often burst out laughing at the seeming absurdity of the free, unattached lifestyle they had chosen. Francis was all about letting go, what Buddhists would call detachment, and it led him to singing and laughing at the sheer delight he found in it. To him, this was the heart of the gospel message expressed in the passage, “Go, give away all that you have, and come follow me.”

Today, Christians are faced with the question: Is the message of Jesus Good News that brings joy, or isn’t it? Jesus found it to be good news. Early in his turn toward public engagement he told members of his synagogue in his home town that he came to “bring good news to the poor.” He wanted people to be happy despite the trials and suffering that life sent their way. In John’s gospel, as Jesus nears his death, he tells his friends that right now the world laughs at them and they are sad, but in time they will be the happy ones. Through him, they get the last laugh. It’s like childbirth, he tells them. Pain and suffering give way to happiness when a child is born. If Jesus wanted happiness for his followers; then, surely, he experienced happiness himself, despite his torturous final days.

Jesus may or may not have told jokes and been playful with his friends. He may or may not have thrown his head back in uncontrollable laughter. But his life was a crusade to heal people from suffering, calm their fears, be at peace, feel loved, and give them reason to be happy. That’s good news, deserving of smiles and a good laugh.

The Belsnickel

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

In the Pennsylvania Dutch communities of Berks and Lancaster counties where I grew up, there is an interesting character who emerges every Christmas time. The Belsnickel (I always hear it pronounced Belschnickel) is a mischievous, crochety old man dressed in rags carrying a hefty bag over his shoulder. He visits families to check on the children, promising treats for those who have been good and nasty tricks on those who haven’t. My understanding is that this character emerged in Germany during the time of the Protestant Reformation. Protestants downplayed saints and viewed Catholic attitudes toward them as bordering on superstition. For that reason, St. Nicholas, later Santa Claus, was sidelined as the patron saint of children who checked to see if they have been naughty or nice. Protestants came up with the Belsnickel to represent that mysterious, “better watch out,” figure, and seems to be more ambiguous than Santa even though he too has a bag of treats to hand out.

Recently, some commercial genius came up with the idea of Elf on the Shelf. Here again, the point is that someone—a higher power—is watching and can be appealed to in order to keep children behaving leading up to Christmas. Of course, the presumption for children is that they are being good and deserving of gifts. Not to make too much of these additions to Christmas traditions, they both cling to a notion that God is always watching so we better avoid wrongdoing. That theme resonates with the emphasis on sin and guilt that was commonplace in Catholicism before the mid-1960s. There was even a term, “Catholic guilt,” that many people associated with their experience of the faith at the time. Especially during Lent and Advent, Catholics flocked to confession so that they could be forgiven their sins in order to receive Communion at Easter and Christmas. Aside from these two holydays, few Catholics received Communion at Mass, despite Pope Pius X in 1905 exhorting them to go to confession and receive Communion more than the requirement of once a year for both. Vatican Council II, held from 1962-65, ushered in a great backlash against the emphasis on sin and guilt. Confessions went down; receiving Communion went up in numbers. God wasn’t a Belsnickel or an Elf on the Shelf but a compassionate God modeled in the image of Jesus in the gospels and made visual in the manger scene introduced by St. Francis of Assisi in the thirteenth century.

An old bearded man, the Belsnickel, standing in a snowy forest with a lantern.

Our local church always put up a Christmas creche, and a statue of baby Jesus was placed there on Christmas eve. He is laying in his bed of straw with his arms outstretched as if in a gesture of welcome, reaching out for a loving embrace. We would take a piece of straw from this Christmas display and bring it home as a reminder that the Christ child, the symbol of God’s love and not judgment, is with us always.

Does there remain a place for Santa and the Belsnickel, who call us to pay attention to our actions? Rightly understood, they are calling us not just to think about receiving gifts but to consider how we are and can be gifts for others. Children, how are you contributing to the betterment of your family, your school mates, and the people you meet? Questions of self-examination need not be guilt producing but rather can be energizing for young and old. They engender being attentive to our moral health and provide grounds for hope—we can make a difference! These playful, mischievous characters can add to the magic of Christmas, especially if they link us back to what Christians understand to be the true meaning of Christmas.

Jews have Yom Kippur and Muslims have Ramadan as times for self-assessment. Just as Lent is designed to be, Advent, the time leading up to Christmas, can serve the same purpose for Christians, including Christian children. There was never a question but that Santa had only toys and treats in his bag, despite the threat of receiving only bricks of coal in one’s stocking. The Belsnickel’s bag is more ominous: What’s in that old sack he is carrying? The few times I have seen a Belsnickel character show up at events, it struck me that he has a message worth pondering. He reminds us that our actions have consequences. What he has in his bag will come out as welcome or unwelcome gifts, not because some higher power is out to punish us but because we make a difference in all that we do. We are all called to be a force for good. It’s a message children can understand and appreciate, even while knowing that the Christ child embraces them and invites them to join him in making our world a little better.

Are Saints Human?

Saint Francis of Assisi with crossed hands in prayer

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

I have written a number of textbooks for use in Catholic high school religion courses. Some years ago, my brother Jim, a math teacher at York Catholic High School, saw a student carrying a book I had written. He told the student, “My brother wrote that book.” The student shrugged him off and said, “No, he didn’t.” My brother pointed out that the author’s last name and his were the same, but the student still didn’t believe him. It struck me that for many people books are not written by real people but by some creator who doesn’t exist in the real world. This past year, American Catholics have had an eye-opening and totally unexpected experience. An American was elected pope. Here was someone who grew up in a real place, Chicago, went to White Sox games, and attended Villanova University, where there are students today just like him walking the halls.

St. Therese of Lisieux, known as the “Little Flower,” died at age 24 just over 125 years ago, but she quickly became one of the most popular saints among Catholics. Depictions of her in statues and “holy cards” portray her as generically beautiful and saintly even though she is the first saint ever to have had photographs taken of her. Those photos show that she was physically attractive, but no more so than many other young French girls of her time. She apparently was a spoiled, at times even bratty, child who clung to her father and was overly sensitive to how she was treated, especially by him. She was an attention seeker. She entered a local Carmelite monastery at the age of fifteen, a place where women separated themselves from the outside world and dedicated themselves to constant prayer. Therese discovered that the way to holiness that suited her was the way of littleness. She was content to be like an overlooked plaything in God’s closet, not engaged in great works but in simply doing little things for others. That message caught on among Catholics in the early 1900s and continues to this day. Most of us live our life of holiness around the kitchen table, food shopping, going to work or school, and interacting with the people we meet daily. Therese’s “little way” of holiness happens in such places, and it’s easy to see why it has been appealing to so many Catholics.

Unlike other Christian groups, Catholics have devotion to saints. If there are statues of saints in a church, they are typically portrayed as anything but human. They may have a halo around their head, their face is without blemish, and they wear clothes that regular folks simply don’t wear. They are other-worldly. They didn’t have struggles and questions or traits that were off-putting to many people who actually knew them. Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement who is being considered for sainthood today, famously said: “Don’t call me a saint. I don’t want to be dismissed that easily.” She knew that she was a flawed person, and she didn’t want to be relegated to some exclusive club of otherworldly figures. She felt that everyone is called to holiness, not just a select few who lived among us wearing a halo and with angelic music trailing them wherever they went. Saints are not comic book superheroes. They faced the conflicts and troubles of their time and tried to address them in the spirit of Jesus, as we are all called to do.

However, it’s important to remember the human side to this popular saint. Since she was so young—she entered the convent at age fifteen, and was exemplary in her piety, she was admired by the other sisters as their little saint. Her mother superior, in charge of the monastery, recognized that she had a talent for writing, so she was encouraged to keep a journal. She contracted tuberculosis in her early twenties, from which she suffered greatly and which took her life. When she became sick, she was encouraged to put up with her suffering and “offer it up” as a good little saint would do. She, however, asked to have her uncle, a doctor, visit her and prescribe medicine to help with the pain, a very human request but not at the time considered a “saintly” one. The sister nursing her even kept the pain pills away from her for fear that she would take too many. In other words, Therese Martin, the Little Flower, was addressing her illness in a very human way. That human response enhances her message of following the little way. Masochism is not saintliness. In hospitals today, doctors and nurses seek to make their patients as comfortable as possible. Such commonplace acts of kindness are saintly, even more so for being so humane. As we go through life, suffering happens and can even lead to valuable spiritual insights. However, masochism is not saintliness. Even Jesus said, “Let this cup pass from me” when faced with the physical and emotional pain about to be inflicted on him.

Where are the holy ones today? They are retrieving shopping carts in grocery store parking lots, watching over children in pre-school programs, even trying their best to navigate being homeless on city streets. Don’t look for halos or listen for angelic music. Instead, be attentive to how goodness is lived out in very human ways by very human people. With every simple act of kindness, count yourself among the holy ones.

Holiday Cheer

A man kneeling in a church with stain glass windows.

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

I grew up Christian and specifically Catholic, so my experience of Christmas is filtered through that lens. For me, the Christmas season always brings back memories of the Christmases of my childhood. Overall, those memories are warm and cozy, and now they exist in a timelessness that belies the reality of any unpleasantness that was also part of the holiday experience over the years. Holidays of all religions and cultures are an important break from the dailiness of our lives, and that is certainly true of Christmas if entered into as it is carved out in the Christian calendar. Even God took a break from the work of creation to rest on the Sabbath. If we give ourselves over to them, holidays can serve as a time of meditation, a breaking free from the weight of working, analytical thinking, and doing. Granted, distractions are everywhere, even more so at this time of year. Would that even shopping, decorating, baking, and meal preparation could be done in a spirit of festive joy. Christmastime works best if it is entered into with a meditative mindset. Of course, there is the hustle and bustle in holiday preparations and gatherings; but if it works its magic, there is also that spirit of connection to the infinite underlying holiday traditions and greetings. So much is lost if we don’t set aside some time to enter into this spirit of Christmas with the joy and reverence it deserves. It is appropriate, perhaps even necessary, to connect Christmastime with the sense of openness, wonder, and joyful expectation we associate with childhood.

During my youth, Christmas was viewed as such a solemn occasion that wars stopped. The idea of one nation killing people of another nation on this holiest of days was unthinkable in light of the meaning of Christmas, even if it lasted only a day. A Christmas ceasefire symbolized peace on earth, in aspiration if not in reality. The great powers of the earth had the sense to bow down before the seemingly powerless babe in the manger. Perhaps they realized that their power would end, no matter how righteous they considered their cause; but the love embodied at Christmas transcends time. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s, last Christmas sermon before his untimely death was all about nonviolence. He knew that a central tenet of Jesus’ message was a rejection of violence and a call for peace. Up to the very end of his life, King held onto his dream of a peaceful world community expressed in his famous 1963 speech; and he lived out his message in countless nonviolent campaigns.

Although it is in danger of getting lost, the central image for Christmas, the reason for the season, is the birth of Jesus. You can watch endless so-called Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel, and Jesus is never mentioned, although love always is. (I leave it to someone else to watch these movies to verify whether or not that statement is valid.) I find the manger scene richer, more compelling, than Elf on the Shelf, outlandish Christmas sweaters, and syrupy sweet movies. There is the Christ child, exposed to the elements in the humblest of settings. His parents, of peasant stock, hover over him, with shepherds peering in to attest to the wonder of the event. Animals aren’t mentioned in the two gospel stories about Christ’s birth; but, thanks to St. Francis of Assisi, they are a welcome addition to the earthiness of the scene. This child is Emmanuel, God-with-us! Quite a cause for celebration. Hopefully, that realization underlies every greeting, every gathering, every carol sung, every tree trimmed, and every tradition observed. When we sing “we need a little Christmas,” we mean that we need a reminder that the loving God has broken into our finitude, shares our home, and invites us to spread that message. Even a child can appreciate and wonder at that gift, and what better image of God-with-us than a newborn wrapped in swaddling clothes?

They Have Forgotten How to Blush

Image of a man kneeling in prayer within a room with stain glass windows.

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

My paternal grandfather Jeremiah died two months before I was born, so I was going to be named after him until at the last minute my mother decided it was too long a name to go with my 14-letter last name. I ended up Joseph. Nonetheless, I was drawn to the book of Jeremiah and felt some connection to the troubled prophet who has a book named after him in the bible. Twice Jeremiah says about the rulers of his country: This people has forgotten how to blush. A few people were accumulating great wealth and power while many others were starving to death or barely getting by. Jeremiah tries to warn everyone that such inequalities are an abomination in the eyes of God; but the rich and powerful, who lived in ornate palaces while just outside their walls children were hungry and homeless, didn’t even blush. Does this apply at all to today?

It’s human to blush when we feel embarrassed or ashamed. Granted, it’s not life-giving to let such feelings linger and hinder our entering fully into life. Blushing works best when it leads to action. Mistakes are inevitably made; that’s part of being human. If we have no capacity for introspection and don’t feel the pain of others, especially when we have been complicit in inflicting that pain, we won’t take action to help others. Jeremiah reminds us that blushing is part of that process. Not to blush ever is to lack conscience. Catholics have a sacrament designed to help people be honest with themselves, admit to mistakes, and then to “do penance,” which means to make amends however possible. Without doing penance of some kind, the confessional process is hollow. Alcoholics Anonymous is also built upon the premise that the starting point for overcoming the problem is to admit that there is a problem: “My name is Sarah, and I’m an alcoholic.” To blush is to admit to a problem. Part of AA’s program is eventually to seek out people who were hurt when the person was drinking, to ask forgiveness and, if possible, to make amends.

Abraham Lincoln was a president who recognized the importance of repentance. He declared April 30, 1863, as a “day of national humiliation, prayer, and fasting” to remind us, like Jeremiah, that at times we have cause to blush. Lincoln reminded us that our nation has been blessed abundantly, but that we also have strayed at times from the ways of God. We need to set aside an entire day to collectively examine the state of the nation and how God is calling us to mend our ways. He was asking us to think about how we are spending our wealth. How are the least among us being helped or hurt by our policies? Is the tone of our national discourse one of mutual respect for all parties, or is it demeaning to those who disagree with us? Are we caught up in retribution for perceived wrongs or open to forgiveness and reconciliation?

Lincoln carried the burden of a civil war in which so many people were slaughtered by, in his view, fellow citizens. He saw that at the time there was much to be embarrassed and ashamed about as a nation. A day of prayer might be a catalyst for reconciliation and healing. It seems we need a Jeremiah today to ask our leaders and all of us: “Have you forgotten how to blush?” We also need a Lincoln who can lead the way in a process of self-examination to ascertain whether words and actions deflect and blame others or seek common ground in the search for uplifting the wellbeing of all. Jeremiah doesn’t hold back in his criticism, and his words seem to be disturbingly applicable to some of our leaders: “You lie and cheat to make yourselves rich. You are powerful and prosperous, but you refuse to help the poor get the justice they deserve” (5:27-28). Learning how to blush is a necessary step in making America the great city on a hill of morality, justice, and shared prosperity where no one is left out.

America’s Changing Cultural Landscape

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

I recently attended a gathering of Jews, Christians, and Muslims discussing the state of interreligious relations today. The Jewish speaker mentioned that Jews question whether or not it was a good thing that Christianity came into existence two thousand years ago. I had never thought to ask that question before. Jews can claim Jesus as one of their own. Certainly, neither he nor his earliest followers ever thought of themselves as anything other than Jewish, and other Jews accepted them as part of their community. A decade or so after Jesus, more and more non-Jews were drawn to his message. St. Paul, the most prolific preacher of the Jesus movement at the time, faced this dilemma head on and recommended that people drawn to Jesus not from a Jewish background did not have to convert to Judaism to be accepted into table fellowship with those from a Jewish background. That led to a hybrid entity, in time called Christianity, built upon but separate from Judaism. Perhaps the Jewish speaker at the conference was asking us to consider whether or not this emergence of Christianity separate from Judaism has been good news for Jews throughout history.

I realized that Christians can ask the same question of Islam. Would the world have been better off without the birth of that religion in Christian-dominated western Asia and northern Africa? At the time in that area, Christians were battling one other, sometimes even literally killing one other over differences of belief. Muhammad had no intention of starting a new religion. He saw himself as directly in line with prophets who came before him, from Abraham to Jesus. Fairly quickly, his message of law-regulated justice and peace resonated with more and more people who desired the heated disagreements among them to settle down. Alas, Islam did become a separate entity, just as Christianity had before it. History attests to the tensions and at times open warfare among some Jews, Christians, and Muslims. What about today?

Photo by Luis Quintero: https://www.pexels.com/photo/people-holding-hands-during-religious-gathering-16102709/

In America today, there are voices calling for the United States to be a Christian nation. Specifically, they propose that it was founded as a nation based on what are believed to be the values and ideals that emerged out of the Protestant movement in sixteenth-century western Europe. In this worldview, the diversity we find in our communities endangers those values. Another perspective is that America has always been a “nation of immigrants,” enriched by the contributions of people from many different backgrounds. The ideals enshrined in our founding documents and symbolized by the Statue of Liberty are actually a seedbed for welcoming differences and mutually enriching exchanges among people. “Liberty and justice for all” means freedom to be who you are if it contributes to the common good. The American melting pot is more a stew made up of different ingredients than a bowl of indistinguishable mush.

Allow me to mention how I have lately been enjoying one manifestation of the contributions of the variety of people recently come to our country. Within just a couple miles of my house in Erdenheim, I now have a delightful mix of restaurants to choose from. At the end of my street is a traditional American diner, which gets crowded at breakfast time. I also have six Mexican restaurants almost within walking distance. A Peruvian woman has opened a take-out, catering business that now employs four young women from the neighborhood to work the counter. I presume the owner is a legal resident of the country, but what a loss it would be if she were whisked away by ICE agents. Neighbors would miss her delicious food offerings, four women would be without work, and local farmers would go in search of other places to sell their produce. I am also grateful for the Thais, two Indian, three Chinese, one dim sum Japanese, and two Persian restaurants not far from my house. Add two Italian restaurants, a Jewish deli, and a Korean bubble tea shop that are also nearby.

I mention these restaurants as a representation of the contributions to the common good, and my enjoyment, brought about by recent immigrants. The burger and fries eating places of the 1950s gave way to pizza joints a decade later. Now young people know and enjoy Mexican foods, hummus and veggies, and even Chinese dumplings. Is it too far a stretch to say that such variety also represents the value of an exchange of multiple perspectives on more profound matters? America is enriched when different people bring to the table distinctive foods as well as different thought-provoking points of view. It’s a learning experience and an exercise in peace building when Jews, Christians, and Muslims talk openly together, and I’m developing a taste even for that spicy Indian food.

Simple Gifts

A person's hands holding out a small pumpkin.

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

When the hospice nurse met with us about our brother, we mentioned that there were moments when he was alert and coherent and aware that we were there with him. She said, “Yes, such moments are common, even when people are dying. We call them gifts.” Later, I reminded myself that there have been moments in my own life when I felt more attentive and more connected to the people and the world around me. They were gifts, moments of feeling more alive. More often than not, I was not aware of them at the time. It’s good practice to think back on a day when my little life has been enriched with the simple gifts of connection and grace. And if at any time I have been the catalyst for enhancing the life of others in some simple way—sharing gifts—all the better.

Coming home from Lancaster to Philadelphia this October, we stopped at a little community park to change drivers. We walked a bit before resuming our trip, and a man came up to us and said, “I’m chief of police here, and we have a whole bin of pumpkins left over from our trunk or treat event last night. Won’t you take some home with you?” We had passed many stands selling pumpkins, and I thought we should stop and buy one. Now, instead, we were offered free pumpkins by a kindly chief of police in a township I couldn’t even name. Our stash of fresh pumpkins now line our front steps. It was a brief, unanticipated encounter, but the kind of little treat that makes life more pleasant.

Photo by Joshua Slate: https://www.pexels.com/photo/selective-focus-photography-of-pumpkins-594584/

Many books have been written lately about entering into the present moment and delighting in it. Richard Rohr’s Center for Action and Contemplation has a treasure trove of resources to help people cultivate being attentive to the divine presence in the simple ordinariness of our daily lives. Walt Whitman was an American pioneer in celebrating the beauty of the present. For him, “every moment of the light and dark is a miracle.” Jesus had a way of drawing our attention to the simple gifts that surround us. Just as he saw them, we also see birds flying overhead if we pause to look. By drawing our attention to birds above, he enkindles in us a sense of comfort and reassurance, that their untroubled existence can inspire us to hand over our own cares into the hands of a loving God. We enjoy bread without contemplating what Jesus reminded us about, that simple yeast, invisible though it is, makes it rise to our delight. Who can’t imagine what it must feel like to be a lost sheep or beaten and robbed while traveling? In so many of his stories and examples, Jesus was attempting to spark deeper awareness in us of what we often overlook. Even when not facing imminent death, we can appreciate such experiences as gifts.

There’s no guidebook for slipping into unconsciousness and out of consciousness as we face death. For those holding vigil, it is a gift when lucidity shines through the twilight sleep of the dying. Holding onto life comes naturally. The central Christian message, celebrated at Easter and at every Mass, is that a lifetime of moments of awareness and connection go with us beyond death. The Catholic funeral liturgy offers the following words of hope for grieving loved ones: “My brothers and sisters, we believe that all the ties of friendship and affection which knit us as one throughout our lives do not unravel with death.” Savor those moments of feeling alive, even simple pleasures. They stay with us, even as we enter the timelessness of eternity and our consciousness slips away.

Sympathy for the Devil

A young man in quiet reflection, bathed in soft divine light, symbolizing spiritual awakening and the universal power of love and forgiveness.

by Joseph Stoutzenberger

In my freshman year in college, I had what felt like a sudden flash of insight. It happened as I was alone in my dorm room listening to the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil,” the song with the lyrics “Every cop is a criminal, and all the sinners saints.” My insight actually had nothing to do with the song, but I started to think back on my life, wondering if all my wrongdoing would condemn me to hell. I experienced this strong sense that I was not slated for hell, and neither was anyone else. To believe otherwise would be prideful on my part since it would mean that my fate was in my own hands and not that of a loving God. Who was I to believe that my behaviors were ultimately more impactful than the all-powerful, all-loving God?

I later discovered that I was in good company about this insight into eternal life. Shinran, a founder of Shin (“Pure Land”) Buddhism in the early thirteenth century, had been trying to attain enlightenment through his own rigorous efforts. He realized how arrogant he was in believing he could rely on his own power to reach nirvana. In that moment, he envisioned rays of light and comforting warmth emanating from the Buddha of Divine Light; and he realized the wisdom in the words, “I take refuge in the Buddha.” He later wrote, “For those who entrust themselves to this Primal Vow, no good acts are required, because no good surpasses it. Nor need they despair of the evil they commit, for no evil can obstruct the working of Amida’s Primal Vow.” In short, place your trust in “other-power,” that of the compassionate Buddha, rather than in “self-power.”

Shinran kneeling in radiant golden light, symbolizing his realization of trusting in the compassionate power of Amida Buddha.

The early Muslim Sufi saint, Rabia, often gave voice to this insight in words such as: “I want to put out the fires of Hell, and burn down the rewards of Paradise. They block the way to Allah. I do not want to worship from fear of punishment or for the promise of reward, but simply for the love of Allah.” Ultimately, love conquers all, so let go of delusions of carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders or of your eternal fate being in the hands of your actions, good or bad.

Perhaps Evangelical Christians are talking about a similar experience when they speak about being “saved” by Jesus. Often it follows a recognition of their own sinfulness and inadequacy but are deeply moved to find salvation in their heart. Martin Luther spoke of justification by faith alone, not good works. He transformed from being pathologically scrupulous to placing his trust in Jesus, the embodiment of a loving God whose sacrifice relieved Luther of the burden of needing to earn his way to heaven.

You may be feeling uneasy at this point. Doesn’t such an attitude lead to passivity in the face of evil? “What about Hitler and the Nazis?” you might ask. We could list plenty of other examples of what rightly appears to be evil personified. Saying “God loves everyone” sounds painfully hollow when we confront the evils we know existed and continue to exist in our world. It’s a challenge to believe in a God of unconditional love. It seems more natural to place restrictions on that love. One action that sheds some light on the dilemma is when people victimized by another find it in their heart to forgive their wrongdoer. Forgiveness on the human level is a glimmer of divine light in the world. Pope John Paul II forgave the man who shot him, visiting him in prison to tell him so face to face. More recently, Amish parents notably forgave the man who murdered their children at their school. At the man’s funeral, more people in attendance were Amish than not, and some of the money donated to the Amish families they gave to the man’s grieving widow. Even more recently, Erika Kirk found in her Christian faith the strength to say she forgave her husband’s killer. Surely that message was more healing and more an affront to evil than if she had not done so. Reject evil, fight it tirelessly; but forgiveness, not vengeance and retribution, is from God. Evil is troubling, as the Stones’ song says; but if we give into it, we chip away at the message so many mystics from many traditions have told us: God is love. As Romans, chapter 8, reminds us: nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.