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Human Rights (Hobbes & Hunger Games)

In Pope Leo’s encyclical on human dignity and artificial intelligence (Magnifica Humanitas), he appeals to three truths that serve as a foundation for any attempts to build a more just society: (1) the human person created in the image of the Trinity; (2) the equal dignity of each human being; and (3) the supreme value of human rights. You can read my previous posts to learn more about truth #1 and truth #2. Today I conclude this three-part series with a reflection on human rights. In the months ahead, time permitting, we can continue with Leo’s five principles of social justice that build upon this foundation.

Some might object that all this talk about “human rights” is newer in human history and newer in the teachings of the Church. It’s true that you won’t find that exact phrase in Scripture or in many centuries of Christian theology. The concept is there from the beginning, like an acorn waiting to sprout and grow. It’s taken ongoing reflection to deepen our understanding of just how much dignity every human being has and all the implications that stem from that dignity—such as recognizing how violating it is to coerce consciences, to force religion upon people, or to traffic human beings. Recent centuries have increased our awareness of these principles. Yet somehow those evils are as pervasive as ever.

Human rights and human dignity are inseparably linked. Pope Leo reminds us that “human rights are not an external addition to the person, but an expression of intrinsic human dignity, which the international community is called to protect and promote” (n. 54). When a culture respects the dignity of each human person, it will also protect and promote human rights. When a culture views some humans as valuable and others as expendable, human rights quickly dissipate.

Philosophy really matters here—especially in a pluralistic culture in which religious appeals can be dismissed. I certainly believe that the proclamation of the Gospel transforms hearts in a way that philosophy cannot. But not everyone is ready to receive the Gospel, and you don’t have to believe in God to believe in human dignity and human rights.

One of my side jobs is serving as an adjunct philosophy professor in our deacon formation program. You could even say that I’m the entire department—but they only have one course. I do my best to introduce a few important themes, and to spark a lively conversation.

This fall, we will no doubt be talking about the ways in which modern philosophy in the West (starting about 500 years ago) set us on our current trajectory, with AI now serving as rocket fuel. Not a few are fearing what kind of crash may be coming, if we do not reclaim our sanity.

I’ve reflected already on the influence of Francis Bacon and René Descartes. Today I want to consider Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679). His political philosophy views human rights as an “add-on,” rather than something intrinsically connected to human dignity. In Leviathan and elsewhere, he sees human civilization as a social contract that we’ve all entered into out of a desperation to survive the harshness of our nature. Unless we agree to give up some or most of our rights, human existence is bound to be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” (the famous quote from Leviathon).

The philosophy of Hobbes is brilliantly and chillingly represented in The Hunger Games. In those novels and films, some citizens live amidst privilege and luxury in “the Capital,” while the other districts subserviently provide for their luxurious appetites. Every year, the other districts are compelled to hold a lottery in which they send children as “tributes” to fight to the death in “The Hunger Games.” In Songbirds and Snakes, we learn the backstory of the dictator Corialanus Snow. We meet the creepy character of Dr. Volumnia Gaul, an early pioneer of the Hunger Games. She slowly warps the mind and heart of a young Cornelius with her insinuation that we need to have powerful leaders who rule ruthlessly. We need to sacrifice some people’s rights because—if we don’t—everyone’s existence will be like the Hunger Games. That is Hobbes’ political philosophy in a nutshell!

In ways that can only be rightly named as grooming and abuse, Dr. Gaul intentionally exposes young Cornelius to violent settings, slowly seducing him to embrace her way of being. As he feels increasingly complicit with the violence, she provides a steady drip of her Hobbesian interpretation. Consider these quotes:

“What happened in there? That’s humanity undressed. Filled with the terror of becoming prey. See how quickly we become predator? See how quickly civilization disappears?”

“Oh your fine manners, education, background, stripped away in the blink of an eye. Leaving a boy with a club who beats another boy to death to stay alive.”

Needless to say, this view of human nature is incompatible with the Christian view, in which God has chosen to create each of us in his own image and likeness, and to invest us with infinite dignity. The core of human nature is not isolation, poverty, violence, and death.  Those are conditions that emerge when human dignity is violated. They are conditions that become intensified and perpetuated when Hobbesian dictators seize power over others under the pretense of showing benevolence. From the beginning, it was not so. We were always meant to be in healthy, trusting relationships, to live in stable and healthy communion with one another, and to bear abundant fruit.

Pope Leo is inviting not only Christians, but all humans, to reflect on human dignity and human purpose. You need not be a Christian to desire flourishing for the human race as a whole and for each individual. If you read the Ethics or the Politics of the Greek philosopher Aristotle, you hear a much healthier view of human nature and civilization. It is our nature to relate and be social, to enter into profound friendship, and to seek flourishing together. That doesn’t mean it is guaranteed to happen. Rather, it is a desire and purposefulness we will all find if we look deeply within ourselves. It is an ultimate fulfillment that we can all seek both individually and collectively. The sharing involved in civilization is for the sake of abundance, not because we are otherwise inherently dark and depraved. In the end, the political philosophy of Hobbes or Machiavelli allows dictators to rationalize their seizing of power over others. There was plenty to rationalize in the 1500s and 1600s.

By no means am I suggesting that all modern Western philosophy is bad. Indeed, by providing an increasingly subjective approach to philosophy, it has allowed us to reflect more deeply on these very truths of human dignity, human freedom, and human rights. There is great value in asking subjective questions (“What is it like to _______________?”), just as there is great value to seeking after objective reality (“What IS ____________?”). Curious philosophers do both!

Even though the AI landscape is changing faster than Taylor Swift at a concert, I suggest that artificial intelligence is not so much a radical new thing. Rather, it is a powerful amplification and acceleration of what is already there. The AI models still rely on programs and algorithms, and are data-driven and language based. In my understanding (someone tell me if I’m wrong!) that means they can still ultimately be reduced to ones and zeroes. They are neither human nor relational. They can only take what is already there and move it forward at an incredibly fast pace – and (if we don’t heed Pope Leo’s pleas) without the intervention of human compassion and wisdom.

Ideas have consequences – all the more so when those ideas are programmed into powerful machines. Leo asks for greater transparency about who is creating algorithms and for what purposes. He invites us to renounce ideologies that are willing to disregard the human rights of some. Throughout human history, minorities tend to be marginalized, while women and children and immigrants tend to be exploited for the sake of sex and power and greed. The biblical prophets spoke dozens of times in defense of the rights of the widow, the orphan, and the resident alien. Every pope for the last 135 years has done the same.

Our current pope is warning us—if we do not have a transparent dialogue about the values and priorities of AI models and how they are being trained, those age-old trends of exploitation are likely to accelerate exponentially. In the words of Spiderman, “With great power comes great responsibility.” Leo describes it to be a shared responsibility. Safeguarding human dignity and human rights is not just something “those people” have to do. It’s something we all do, both individually and together.

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Equal Human Dignity

In his new encyclical letter (Magnifica Humanitas), Pope Leo articulates three truths that serve as a foundation for any attempts to build a just society: (1) the human person created in the image of the Trinity; (2) the equal dignity of each human being; and (3) the supreme value of human rights.  Last time I reflected on foundational truth #1; today we move on to truth #2.

All humans have “equal” dignity because every human being has an infinite dignity. At this point, the math nerds in the room may point out that some infinities are larger than others. We are not speaking of “infinity” in any mathematical sense. Human dignity cannot be quantified, period.

You may remember a year ago, when I wrote about Francis Bacon and René Descartes. In the early 1600’s, their thought heralded a seismic shift in the West. Knowledge and scientific inquiry became increasingly focused on quantitative analysis. Bacon boldly declared, “Knowledge is power,” and Descartes insisted that we can only know things if we have clear and distinct ideas.

There is nothing inherently wrong with quantitative analysis. It’s just that not everyone and everything is quantifiable. As amazing as some of the “progress” of modern science is, there is an increasing risk of dehumanization. Can you see the connection to AI here?  At its core, artificial intelligence operates exclusively in the realm of the quantitative.

Quantification can get humans to the moon. It can split the atom. Maybe it can even cure cancer. But there are so many things that transcend the quantitative – including all the qualities Leo lists that set humans apart from artificial intelligence: undergoing lived experiences, embodied joy and pain, maturity, relationships, love, meaningful work, friendship, responsibility, moral conscience, judging good and evil, empathy, understanding, affectivity, spiritual perspective, and growth in wisdom (n. 99). We human beings, bearing infinite dignity, are capable of all these things. Trained AI models are not, no matter how powerful they become. Their power comes from the massive amounts of data utilized in their ongoing training, which allows predicting the “right” answer with an increasing amount of accuracy. The learning remains data-driven and not qualitative.

This may seem shocking to say, but I do not see anything truly “new” in AI. It’s an accelerant on ideas and trends that have been smoldering for four centuries. But AI is far faster and therefore much more powerful.

AI may be able to simulate empathy, but in truth it doesn’t care one bit about human dignity. It can’t. It’s simply not a relational being capable of mutual intimacy.

The more I’ve accompanied survivors of grooming and abuse, the more I’ve come to realize that these trained AI models can behave like abusers – attuning quite skillfully to the emotional state of the participant and exploiting that vulnerability for someone else’s gain at the person’s expense. If those training the models are willing to exploit emotional vulnerability, AI will learn from those biases and amplify the exploitation.

In the early years of social media, we began seeing this trend with “nudges” offered at moments in which a person showed a state of emotional vulnerability – and therefore greater susceptibility to clicking on a link that seemed to offer a solution. Today, a typical social media user is exposed to AI-generated clickbait dozens of times a day. There are also millions who are finding an AI chatbot to be a better emotional companion than any of the humans in their lives – even though the “relationship” and the emotional connection is entirely simulated.

In discussing equal human dignity, Pope Leo is especially concerned about some humans getting treated as having less dignity than others – especially if high-powered AI models increasingly replace human decision-making. Leo calls for transparency regarding the algorithms and the motives behind the humans involved in training those models.

There are many troubling ideologies that do not respect humans as image bearers, nor as bearing a dignity that is beyond calculation. In the words of Leo, “Among these ideologies, I consider particularly insidious the one that suggests that every person must earn or justify his or her own worth, to the point of attributing greater value to those who are more efficient or effective” (n. 51). There are nearly five centuries of a modern western bias that prioritizes doing over being, producing over relating, and profitability over love. Given that AI-training algorithms and data sets tend to be applied with corporate interests, these biases are bound to be reflected in the operating model that emerges and whatever “solutions” it “decides.” The thing is, humans like Ebenezer Scrooge still have a conscience and the capacity to experience moral and spiritual conversion. Machine learning does not.

Leo points out that “dignity” has various meanings when it comes to human beings. We can speak of moral dignity depending on whether human choices are directed towards goodness or evil. We can speak of social dignity by considering people’s living conditions and what level or respect they are receiving from the rest of society. We can speak of existential dignity in terms of how much meaning or purpose each person feels or what their quality of life is like. At the foundational level, however, every human being bears an ontological dignity.  As Leo explains it, “This is the dignity that belongs to every human being simply by virtue of existing, of having been willed, created, and loved by God” (n. 52).

Every human person has an ontological dignity that cannot be quantified or calculated. This inherent dignity runs deeper than any strength, talents, power, or productivity. None of those are the source of our human worth. But the ontological dignity of each human runs yet deeper: “No sin, failure, humiliation or exclusion can diminish the profound value of a human life that God has willed and called into being” (n. 52).

This is the same truth that I heard in person 24 years ago from an aging John Paul II. I stood with 800,000 pilgrims at Downsview Park in Toronto for World Youth Day. Most of us had camped out the night before, endured the morning rains, and now joined him for an outdoor Mass. As the sun burst forth, he boldly proclaimed one of his most-repeated truths: “We are not the sum of our weaknesses and failures, we are the sum of the Father’s love for us and our real capacity to become the image of His Son Jesus.”

What a contrast from the local radio broadcast I had overheard the day before, cynically mocking him – including his age and frailty, his struggles in walking and his drooling. In one sense it was true – gone was the vigorous youth of one who loved to hike, ski, swim, or act on stage. He was nearing the end of his earthly life. It was then, more than ever, that he witnessed to human dignity.

The modern West has increasingly exalted those who show a capacity to be strong, to succeed, to produce, or to stay youthful in appearance. Those who don’t measure up are viewed with contempt, as are those who dare to break the mold and live differently. These tendencies have become so normalized that we no longer notice them as the ocean we have been swimming in. They are, unfortunately, the values with which most AI models have been trained.

Pope Leo is inviting us all to step back and notice our biases. It doesn’t have to be this way. We can show respect to the inestimable dignity of every human person—beginning with ourselves, whom we often hold in contempt more than anyone else. We can extend that same respect to everyone around us. We can demand transparency and accountability for any training of AI models, collaborating at every level to ensure that they align with an unshakable respect for human dignity.

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Image Bearers

I finally finished reading Pope Leo’s encyclical letter, Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”). He signed it on the 135th anniversary of Rerum Novarum (“New Concerns”). Back in 1891, the previous Pope Leo began a longstanding trend: Catholic popes reflecting on how we can best apply the age-old principles of Christianity to new social challenges. Back then, it was the new challenges opened up by the Industrial Revolution, including dehumanizing working conditions and polarizing economic ideologies. Today, there are new forms of dehumanization opened up by the revolution of artificial intelligence. Back then, popes wrote encyclical letters to their brother bishops. Today, people from rather diverse backgrounds are curious to hear what the pope has to say.

Leo XIV does not condemn artificial intelligence any more than Leo XIII condemned the industrialization of labor. Both popes relentlessly invite us to reflect on what it means to be human. I look forward to sharing several of Leo XIV’s insights in the weeks ahead.

I find the majority of Americans, Catholic included, to be unfamiliar with the last thirteen decades of Catholic social teaching. Leo offers a masterful summary (nn. 28-45). Then he provides his own synthesis of the truths that repeatedly emerge in each age. Even though new and complex situations require dialogue and debate about the best path forward, there are certain foundational truths and first principles that do not change, because of who God is and who we are as human beings.

At the foundational level, Leo identifies three truths: (1) the human person created in the image of the Trinity; (2) the equal dignity of each human being; and (3) the supreme value of human rights.  He then articulates five principles of Catholic social teaching that build upon that bedrock foundation.

Today we are considering that first foundational truth – that every human person bears the Imago Dei, the image of God. As Leo puts it, “At the heart of the Christian understanding of the human person lies the great biblical affirmation that men and women are created in the image and likeness (cf. Gen 1:26-27) of the Triune God” (n. 50).

God is love. That is to say, God is a communion of persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. God is not an isolated individual. God is inherently relational. We see in God a mutual sharing of love. He didn’t have to create a universe. He didn’t have to create human beings. He would have been just as good and just as great without us. In the Trinity, we find a mutual love that is already infinitely perfect. But God did choose to create us, and he eagerly desires to share his love with us.

We humans, as male and female, bear the image and likeness of God (Genesis 1:26-27). Philosophers and theologians have often reflected on the ways we resemble God – such as our intellect or our free will. Drawing from the wisdom of John Paul II, Leo especially emphasizes our human capacity to receive love and to share love. We discover our truest and deepest identity when we make a free and wholehearted gift of ourselves. It is then that we are living icons of the Trinity.

If we want to learn what human love looks like, we turn to Jesus, the new Adam. “His humanity is completely free, open to others, capable of building healthy and beautiful relationships and committed to the total gift of self” (n. 49). As John Paul II would put it, when we love more and more like Jesus, we become who we are.

Notice that neither pope teaches that we gain more human dignity by living holy lives. Even when we sin, even when we live in dehumanizing or degrading ways, we never lose our inherent worth. We remain bearers of the divine image. In the words of Pope Leo, “Human dignity does not depend on a person’s abilities, wealth or position in life, nor on the right or wrong choices made; instead, it is a gift that precedes and transcends each person, endowed by God as an expression of his unfailing love” (n. 50).

In the West, some of us Christians have fixated on the concept of “original sin,” a phrase that originates with Augustine of Hippo (354-430) in response to the heresy of the British monk Pelagius. Yes, it is important to remember that salvation is always God’s work – from beginning to middle to end. We find ourselves in a human condition that is weighed down by sin. But sin is a condition. It is never our identity.

Eight years ago, I reflected on the Parable of the Lost Coin. Has it really been eight years since I began this blog? Wow, time flies. Anyway, Gregory of Nyssa (335-394) reflects on a gold coin, stamped with the image of the king. It retains its value no matter much it becomes coated with filth. Once cleansed, it shows itself to be what it always was.

Gregory was from Caesarea in Cappadocia (which today is in central Turkey). He was unaware aware of the teaching of the faraway Pelagius (even though their lives overlapped). Gregory’s focus was on the abiding love of the Trinity, and on our amazing human capacity to share in God’s glory.

Every human person has an inestimable dignity, because every human person bears the image of God. John Paul II would add that every human person is a unique and unrepeatable mystery. Each of us bears God’s glory in a way that no one else ever will.

In my more mature moments, I’ve come to appreciate this core truth of Magnifica Humanitas: every human person is the bearer of magnificent beauty.  Whenever I remember that the person in front of me bears the image of God, when I become curious about this person’s story, I am never disappointed. Sometimes there are forcefields around barriers around shielded gates that are manned with a platoon of armed guards. The fiercer the self-protection, the more precious and tender the child of God on the inside. I’ve learned not to push past people’s defenses, rooted as they often are in an intense fear of being unlovable in their deep-down desire to be loved. God always respects our freedom, and so will I. God always delights in the way his glory is uniquely reflected in us, just as a mom or dad marvels at the baby they’re holding in their arms.

Unfortunately, we live in an age of intensifying contempt. The seduction to dehumanize our fellow humans is intensifying to historic levels. If we pay attention, we may realize that we humans are being steadily manipulated by AI into even greater contempt for ourselves and others.

In the weeks ahead, we’ll consider the alternative path Pope Leo offers us. For now, I invite each of you to pause and reflect on how you truly bear God’s image, as do “those people” whom you may find it harder to love. We were all created to share in the amazing capacity to receive and give love. By God’s eternal design, we bear a dignity that cannot be taken away.

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Letting Shame Give Way to Grief

“Shame can never do what grief can do.”

I once heard a wise woman speak these words, before sharing stories about her family’s experiences during and following the Nazi regime in Germany. The collective shame over the Holocaust had enormous impact on the next few generations.

She shared an image of a propaganda poster from the occupying Allied Forces at the end of the war. It depicted the gruesomeness of the concentrations camps and bore the headline, “These Atrocities – Your Fault!”

Her grandparents contended with shame throughout the latter years of their life. Their happiest memories (falling in love, marrying, and raising their children) felt forever tainted because so much of their comfortable lifestyle coincided with Hitler’s rise to power, and was in part made possible by his willingness to oppress and exploit the vulnerable. When the war was over and the evils were more fully exposed, many felt like they had colluded to some degree. There had been warning signs of the atrocities being perpetrated. Some had ignored the cues; others felt powerless to do anything to change it. The result? A culture of shame that pervaded many families for three to four generations. When children are fed with guilt and watered with shame, they will struggle to bear joyful fruit later in life.

As I listened to her sharing, I wept with empathy. I felt the connection of her family story and my family story. My great-grandfather in Poland was executed by the Gestapo. Two of my grandfather’s brothers survived a concentration camp. My great-grandmother died amidst all that heartache before the war ended, not living to see the day of her sons’ release. My grandfather learned of all these events from afar, having moved back to the United States in the late 1930s (he and his older brother were American-born citizens shortly before the family moved back to Poland in 1918). No doubt, he contended with his own unspoken “survivor’s guilt.”

Tears flooded me as I imagined her grandparents and my grandparents, her family and my family, all of us still suffering in the wake of those two great wars. I found it easy to feel compassion. I found it healing to perceive everyone involved as normal human beings, bearing God’s image, both beautiful and broken. I felt her invitation into grief over what it really was like for everyone.

When betrayal or heartache feel crushing—especially when there are feelings of collusion with an abusive perpetrator—shame often steps in. Shame pretends to be powerful, as though it can prevent bad things from ever happening again. This was the motive of the propaganda posters – if we stir up enough collective shame, it will unthinkable for the unthinkable to happen again.

There are two problems here, one more obvious and one more subtle.

The more obvious problem is that bad things still happen. No amount of shaming or fear-mongering can stop them from happening. It’s a hard-to-accept truth that our human existence in this fallen world is indeed that vulnerable that we cannot actually stop bad things from happening.

The more subtle problem is the opening line: “Shame can never do what grief can do.” In the face of unspeakable harm, it feels far easier to seize control of the situation with shame and fear. But shame and fear do not allow space for grieving to happen. Maybe that’s why they are so appealing to so many for so long.

Neither this woman nor I are faulting the massive wave of shame that tends to follow the storms of trauma. How do you face the heartache of something as big as the Holocaust? It feels impossible. It’s easier to cast blame or to attempt seizing power over the situation. These ways of coping and bypassing the atrocities make sense – for a while anyway. Over time, they become increasingly unbearable. Healing cannot happen without facing and grieving the harm and the loss.

There is a reason why we Catholics fruitfully meditate on the “Sorrowful Mysteries” rather than the “Shameful Mysteries.” Shame can never do what grief can do. Our tears and grief become the very path of redemption and restoration. There are no Glorious Mysteries without the Sorrowful Mysteries. There is no Resurrection Sunday without the agony of Good Friday, and without the waiting of Holy Saturday.

In the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:4), Jesus teaches that those who grieve and mourn will be comforted. The Greek actually says “paracleted.” The Holy Spirit anoints the brokenhearted, if we will allow ourselves to abide in our heartache and receive divine remedy. He brings comfort, encouragement, and peace. God’s love heals.

This healing does not mean that the heartache goes away! It brings love and truth, meaning and purpose into the midst of what had seemed to be only chaos and absurdity. Jesus reveals himself as Lord even in the darkest places of our heart. I find, in fact, that the more glimpses and tastes I receive of the goodness of God, the more I will suffer in aching for more. I see the same experience in the lives of the Saints and the prayer of any great mystic in our spiritual Tradition.

So what does happen when others kindly witness my heartache, and the Holy Spirit anoints me in my grief? The most important change is that I am no longer alone. What once was trapped in isolation and fragmentation is now set free. What was frozen begins to thaw (which sometimes hurts!). What was rigid and inflexible can now flow and move toward wholeness and connection. I begin to experience love and communion in places which (I thought) love could not possibly enter. Only love did enter. That’s the entire point of Jesus’ rescue mission – to become flesh and go to the deepest places of human agony, conquering with a love that is both human and divine. Jesus duped the devil, concealing his glory in human flesh and bringing his love into the depths of sin and death.

Without Jesus’ suffering, death, and burial, the dark side of our human existence is indeed unbearable. Now, however, no matter how deep I go into my own heartache or the heartache of another, I will discover that Jesus is already there. He’s already descended deeper. He’s already issued the summons to come to the heavenly wedding celebration, in which all God’s scattered children, and all the scattered fragments of our hearts, will be gathered at table for the feast. Then, at long last, there will be no more weeping and no more death.

In the meantime, on our pilgrim journey through this “valley of tears,” grief becomes a guide far more reliable than shame. Shame will show up – especially in the wake of abuse, betrayal, or atrocity. Shame helps us to survive – for a while. Then it begins to isolate us, exhaust us, deplete us, and slowly kill us. We can appreciate how hard our shame has worked to try to protect us from agonizing heartache. Then, if we dare, we can ask it to take a seat and allow grief to do what only grief can do.

Blessed are those who grieve. They will be comforted.

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The Way from the Cross

The Way of the Cross has enlivened Christian imagination for centuries. 800 years ago, Francis of Assisi popularized the devotion of imagining, moment by moment, what Good Friday was like for Jesus – from his early morning encounter with Pontius Pilate to the  hasty burial in the tomb before sunset.

But have you ever pondered the Way from the Cross? What was it like for the mother of Jesus, or Mary Magdalene, or the beloved disciple when they walked away? What was that Sabbath day like for them?

Remember that the Jewish day begins at sunset. Day One of Jesus’ Paschal Mystery begins with the Last Supper and concludes with his burial in the tomb. Day Two begins shortly after the faithful few walk away from the tomb. Day Two continues as they observe the Sabbath by…by…??? Day Three includes Jesus rising in the night and beginning to surprise his followers with encounter after encounter.

My imagination had never considered the Way from the Cross, until just a few months ago. I received the prompt from a friend of mine, who is a courageous survivor of child clergy sex abuse, including dark ritual abuse and a grave failure of Church leaders to accompany her in the ways she needed and deserved. She shared with me one of her favorite paintings – The Return from Calvary by Herbert Gustave Schmalz. It captures a little-imagined moment in the Christian story – significant not only on that dreadful Sabbath day, but for anyone who has ever felt trapped in the timelessness of trauma.

Abuse survivors tend to be on the margins of our church communities. It’s easy for both leaders and members of our churches to be like the priest and the Levite in the Good Samaritan story by keeping a comfortable distance (which means leaving them alone with their wounds). It is indeed agonizing to hear their stories. “The truth” sounds exciting to many of us, especially if we’re feeling zealous or self-righteous. It’s much harder to pick up a bloodied body and take in the full truth of the evil that has been perpetrated. We’d rather ignore it or speed past it.  It’s hard enough, like Mary, to stand at the foot of the Cross. But the timelessness of Holy Saturday is virtually unbearable. For the Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene, and the other disciples, there was no fast-forward button.

Jesus does not cast judgment on the priest and the Levite in his parable – any more than he condemns his friends and companions when they abandon him and flee (Matthew 26:56). They are his chosen shepherds. Where were each of them on Holy Saturday, I sometimes wonder? We do know that when the agonizing Sabbath is over, he greets them with his perfect Shalom (“Peace be with you”) and breathes his Spirit on them. They are filled with joy and peace. Even then, their conversion is a work in progress.

I pondered these points on my annual retreat last summer. I spent multiple hours each day reading and reflecting on Matthew’s Gospel. Jesus keeps telling the truth with kindness – stating as a matter of fact that they have “tiny faith” (Matthew 8:26, 14:31, 16:8), side-by-side with choosing them, calling them, and reminding them how much worth they have in his Father’s eyes. He’s not shaming them for the smallness of their faith. He’s naming it and reminding them that they can trust the superabundant goodness of his Father.

I don’t trust easily. Or at least I don’t stay in a place of trust for sustained periods of time. It’s easy for me, automatically, to break away from intimacy and connection – especially when it’s abundantly good. My brain and body and nervous system have deeply embedded memories. There is a preponderance of evidence in my story suggesting that it’s better not to surrender myself into the good care of another. I’ve done plenty of renouncing of lies and claiming of the truth of who God is and who I am. Those tools have a place. But learning to stay securely connected in Faith, Hope, and Love – that is a lifelong labor. I still feel the urge to take matters into my own hands.

I can only accompany others to the extent that I have allowed myself to be accompanied. My giving will quickly become fruitless if I am not allowing myself to receive. You and I are branches on the vine, bearing fruit only in intimacy and receptivity.

Most of us spend much of our lives bypassing and avoiding the valleys of death in our hearts. We want Day Three of the Paschal Mystery without fully entering into the agony and powerlessness of Day One, much less the stillness and the indefinite waiting of Day Two.

It shouldn’t surprise us that the Church today is much like the Church during that first Paschal Triduum. Those of us chosen as priests tend to bypass and avoid our hearts, as do the majority of our church members. Then, too, it was only a very small number who chose to stay with Jesus on the Way of the Cross, to stand with him at the foot of his Cross, and to connect with each other on the Way from the Cross. They are the ones who first encounter the risen Jesus. Jesus chooses Mary Magdalene to be the apostle to the apostles. Even then, at first they resist her and do not believe her (Mark 16:11).

The Virgin Mary, Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary stayed connected to Jesus and to each other, not only on the Way of the Cross, but on the Way from the Cross. Even if they did not fully understand his promises, they believed. More importantly, they were willing to persevere in being with. They remain present and receptive amidst the unknown – at such great cost. It is so much easier to close oneself off from receptivity and hide behind locked doors. We sometimes do this as individuals, but we also do it as church communities when we cling to what is comfortable, tidy, and familiar.

I see an amazing renewal at work in the Church. Sometimes I am amazed and overjoyed; other times I feel frustrated and cry out “How long???” There is one thing I know to be true: those at the heart of the renewal are those willing to be together in Christian community both on the Way of the Cross and on the Way from the Cross. Such disciples of Jesus will always be the first chosen witnesses of the resurrected life that he brings. Jesus descends into the darkest and most agonizing places of the human experience. It is there that he overthrows the powers of death and sin.

The Resurrection is actually not Jesus’ victory stroke; it’s a revelation of a victory already won. Jesus already proclaimed “it is finished” on the Cross. He descends into hell not as a powerless victim but with the eternal triumph of Love. Most of us are afraid to walk the Way from the Cross, or to descend into the hell of another’s agonizing story. If we do so on our own strength, we would indeed be fools. But if we go there together with others in healthy Christian community, if we believe in who Jesus really is, we need not fear any darkness. He has descended with the glory of his love into every human heartache. He shines in those darkest places, and the darkness can never overcome him.

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Casting Light? Or Casting Shadows?

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches us that we are the light of the world (Matthew 5:14-16). He invites us to let our light shine before others so that they can see our good deeds and glorify our heavenly Father.

Jesus invites us to cast light, not to cast shadows. I borrow this metaphor from Parker Palmer, who cautions against the too-common tendency of Christians to sit comfortably in the light and enjoy casting shadows on those outside. This is not the mission Jesus gives us.

There is a sense of power in casting shadows. When I was a child, I loved playing imaginatively with my next-door neighbor. After dark, we would sometimes entertain ourselves in the floodlight behind her back porch. Sometimes the game was “shadow tag.” We skillfully dodged each other’s stomping feet while trying to “tag” the shadow of the other. That game was typically brief, inevitably bickering over whether we actually touched or missed each other’s shadow. At that point, we’d return to making ourselves feel fifty feet tall, casting huge shadows that extended far into the darkness down the hill. As little ones who often felt lost or trapped in our own homes, it was thrilling to imagine ourselves as giants.

It is well and good for children to feel powerful casting their shadows. It’s less life-giving when we live that way as “decent” society members or self-righteous churchy types. Perhaps we look for the latest celebrity gossip or the latest church gossip. Perhaps we complain or crack demeaning jokes about those who think, dress, live, or vote differently than we do. Perhaps we self-righteously point out all the ways that “those people” are wrong, or really relish in the fact that we are right.

Notice how well these attitudes serve to distract us from the dark places of our own hearts! “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain…” No matter how much we’ve progressed in discipleship, we all have a shadow side we prefer to ignore.

Sometimes we have a speck in our eye, and other times a wooden beam. In its darkest form, shadow casting becomes a culture of abuse, in which a some enjoy consuming or humiliating others, while loyal companions collude in casting shadows on anyone who would dare shed light on what is really happening. I have walked with so many who have been harmed by the Church, or have been unbelieved, unprotected, and unnurtured when they turned to us for care. Not uncommonly, they live messy lives and don’t check all the boxes of a “good” churchgoer. Their stories may make us incredibly uncomfortable. So it’s just easier to keep them on the margins, languishing alone in the shadows.

Some of you may object that, in calling us to be a light for the world, Jesus invites us to be a city set on a hill. Doesn’t that mean setting ourselves apart from the sin and contagion of the world?

That depends on what kind of city Jesus is describing. I imagine it as a place of abundance and hospitality, a warm beacon beckoning all God’s exhausted and wounded children to come in from the cold and find safety and rest. Sometimes it feels more like a fiercely guarded fortress, designed to keep others out. The key line here is “so that they can see your good deeds and glorify their heavenly Father” (Matthew 5:16). Jesus desires to draw all creation to the bosom of the Father. His entire mission is “to gather God’s scattered children together and make them one” (John 11:52).

We are invited to share in that mission. The Church is called to be a place of hospitality and abundance, a place of warmth and welcome, in which people truly feel like guests at a wedding feast, received with honor and delight. We Catholics seldom pause to consider what it is like for those who are first-time visitors in our parishes. But it is not enough to wait for others to come to us. Missionary discipleship includes a willingness to go out into dark places, casting light.

During my eleven years as a pastor leading two parishes, there were many resources I wish I had. But the rarest resource was a missionary disciple who was really great at the art of accompaniment. God sent us so many little ones with wounded hearts and messy lives. They needed hundreds of hours of patient accompaniment from others who didn’t mind the mess.

There’s a reason why the Gospels spend so much time recounting the exchanges between Jesus and the scribes and Pharisees. It’s just too easy for believers to prefer black-and-white thinking, rule following, and a transactional view of holiness. We become like the older son in Luke 15, joylessly toiling in the Father’s house, looking at “sinful” brothers and sisters with contempt. Meanwhile, all our good heavenly Father wants is to invite all his children to a feast! Yet we remain reluctant to set down our transactional yoke and risk real intimacy.

Why are we afraid to go into dark or messy places? Jesus invites us to be not afraid, and gives us assurance that he has overcome the world. If God is on our side, if we are united in the love of Jesus, the gates of hell can never stand against us! Yet we are afraid – like the priest and the Levite who keep their distance from the wounded man in the ditch (Luke 10:25-37).

We are afraid to the extent that we have not yet contended with the dark places of our own hearts. Each of us has far more harm and heartache in our story than we want to admit! We deny and minimize. We intellectualize and spiritualize. We stay busy and feverishly follow the rules. And the shadows remain.

The hardest thing for us to believe is that we are truly loved in those shadowy places. Jesus desires our whole heart. He wants to be in union with us – every part of us.

You and I cannot accompany others any further than we have been willing to go ourselves. If we avoid and resist going into the deep and dark places we know are there within us, how will we go into dark places with others? If we don’t grow in confidence and competence going into dark places with others, how will they experience the light of Jesus that they so desperately need?

We fear the darkness, giving it a power it simply doesn’t have. The devil pretends that his darkness can consume the light. But Good Friday proved the opposite. Light always dispels darkness.

The devil cannot create. He can only take the very good things God has created and distort, diminish, or fragment them. Light always dispels darkness. Jesus is God from God, light from light. No one has power over him unless he allows it. As the Gospel of John puts it, “All things came to be through him, and without him nothing came to be. What came to be through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:4-5).

Be not afraid. Be not afraid to allow Jesus and other trustworthy companions into your shadowy places. Be not afraid to go into dark places with others, radiating the light of Christ.