“How can you openly disagree with the church,” I asked my ethics professor at the end of class in 2001. I was an undergrad at Boston College, a Jesuit school. The professor, a Jesuit priest, had just argued in favor of physician-assisted suicide, which is anathema to Catholic teachings. I wasn’t Christian, but the one thing I knew about Roman Catholic clergy is they’re sworn to obey the Vatican.
“Why, Mr. Golinkin,” the professor replied, “the only time I disagree with the church is when the church is wrong. On all other issues, we are aligned.” And then he shrugged and calmly walked out of the classroom. That was my first lesson that the Jesuits aren’t your average priests.
I thought of that conversation in 2013, immediately after hearing a conclave of cardinals had elected the first Jesuit pope in history.
I thought of that conversation in 2013, immediately after hearing a conclave of cardinals had elected the first Jesuit pope in history. Today, following a Saturday morning Mass at St. Peter’s, Pope Francis will be entombed at the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome. But it is impossible to understand Francis’ legacy without accounting for the fact that the late pontiff belonged to a rebellious order that often seem to specialize in throwing the rest of the church into hysterics.
The Jesuits, or the Society of Jesus, were formed in 1534 by Ignatius of Loyola, a Spanish Basque noble, soldier and reportedly somewhat of a dandy until a cannonball shattered his leg. Ignatius’ discovery of his faith came at a desperate moment for the Vatican. The papacy was mired in corruption, disconnected from parishioners and aloof. By the time Ignatius and six friends created what would become the new order, Rome was losing half its empire to Martin Luther’s Protestant Reformation.
Ignatius never lost his old soldier’s habits, and incorporated military thinking into his nascent organization. “Go set the world on fire,” he’s rumored to have instructed his followers, who focused on this world as much as the next. In short order, the Society of Jesus became famous for exploring the Americas, India, China and Japan, where it established schools and worked to convert the local populations. Back in Europe, the Jesuits began offering top-level educations to Europe’s elites; the priests realized that shaping noble scions was the key to keeping future princelings — and their princedoms — part of the church.
In order to have unparalleled teachers, one must recruit smart people and permit them to ask questions. I’ve met Jesuit composers and scientists, historians, mathematicians and lawyers. Earlier this year, I ran across a Jesuit with a doctorate in Hinduism.
Indeed, a key component of Ignatian education is discernment, a practice of teaching oneself hyperawareness of self and one’s role in the world. Who are you? Where are you? Where are you going? The Jesuit education, with its numerous (but optional) retreats, meditations, service and immersion programs, grabs you by the scruff of the neck, forcing you to provide answers to the one person you can’t fool — yourself.
The Jesuit’s forceful soul-searching is not necessarily a pleasant experience, especially if you’re a Jewish kid who came to America as a refugee from Soviet antisemitism and who enrolled in a Catholic college to get away from your religious identity. For years, I pretended that my life only began when our plane touched down in America, a common self-delusion among immigrants. Perhaps it’s a protective mechanism. But the Jesuits, with their deceptively simple questions, cut through it. By the time I graduated from Boston College, I had discerned that in order to move forward, I had to first understand my past.
A key component of Ignatian education is discernment, a practice of teaching oneself hyperawareness of self and one’s role in the world.
When I enrolled at BC, my parents were greatly concerned about what I’d be taught. My mom, especially, worried the Jesuits would turn me into a priest; instead, they turned me into a Jew.
Of course, a society that encourages smart, inquisitive people can be hard to control. And throughout its nearly 500-year history, the Society of Jesus raised plenty of suspicion and made many a king and cleric wary, to put it lightly. In 1773 Pope Clement XIV disbanded the order, fearful of its power (the ban was lifted in 1814). Even in modern times, Jesuits have clashed with Rome over social movements. But there are times when questions are sorely needed — and the beginning of Francis’ tenure was such a moment.
At the onset of this century, the Catholic Church was once again beset by scandals, bleeding membership and struggling to adapt to cultural and societal shifts.
Francis waded into the mire and did the most on-brand Jesuit thing imaginable; he asked uncomfortable questions like his famous “Who am I to judge?” in response to an inquiry about homosexuality in priests. He put the church on the path of discernment by making the faithful ponder who they are, where they are and where they’re headed. Millions embraced his reforms. Millions more vehemently rejected them. From an Ignatian “Go set the world on fire” perspective, the fact that he was making people think makes his papacy a success.
At the beginning of my college ethics class, the Jesuit professor made it clear that our challenge was not finding a specific right answer, but an answer that was right for us, then vigorously defending that choice. Francis made people think and — most crucially — defend their thinking. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was necessary. Besides, if the church fathers wanted comfort, they shouldn’t have made a Jesuit pope — even a Jew like me knows that.
