Guest Blogger: My Dad

The Conscience of Franz Jägerstätter:
A Homily by Deacon Tim Vineyard

“Jägerstätter reasoned that, since God gives us free will and a conscience,
God holds us responsible for what we do.”

This past summer when I was home in Texas, I heard my dad preach this homily. It was pretty long for a homily, but you could have heard a pin drop. As the story built and the courage of Franz Jägerstätter came to life, we all got wrapped up in this story—this witness—of the power of human freedom and conscience.

One of my college professors, a Cistercian monk who himself had escaped an evil regime in Hungary, told us that the human will has limitless power. He said, “The whole universe could blow up in your face. You can still be saying ‘no.’” Franz Jägerstätter said “no.”

Thanks Dad—for preaching and sharing this homily, and for being a man of conscience in my life.

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The German army invaded Austria in 1938. The Austrians didn’t offer any resistance. Many Austrians actually welcomed the German invasion! At that time, there was a lot of support for the goals and aims of the Nazi movement in Austria.

Hitler was greeted by enthusiastic crowds waving Nazi flags and giving the Nazi salute. Afterward, some 70,000 Austrian political opponents of the Nazis were arrested and Hitler ordered a universal vote in Austria on the issue of the unification of Austria with Germany. A Nazi-led propaganda campaign supported unification. The Catholic hierarchy advocated a “yes” vote. In the end, the Nazis claimed that Austrians overwhelmingly favored the dissolution of Austria and its becoming a part of Germany. Hitler then began the process of the deep humiliation of Jews and, with the cooperation of the locals, ran many Jews out of Austria.

Franz Jägerstätter was an Austrian farmer. He married a woman who took her Catholic faith seriously. His marriage to her changed him, and he, too, became devout in his Catholic faith. He voted in the German/Austrian unification plebiscite but, unlike his countrymen, he voted “no,” rejecting the Nazis. Due to the subsequent German annexation of Austria, Jägerstätter became subject to the German military draft. Would he serve as a soldier in the Nazi army?

Jägerstätter was happily married and had young children. The last thing he wanted was to put himself or his family at risk.  But he carefully examined the morality of the German war. He witnessed the suppression of the church—the churches had to fly the swastika flag and pray for Hitler; priests were jailed. He saw the Germans take over other countries for no just reason. He heard reports of the beginning of the Nazi Jewish genocide program. For him, it all came down to this question: “Should I be a Nazi or a Catholic?” Jägerstätter recognized that to support the Nazi movement was to oppose Christ and his Church.

He met with his bishop to discuss what his response should be, but the bishop refused to discuss the matter with him. Several well-meaning priests tried to talk him into cooperating with the Germans. There was a great deal of discussion about the morality of a decision to refuse to serve as a combatant in the Nazi-led military. This decision was punishable by death; did it amount to suicide? Some questioned the morality of such a decision in light of his family responsibilities. But Jägerstätter wondered how good a husband and father he would be if he chose social conformity over obedience to Christ’s teaching.

Jägerstätter reasoned that, since God gives us free will and a conscience, God holds us responsible for what we do. He believed that people can’t escape personal responsibility for their actions simply by arguing that they were following the orders of their government.

When he was required to serve in the German army, Jägerstätter said a final good-bye to his wife and children and refused to serve as a combatant, offering instead to serve as a medic. He was promptly beheaded and forgotten.

In 1964, Gordon Zahn published a biography of Jägerstätter, In Solitary Witness. His story circulated among those participating in the Vatican II Council, which was in progress at the time. Jägerstätter’s life and writings made a significant impact on what the Catholic Church teaches today about war, peace, conscience and individual responsibility. His life had a significant impact on the 1965 Vatican II document entitled The Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World. Jägerstätter was declared a martyr in 2007 and beatified in the same year.

Looking back, we think everyone should have seen things the way Jägerstätter did. Why would anyone want to participate in the Nazi movement? But when you’re living in the middle of a national crisis, things get complicated fast. Really complicated. Even in our day, such complications can lead us to think and act based on fear, pride, confusion, fatigue, anxiety, and the desire to conform. Jägerstätter was able to see past all of that because his heart and conscience were fixed on Jesus Christ above all else. Naturally, such a path will not be taken by everyone; it takes conviction and courage to lay down your life for what you believe. Perhaps this is why Jesus said, “Do you think I have come to establish peace on the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division” (Luke 12:51).

Today we face issues that will affect the lives of thousands of people in profound ways. We don’t respond out of mere human pragmatism, fear, pride, or a desire to conform. We’re not confused. Instead, we listen to our conscience, which is formed by the Gospel, and we face the current issues with our hearts firmly fixed on Jesus Christ above all else. As the Body of Christ, this is what we do.

Blessed Franz Jägerstätter, pray for us.

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There’s a movie out about the life of Franz Jägerstätter called “A Hidden Life.”
Here’s a preview:

The Silent Creed

What a comfort it is to know that our faith exists within a community! According to Scripture, God does not only save individuals—God saves his people. The great covenants of the Bible—the Mosaic Covenant and the New Covenant in Christ—are not made with individuals but with the Israelite people and then with the entire world. Although it is true that God is eternally and devotedly focused on each one of us—to the point of counting every hair on our heads!—it is also true that God creates and loves each of us as members of communities: our families, our Church, our world.

A friend of mine once told me a powerful story about a difficult time in her life. She had just given birth to a baby girl, and the little girl was struggling to survive. Devastated, distraught, exhausted, and totally stressed, my friend went to Mass. When it came time for the Creed, she couldn’t speak. She was empty. She wasn’t sure what or if she believed.

What happened next both surprised and sustained her. As the voices around her professed the Creed, my friend felt lifted up. Their unwavering, believing voices were like strong arms lifting up her heart, her mind, her body to God. Was she struggling to profess, to believe? No matter. The community believed on her behalf, and she let them.

I tried this myself on Sunday. I was silent during the Creed; I listened. All around me voices rose up. I had never thought of my parish as particularly robust, but they were loud and strong! I looked around at all of the faces and bodies. I knew how different we all are, how even when we say “I believe,” we are thinking, meaning, believing slight variations on the themes of our faith. But these were my people, speaking “I believe.” These were God’s people, the ones of the covenant.

This weekend when you go to Mass, I encourage you to stay silent during the Creed, just this once. Listen, be lifted. Be reminded how strong is the faith of our Church. Be reminded that your brothers and sisters believe for you when you feel empty or you cannot speak. They are loud enough. They are strong enough. Let their voices lift you like arms. These are your people.

We are as interconnected as these water droplets on a spider web. Photo by Mary Weems. Used with permission.

The Hardest Word

In 2006, I had two reconstructive hip surgeries (“triple pelvic osteotomy” for those who like to google). The first operation was a success hip-wise, but it was hard on my body. When I woke up in recovery, my pain was out of control. Over the next several days I had five or six blood transfusions, erratic heart rates, and pain. A lot of pain. I remember how lonely the pain felt, like no one else understood. I felt completely alone.

Six months later when I returned to the hospital to repeat the surgery on the other side, I remember looking into my surgeon’s eyes. He wasn’t the touchy-feely type. He wasn’t really a good listener. Not much of a talker either. But before we went into surgery he said something reassuring that—for him—probably required mustering forth and dusting off some nurturing spirit from deep within. I remember something firm, something I could hold onto, something like: “That’s not going to happen to you again. Not on my watch.” And then I told him the truth: “I trust you.”

As the anesthesia took effect and I drifted into unconsciousness, I felt deeply the reality of what I had done. Trust has no guarantees.

Trust may be the hardest thing we will ever do—harder even than love. Because trust so rarely comes with feel-good emotions. It is more often just a choice we make. But without it, we are utterly paralyzed. Without it we are so afraid, afraid of everything. This is no way to live.

Trust is not something that is cavalierly restored, once it has been broken. Sometimes it is never restored at all. But something happens when someone looks us in the eye, and from the heart, speaks restoring words—words like never again and not on my watch—and then does restoring things, like setting bones right, or listening, or being humble, or changing. Trust has no guarantees. But we are only half-alive if we never trust. Our whole human community is based on our ability to do this one hardest thing.

I pray that trust will be restored in our Church, and in the life of every person affected by the pain inflicted by and in this Body. Now we feel the cutting of the bones, the loneliness of the pain, the confusion of the aftermath. I pray for healing for every single one of us, so we can trust again, so we can be a healed, restored, strengthened, unafraid Body.

May God heal our Church and restore trust among us.

“I trust in God, I do not fear” (Ps 56:5).

A favorite picture of my husband and daughter, an image of trust.

Announcements:

• Save the date for our One-Night Lenten Mission 2019! A Nor’easter got us in 2018, but we’re trying again! Hear 3 speakers and 1 wonderful choir! Wed., Mar. 13, 7:00 pm, 295 Benham St., Hamden, CT. Snow date is Mar. 15. For more information, go to amyekeh.com/lent.

• Thanks for bearing with my slow blog pace! Someday when my kids are grown, I’ll miss these busy days! But for now, I’m just trying to keep up! Blessings, all!

People Last Forever

My friend Fr. Ivan Tou, CSP, is a very interesting person. One interesting thing he does is that he does not age. No one really knows how old Ivan is because he looks the same as he did twenty years ago.

Another interesting thing Ivan does is write wonderful, chatty Christmas letters that are part litany-of-people-and-places-he’s-visited-in-the-past-year (this is where you find out that he has about 28 godchildren), part analysis-of-movies-he’s-seen (which I skim over when he gets too sci-fi), and part wisdom-gained-in-the-past-year.

Several years ago, Ivan shared some Christmas letter wisdom that has stayed with me. He described how, in his parish work, he is keenly aware that so much of what he does is bound to be undone as soon as he leaves a parish. A statue he purchased may be removed. A garden he planted may be made into a parking lot. A new ministry he initiated may fizzle out. And so on.

This could become quite discouraging over time, to feel that one’s work doesn’t last. But Ivan said there is one thing that doesn’t change, one thing that can’t be taken away, one legacy far superior to improvements to property or even ministries—and that is people. Love between people—relationships, friendships. Ivan said that over the years, this is what he holds onto—the people he has met and loved, and those who have loved him.

Of course, people and friendships can change too. But what does not change is the impact they’ve had on us, the memories we make, the wisdom we’ve shared, the meals around a table that enriched us, the time and the effort and the goodness of people.

This is what the Church is made of, after all. People, relationships, love. This is what matters. This is what lasts.

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After I wrote this, I found Fr. Ivan’s Christmas letter from 2016. Here is the paragraph I remember!

One thing I’m constantly relearning is nothing lasts. All the great software I wrote for HP has been erased and the back-up drives probably live in some landfill. The great ideas I started at my previous parish are no doubt forgotten as the replacement pastor and new parish staff invent their own ideas. And the things I’m doing at Berkeley will probably fade away when I move on, though Fr. George, a pastor here in the 80’s, reminds me that the current red carpet and patio gates are his doing. What seems to matter is the journey and the relationships we make along the way. People last forever, everything else has their time and then fades away. So a meaningful life seems to be connected to touching people and touching them deeply, or as Jesus taught us, love God and love neighbor with your everything.

Thank you, Fr. Ivan Tou. Come see us in Connecticut!

Okay, maybe we’ve all changed just a little bit. Ivan, Amy, Ono. CUA 1999. People last forever.

Guest Blog: We Grieve, We Believe

My colleague at Little Rock Scripture Study, Cackie Upchurch, wrote these clear, gentle words in response to the recent revelations about our Church in Pennsylvania, Washington, D.C., and beyond. These words helped me, and I hope they may help you too. I don't want to be bitter, I want to believe. But I have children, I have been a child. A sacred trust has been broken.

In times of confusion, we need guiding voices to acknowledge truth and point us back to the light. I found one here.

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We Grieve, We Believe

We grieve the scandals that have plagued and continue to plague our Church. 
We grieve because we are outraged and disappointed and even disgusted by the revelations of sexual misconduct and abuse, and the lingering violence these do to the human person.
We grieve the cover up and the misplaced loyalties.
We grieve because the body of Christ is injured and in need of healing that will not come easily (nor should it). 
We grieve because, as communities of faith, we’re not quite sure how to proceed – how to bind up ugly wounds so that they heal and are not simply covered over, and how to be forgiving but also demand consequences.
We grieve because our ideals are tempered by ugly realities that demand a reckoning.
We grieve because we know the corrupting influence of power that goes unchecked.

We believe and affirm that Christ is suffering with us, in us, and through us.
We believe and affirm that we have a sacred trust to bring Christ into this broken world, and into our very broken Church.
We believe and affirm that God’s mercy and goodness will have the last word.

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Cackie (Catherine) Upchurch is the director of Little Rock Scripture Study, general editor of the Little Rock Catholic Study Bible, associate editor of The Bible Today and contributor to Give Us This Day. She is the author of four volumes of the Alive in the Word series, including Mary, Favored by God and Christmas: Season of Wonder and Hope. Cackie finds great joy in meeting people around the country and beyond when she speaks at conferences and leads retreats for lay people and religious communities.