Justice Education: From Service To Solidarity (Marquette Studies in Theology)

Justice

Education: From Service to Solidarity

Suzanne C. Toton

Justice

Education: From Service to Solidarity

© 2006 Marquette University Press Milwaukee, Wisconsin 53201-3141 All rights reserved. www.marquette.edu/mupress/

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Toton, Suzanne C. Justice education : from service to solidarity / Suzanne C. Toton. p. cm. — (Marquette studies in theology ; no. 50) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-87462-727-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-87462-727-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Church work with the poor—Catholic Church. 2. Christianity and justice—Catholic Church—Study and teaching. 3. Christian sociology—Catholic Church—Study and teaching. 4. Catholic Church—Doctrines. I. Title. II. Marquette studies in theology ; #50. BV639.P6T65 2006 261.8088’282—dc22 2006005191



The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences— Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.

For Christopher

and

Daniel

“Turn around and you’re two Turn around and you’re four Turn around and you’re young men going out of my door” (Adapted from Turn Around, by Songwriter Malvina Reynolds)

Table of Contents Acknowledgments........................................................................ 11 Introduction................................................................................ 15 1. Understanding Structures . ..................................................... 17 Institutions Are Made Up of Individuals and Much More . ...... 18 The Effect Institutions Have on Consciousness . ...................... 21 Institutions Keep One Another’s Company . ............................ 21 Individuals Have No Corner on Sin— Institutions Commit It Too .................................................. 21 Am I Responsible for That Too? ............................................... 23 Power: Not a Bad Way to Express Love .................................... 26 2. A Working Theology for Justice Education . .......................... 29 Where You Start Matters . ........................................................ 29 A Worldly God ........................................................................ 31 An Ungodly World .................................................................. 32 Theology Is Not Distance Learning ......................................... 34 “Doing” Theology and Meaning It . ......................................... 37 God of Power, God of Might ................................................... 39 Savior to the World . ................................................................ 41 Salvation in Liberation ............................................................. 43 Sin: The Bible Is “Big” on It . ................................................... 46 Mercy Is More than Pity .......................................................... 51 3. A Church Working for Justice ................................................ 57 The Church, a Family: As in All in the Family? . ...................... 58 The Church: A Powerful Player ............................................... 60 The Social Teaching of the Roman Catholic Church . .............. 64 The Preferential Option for the Poor ....................................... 66 Medellín: A Paradigm Shift ...................................................... 67 Choosing the Poor: The Charism of the Latin American Church ........................ 71





Suzanne C. Toton ~ Justice Education

Speaking Prophetically ............................................................. 73 Acting Prophetically . ............................................................... 75 The Prophetic Church Must Keep New Company . ................. 76 Oscar Romero: A Living Example ............................................ 77

4. A University Working for Justice ............................................ 89 The Theological Foundation of the UCA’s Mission . ................ 90 The UCA’s Mission: Within Its Walls ...................................... 93 The UCA’s Mission: Beyond Its Walls ...................................... 96 The “Social Projection” of the UCA . ....................................... 98 Do We Suffer from an Institutional Failure of Nerve? ............ 100 What Has the UCA to Teach Us? . ......................................... 102 Keeping New Company: “The Poor with Spirit” . .................. 103 Praxis Is Not Service .............................................................. 110 5. The Poor with Spirit: The Local Connection ...................... 119 Saul Alinsky, The Father of Community Organizing . ............ 121 Power Concedes Nothing without Demand: Alinsky’s Theory and Method of Organizing . ..................... 125 Organized People and Organized Money: The Modern-Day IAF ........................................................ 130 6. Leavens for Society, The Church and the University ........... 145 Building the Reign of God in Bushwick . ............................... 145 Speaking Truth to Power . . . In City Hall .............................. 155 If the Gospel Is Not Valid in Kingsessing, It Is Not Valid ....... 160 One Foot in the University and the Other in PIA .................. 165 The University Keeping Faith ................................................ 170 References ................................................................................. 175 Index.......................................................................................... 181

Acknowledgements

F

aith, Ronald Marstin writes, is not only a matter of belief but the company we keep. Over the years of writing this book I have been blessed with the extraordinary company of people who have loved, challenged, inspired and supported me. And so, on bringing this work to a close it is important to thank them in this public way. First and foremost, I want to thank my husband, Jerry; he has remained my steadfast support. Never once did he doubt, or at least “let on” that he doubted, the value of my work in justice education and the value of this book. There can be no greater blessing in one’s life than to have someone believe in you. My two sons, Christopher and Daniel, have never known a day that was not in some way related to this endeavor. The book itself became somewhat of an old family friend that I’m certain Jerry and the boys would have preferred to have had around a little less on weekends, holidays, vacations and even at baseball games. But the boys were good sports throughout—from patiently listening to my endless theories at dinner to stuffing PIA envelopes. There are also dear friends, Walter Conn and Margaret Reher. To Walt I am particularly grateful for looking out for my best interest over the years, and when the pieces fell apart, for helping to put them back together again. Marge came faithfully to practically every academic presentation of mine and never missed a PIA action if she could help it. More importantly, she could be counted on to “tell it like it is.” Villanova University also deserves thanks for reduced teaching loads over the years and a much needed sabbatical to bring this project to closure. My colleagues in the Center for Peace and Justice Education, the students affiliated with the Center and especially the students who have taken my global poverty and justice course and my service learning course continue to energize and give me hope for the future. I am also blessed with generous colleagues. Peter Beisheim, Gloria Durka, John P. Hogan, Hugh Lacey and Daniel Schipani read this manuscript, gave valuable suggestions and strategized to help it see the light of day. Words cannot convey my gratitude to John J.

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Mawhinney, S.J. for painstakingly editing the final draft. John was truly a godsend. For some of the powerful insights expressed here, special thanks are owed to Ronald Marstin, whose book, Beyond Our Tribal Gods, inspired this work; Kevin F. Burke, S.J., from whom I first learned of the visionary president of the UCA, Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J. and the significance of reflecting from a different social location; Leo Penta, who gave me access to the IAF; Maryellen Kane, who generously shared her Masters thesis and experiences organizing at St. Barbara’s; Gary Chamberlain, who may have planted the seed for this work by telling me about Seattle University’s involvement in an IAF organization; and Charles J. Beirne, S.J., whose book, Jesuit Education and Social Change in El Salvador, was invaluable for helping me understand the transformation that took place within the UCA. Thanks are also due to Religious Education for permission to use material from an earlier version of Chapter 1 that appeared in its Summer 1985 issue, Chapter 2 that appeared in its Fall 1987 issue, Chapter 3 that appeared in its Fall 1991 issue and Chapter 5 that appeared in its Summer 1993 issue; to Union Seminary Quarterly for permission to use material from an earlier version of Chapter 4 that appeared in its Summer 1993 issue; and to The Journal for Peace and Justice Studies for permission to use material from an earlier version of Chapter 4 that appeared in its Fall 2002 issue. Finally, I want to express my profound admiration and gratitude for the leaders, organizers and members of PIA, particularly the Reverend Reed Brinkman, the Reverend Mary Laney, the Reverend Isaac Miller, the Reverend Kermit Newkirk, Ceci Schickel and Michael Gecan. The courageous, creative and sustained efforts of PIA and its sister IAF organizations, continue to challenge, inspire and give meaning to my work in the university, particularly the work of transforming the university into a more effective instrument for justice.

Introduction

C

atholic colleges and universities, like nonreligious academic institutions, are dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and truth. However, because Catholic colleges and universities take their inspiration from the Gospel, that pursuit has a different orientation. Its specific point of reference, direction and purpose is perhaps best captured by the phrase “a preferential option for the poor.” This phrase, coined by the Latin American bishops at their 1979 conference in Puebla, Mexico, and since then central to the vocabulary of the social teaching of the Catholic Church, simply means that we as individuals, collectives and institutions are called by the Gospel to identify with the poor and marginalized of society, stand in solidarity with them, and accompany them in the struggle for justice and peace. Thus, for Catholic colleges and universities the end purpose of teaching, research and service is the creation of a more compassionate, just and peaceful social order. If truth be told, this “preferential option for the poor” is not very well integrated into the structure and fabric of our institutions. And responsibility for it is shouldered principally by university offices for mission, campus ministry, community service and peace and justice or it falls to the initiative of individual faculty or staff. The dedication of these offices and individuals is beyond question. They often labor with limited resources, meet resistance from the larger university community, and find themselves having to justify their work time and again. In a very real sense, this book is written for them. If what I am proposing is correct, it should make justification less necessary. It should give more focus and direction to their work and challenge them to make it more effective by developing new kinds of relationships, skills and initiatives. And finally it should help to further integrate the work of promoting justice and peace into the university. Having said this, however, I also believe it is time for those who are committed to and engaged in promoting justice and peace in and through Catholic colleges and universities to take a critical look at what we are doing. Are we, as Jon Sobrino, S.J., suggests, substitut-

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ing “works of mercy” for “the principle of mercy” (Sobrino 1994)? In many of our institutions, promoting justice and peace takes the form of community service, mission trips, courses in justice and peace, and service-learning. Their focus, simply put, is changing minds and hearts, that is, raising critical consciousness, creating empathy for and generating charity toward the poor and marginalized. While this is important, my concern has to do with whether they are sufficient and/or effective. Is this all the university can or should do? In addition, I question whether this focus may mislead or even serve as a stopgap to effective change. I am still haunted by the challenges to moral and faith development and justice education, raised more than twenty years ago, by Ronald Marstin in his book, Beyond Our Tribal Gods (1979). His words will ring throughout this work. Marstin reminds his readers, as I will remind you, that changes in the mind and heart are not the same as changes in society; nor does the former necessarily or automatically lead to the latter (50-51). Structural and systemic change, I argue in these pages, requires a very different set of skills, which those who are serious about furthering justice cannot afford to ignore. This book will give the reader a clearer sense of the theory and practice of some of those skills as well as the imperative from the Christian Tradition to exercise them. After more than twenty years reflecting, writing and teaching in the areas of social ethics and justice education, I have come to the conclusion that a radically different approach to furthering justice and peace in Catholic colleges and universities is called for, one that moves beyond promoting the idea of justice to participating in its creation (52). Again taking my cues from Marstin, I am convinced that the key to new ways of thinking and acting, and hence to creating new university and pedagogical models, will come through keeping new company, particularly the company of the poor and marginalized (100). This idea is not new to theology, the church or its educational institutions. In this work I try to highlight the impact keeping company with the poor and marginalized has had and can continue to have for each. Because my focus here is Catholic colleges and universities, I give particular attention to the transformative effect keeping company with the poor had on one of the most prophetic institutions of higher

Introduction

13

education in our day, the José Simeón Cañas University of Central America (UCA). The UCA’s leadership, particularly its president, Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J., understood well that educational institutions, despite their wealth of knowledge, contain within themselves limits to seeing what is before them, understanding it fully, being claimed by its moral urgency and acting effectively. To break through these limits, Ellacuría argued that the research, teaching and service of a Catholic university must be done from a different social location. He held that a university that takes its inspiration from the Gospel must do its work at the “feet of the crucified people” (Sobrino 1993, 8-9). In addition, he recognized the importance of being in relationship not only with the poor, but especially “the poor with spirit” (Ellacuría 1991e, 60-62). But of particular interest to us here, is the kind of relationship that emerged for the UCA. It was clearly one of solidarity. As we know, the UCA became one of the most powerful moral voices and effective instruments for change in Salvadoran society, so much so that the established forces found it necessary to silence it in a most cruel and barbaric manner. This book will examine the theology that informed the UCA; the steps it took to come closer to the poor; the effect of this on the character, structure and pedagogy of the university; and how it specifically entered into solidarity to the point of martyrdom. Some might argue that the situation of the UCA was unique to El Salvador and is not replicable here. My answer to this is that while it may not be replicable, Catholic colleges and universities would be remiss not to learn from and build on the UCA’s experience and courageous witness. Moreover, opportunities for the Catholic university to research, teach and serve from the social location of the crucified people and to be in relationship with the poor, and particularly the poor with spirit, are not limited to the Third World. In this work I examine one of the more striking examples of the poor with spirit in this country today, the organizations affiliated with the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF). The IAF has a long and successful history of poor people organizing principally through religious congregations to effect change in their social situation. Observing them, one cannot help but be struck by the powerful impact faith can have on organizing and organizing on faith. Both are taken to deeper levels. Truth is indeed spoken to power

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and power is brought to truth. By examining this transformative influence, I mean to suggest that a similar experience awaits colleges and universities who are willing to go beyond consciousness-raising and service and enter into a relationship of solidarity with the poor, particularly the poor with spirit. It is my firm conviction that not only will they get a more profound education in justice, but genuine opportunities to participate in its creation will emerge. And like the UCA, we too may come to understand what adopting a preferential option for the poor actually means for Catholic colleges and universities in this country. Now to the organization of this book. The first chapter makes the case that the struggle for justice requires a different dynamic and set of skills. It argues that structures and systems are more than the individuals who work for or direct them. In a very real sense, structures and systems have a life of their own. Thus, to effect change in their organization, policies and practices more is required than changing the minds and hearts of a few people in power or getting some good people into positions of power. When all is said and done, the creation of justice requires organization, confrontation, conflict, and the creative use of power. Chapter 2 provides a theological basis for engaging in structural and systemic change. It tries to make a clear and compelling case for the fact that Christian faith is lived and finds expression and meaning, not only in the private realm or in personal relationships, but through engagement in the public and political arenas. The Jewish and Christian Scriptures clearly indicate that God is indeed Lord and Redeemer of individuals, but God is also Lord and Redeemer of the structures and systems of society. Moreover, God reveals God’s self through them, and human beings enter into relationship with God and our fellow human beings through them as well. Our tradition calls us to participate in God’s salvific work of redeeming the structures and systems of society. Chapter 3 addresses the role of the institutional church in redeeming the structures and systems of society. Drawing on Scripture and the church’s social tradition, I try to explore the public and political implications of its mission. Archbishop Oscar Romero, the martyred archbishop of El Salvador, was often accused of using the church for political purposes. Yet he was clear on the integral relationship between

Introduction

15

the religious, the public and the political. I examine how he used the weight of his office and the institutional church effectively to try to put an end to the suffering and violence in El Salvador and his justification for doing so. My argument, which was Romero’s position as well, is that the church can avoid entanglement in the public and political arenas only at the risk of being unfaithful to its salvific mission. Chapter 4 directly addresses the responsibility of educational institutions, particularly Catholic colleges and universities, to promote justice. It argues that the struggle for justice must be central not only to the mission of the institutional church but to its educational institutions as well. One would expect some of the more serious efforts to promote justice in and through educational institutions to take place in Catholic colleges and universities, but when critically analyzed, it becomes clear that they fall considerably short of the challenge before them. I argue here that the University of Central America in El Salvador offers one of the most prophetic and also challenging models of a Catholic university in our day. There the preferential option for the poor was integrated into the university’s identity, mission and structure. I examine the UCA’s foundational theology and in particular its decision to be in relationship with the poor, to show how they were instrumental in transforming the university. In addition, I try to make the strongest possible case for a pedagogy that integrates critical reflection and critical intervention in society. While it may seem like revisiting familiar material, I deliberately review Paulo Freire’s ground-breaking theory and method of education not only because he is so widely used but because he is so commonly misinterpreted. Freire is not proposing consciousness-raising as many mistakenly believe, but is calling for a pedagogy that is actively involved in the process of creating a more just social order. I argue that that is precisely what colleges and universities that take their inspiration from the Gospel are called to. In chapter 5, I identify one of the more extraordinary opportunities for building a relationship of solidarity with the poor with spirit in the United States and participating in the struggle for justice. This chapter tells the story of the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF), one of the largest and arguably one of the most successful community organizations that organizes principally through congregations. It examines

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the IAF’s origins, the changes it has undergone and the theory and methods employed in organizing. Finally, Chapter 6 tells some of the stories of these congregations and their leaders. But more importantly, it highlights their interpretations of their experience theologically and its impact on their religious lives. Having been an active member of Philadelphia Interfaith Action, a local IAF organization, for more than a decade myself, and having shared similar experiences, I offer my own reflections on what I believe takes place religiously as congregations organize to reclaim their lives and dignity. So much of what I have observed and experienced rings true to the insights of the UCA martyrs and is so consistent with the Scriptures and the Social Tradition of the Church that I am all the more convinced that the key to transforming our colleges and universities into more effective instruments for justice lies both in keeping new company, the company of not only the poor, but the poor with spirit and in daring to build a different kind of relationship with them, a relationship of genuine solidarity.

Chapter 1 – Understanding Structures

I

n The Structural Dimension of the Justice Challenge, Peter Henriot, S.J., makes the case that human beings live their lives on at least three levels: the intra-personal level, the interpersonal level, and the public level. We are at one and the same time personal, interpersonal and public beings (Henriot 1983). The intra‑personal is the level of interiority—our intimate thoughts, fears, aspirations and our spiritual life. The interpersonal is the level of close relationships with family and friends, important for deriving a sense of self, security and meaning for our lives. But we also live on a third level, the public level. We are business people, students, citizens, consumers, investors, etc. The truth of the matter is that the better part of an adult’s day is spent on the public level. Through our public activity our lives become intertwined with the lives and destinies of millions of people in this country and throughout the world. In one of the earliest works on justice education, Brian Wren describes a cartoon in a magazine that haunted him during the years of the Viet Nam War. Over the drawings were the words, “I only work on the assembly line”—“I only take delivery of the goods”—“I only help to load the plane”—“I only give clearance for take-off ”—“I only pilot an aircraft”—“I only press a button.” In the final image Vietnamese villagers said, “…And we get killed by the bomb” (Wren 1977, 64). This cartoon nicely illustrates the effect “just doing our jobs” can have on the lives of millions of people throughout the world. Given the significance of the public dimension of our lives, it is important to note that it receives very little attention in our religious and moral education. Moreover, our discussion of the Christian’s responsibility for the public and political arenas and how to exercise that responsibility demands much more serious study and analysis.

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Institutions Are Made Up of Individuals and Much More

Because so much of the discussion of the Christian’s responsibility for society that does take place in our churches and educational institutions focuses on personal or individual change, it might be helpful to begin our analysis by clarifying the relationship of the individual to the structure and the system. It is commonly assumed that the way to change society is to change the minds and hearts of individuals. This view rests on the assumption that society is essentially made up of individuals who in turn form groups such as the family, the neighborhood, the city, the state and the nation (Desrochers 1977). And acting alone or collectively, they form structures or institutions such as companies, banks, schools, churches, hospitals and also economic, political and social systems. When injustice, such as discrimination or exploitation, is committed by institutions, such as educational institutions or corporations, it is commonly attributed to the decisions and actions of individuals acting alone or collectively. Therefore, it logically follows that if we want to change the institution, its policies or its practices the most effective way to do this is by changing the individuals in it. In short, we tend to equate structural and systemic change with personal change. This approach to social, structural or systemic change, in my judgment, fails to take into account the complex nature of structures or institutions and the web of structural relationships that constitute the social order. I would also argue that transforming individuals does not automatically, nor necessarily, translate into transformed institutions. Moreover, institutional change does not wait upon individual or personal change. Martin Luther King, Jr., was well aware of this. While he believed in the need for personal conversion to overcome racism in this country and worked toward this goal, he also knew that personal conversion would take a very long time. An immediate end to racism was called for; too many lives were at stake. As James Cone wrote, “Against the claim that morality could not be legislated, King responded that behavior nevertheless could be regulated. … The government could not make white bigots love Negroes. … But the government could stop white bigots from lynching Negroes” (Cone 1991, 69).

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While structures or institutions cannot function without people, they cannot and should not be reduced to or equated with the individuals or collections of individuals within them. As John Desrochers argues, the structure or institution is “deeply different from the various components taken individually or from the simple addition of all its components” (15). According to Amitai Etzioni a structure or institution is a social unit deliberately constructed and reconstructed for the purpose of achieving a goal or a set of goals (Etzioni 1964, 3). He argues that they are composed of various elements and relationships that are organized to carry out their goals. And the elements and relationships derive their importance from their relationship to one another, the institution as a whole and the institution’s goals. Goals provide a future direction for the institution, help organize the institution’s activity, serve as a standard against which performance can be evaluated, legitimate its activities, promote unity of purpose among the members of the institution, and contribute to institutional stability or permanence (5). To determine the institution’s goals, one can examine what it says about itself in its public or mission statements or what its key people, for example, its board of directors, CEOs or managers say. One can also look at the institution’s allocation of resources, its policies and practical decisions. While institutions may be founded for specific purposes or goals, once constructed, those goals can change. New goals may come into place through the normal process of operations and institutional development over time. It is not unusual for technical or secondary goals to become more important than or even override the institution’s original goals or even its publicly-stated goals. It should be noted that in institutions today, it is less likely than in the past for billionaires like the Carnegies, Duponts and Rockefellers, the board of directors or the stockholders to make major decisions regarding matters such as strategic planning, capital allocation, geographic and product moves, technology, marketing and major personnel changes. Those matters tend to be handled by professional managers who are appointed by the Board. Consequently, the corporation, university, hospital and others rely on technical and professional experts in consultation with one another to make major institutional

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decisions. These decisions, moreover, are rarely made by an individual, but are the product of group consultation. While major institutional decisions may be made this way, according to Jeffrey Pfeffer the majority of decisions in today’s institutions happen “naturally” (Pfeffer 1981, 23). They are the result of standard rules and operating procedures that act as a “program” or set of “behaviors” and serve as guides for the choices or actions that need to be made in the normal everyday operations of the institution. Many of these standard procedures are part of the institution’s tradition or memory. They have been tried in the past and worked. Each institution or structure has certain external tasks it performs within the social system but it also has internal tasks that need to be performed for it to function and meet its goals. Desrochers claims that it is in the tasks themselves, their arrangement to one another and to component parts of the institution that the goals, objectives, norms, and values of the institution are carried out. He observes that the laws by which institutions function behave much the same as the laws of natural science. In his words, they “take place in the reality independently from human will or knowledge” (18). Two final but nonetheless essential points need to be made regarding decision‑making in institutions (Bachrach and Baratz 1970, 18, 42‑45). It is not uncommon for minor or incremental decisions to be made in succession to solve specific problems that arise in the daily operations of the institution. The addition of these minor decisions, however, can have long‑term and major effects. They may result in major changes, problems, or effects that were neither intended nor foreseen by the decision makers. In addition, incremental decisions may be technical and perceived to be simply that. Those carrying out the decisions may not have a sense of their direction or end purpose. More importantly, after a number of incremental decisions are made they can take on momentum, making it difficult to reverse them. Consequently, one can become committed to a course of action even when the wisdom of that action no longer seems justified. It has been said, for example, that many of the scientists who worked on the atomic bomb never knew the final purpose of their work. And some have speculated that despite the fact that President Truman and his advisors debated the decision to drop the bomb on Hiroshima

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up to the last moment, because the technical arrangements were so complete the momentum was already present for Truman to make the decision he did (42).

The Effect Institutions Have on Consciousness

It stands to reason that the way decisions are made, the standard operating procedures and the goals of the institutions in which we participate are bound to have some effect on us. As mentioned above, institutional tasks derive their meaning and purpose from the goals of the institution, and it is not necessary for those who perform the tasks to know their end purpose or the relationship of the tasks to the whole. What is important is that the institution’s rules and standard procedures are followed. Specialization and the emphasis on rule-following can have a profound effect on consciousness. Levine argues that they may account in part for the apparent lack of social responsibility today (Levine 1980, 13). Specialization, separation and ignorance of the final ends of tasks can promote a sense of anonymity. If one sees one’s self as a cog in the wheel there is no need to know, care, or feel responsible for the final outcome of one’s task, hence the line, “I only work on the assembly line.” Because specialization and rule-following can contribute to the participants’ sense of anonymity, an artificial distance is created enabling participants to separate themselves from those who might be affected by the institution’s policies and practices. They appear less real or human. Consequently, there is an even greater possibility of avoiding morally relevant questions for oneself, the institution or society.

Institutions Keep One Another’s Company

Just as individuals exist within and are shaped by their environment the same can be said of institutions. All institutions exist within an environment of other institutions. They are part of a network of sub‑systems and systems. Take the economic system for example. It is composed of several sub‑systems: production, distribution, exchange, and consumption. Each of these sub‑systems comprises several institutions, that while distinct, function in relation to one another and the whole for a specific purpose or end.

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Desrochers holds that the systems that make up the social order can be classified into two main categories, those that give society its organization and those that give it its meaning (19). The economic, political and social systems are the organizational systems of society, while the religious, cultural and ideological systems are associated with meaning. The classification of systems may be helpful for purposes of study but it can also be misleading. While institutions, sub‑systems and systems have a certain degree of autonomy, they do not exist independently of one another. They relate to one another in and through the social order. They are affected by and, in turn, affect the policies and practices of other institutions or systems. Having said this, it should come as no surprise, therefore, that the institutions associated with meaning and consequently moral responsibility, such as churches and their educational institutions, can and often do become caught up in the dominant ethos and consequently do not play their critical or prophetic role in society.

Individuals Have No Corner on Sin, Institutions Commit It Too

Individuals have no corner on prejudice, greed or murder. Institutions and systems can and do rob individuals and collectives of their lives and dignity. The Christian tradition refers to this phenomenon as institutional, structural or systemic sin. The struggle for civil rights in this country is a perfect example of an effort to address structural sin. It also illustrates how structures and systems interrelate and work cooperatively with one another, and how the churches and their educational institutions can or can fail to play a prophetic role in society. As mentioned above, the struggle for Civil Rights was a struggle against not only racist individuals but institutional racism as well. It was not only individuals but the policies of institutions that denied African-Americans access to schools, jobs, homes, lunch counters, the polls, etc., and it was not only individuals but institutions that put African-Americans to death and, it is argued, continue to put them to death. Businesses, banks, police, the courts, the press, the local and federal government, the church and other institutions worked in tandem to insure that blacks were oppressed and repressed. And while Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., did indeed wage a struggle to change

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minds and hearts, he also waged a struggle to change the structures and systems of this nation. While discrimination against African-Americans is a rather clear example of structures and systems intent on denying the right to life and dignity on the basis of race, it is important to point out that structures and systems can cause serious harm quite “naturally,” in the normal implementation of goals and objectives. A nation, for example, can increase human suffering and death in certain regions of the world through a foreign aid policy that focuses on increasing security assistance while reducing poverty-related development assistance. Families can experience hunger, increased sickness and even premature death because the wage earner cannot make more than minimum wage. And as we have seen from the successful campaign waged against pharmaceuticals selling infant formula in poorer regions of the world, we now know that marketing strategies can kill babies very effectively. Now it is important to point out that focusing on the structural and systemic nature of injustice in no way excuses individuals who make, carry out, participate in or benefit from institutional decisions. Nor is it the equivalent of saying no one is responsible; things just happen. Things never just happen. In the case of institutions, they were made to happen by the way they are organized, operate and continue unchallenged.

Am I Responsible for That Too?

Structures and systems do not have ontological status. Human beings create them and are responsible for maintaining them. Once created, however, they do take on objective reality and, as described above, evolve according to laws and processes that have a dynamic of their own (Desrochers 19). Nevertheless, institutions remain within the realm of the human, and are both expressions and extensions of no one but ourselves (Clarke 1980, 4). In short, we are responsible for our own creations. Now, it is often asked, why we should feel responsible for something we never had a hand in starting in the first place. The development ethicist, Denis Goulet, tries to answer this by distinguishing between responsibility and guilt (Goulet 1973, 135). Responsibility, he argues,

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is very different from guilt. Guilt has to do with the past, while responsibility with the present and future. Responsibility is grounded in the fundamental belief that human beings are not determined. They are free to act on their environment. If we do not act, we are not free and we lose part of what it means to be human. Goulet writes, “Precisely because they are human, men are ‘responsible’ for creating conditions which optimize the humanization of life” (135). While institutions themselves can negatively affect our sense of responsibility, our social location plays a part in this as well. The privileged most certainly control and shape the major structures and systems of society to reflect their own interests and maintain their advantage. The fact that we may not be conscious of, minimize or deny the negative effects of this may have more to do with the fact that we benefit from the present arrangements. There is no denying the fact that the marginalized have a far less trusting view of social institutions. That is perhaps due in large part to the fact that they are its victims. They have little or no voice or power, are forced to cooperate and play by the rules and bear the consequences of policies and decisions regardless of their negative effects. What we see is determined by where we stand in the social order. Perhaps the reason we do not notice, deny or minimize structural and systemic injustice has more to do with how much we would stand to lose were those institutions arranged differently. Rather than face the fact that our institutions and systems themselves may be unjust and require radical change for there to be social justice, it is much easier to blame the victims of the present institutional arrangements. We prefer to attribute poverty and its effects in our society to personal failure and in the global society to overpopulation, ignorance or corruption. The structures and systems, we believe, are basically sound. This type of logic plays a dual role. It absolves us of responsibility for the institutional arrangements in the social order and it also justifies our privilege. Anyone who has examined the extent and causes of poverty in the U.S., for example, knows that personal failure cannot account for all or even most of the poverty here. Contrary to popular belief, the majority of poor in this country have not been poor for generations. People drop in and out of poverty depending on the employment situation,

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their family situation, illness or disability, changes in the economy and for many other reasons. The high concentration of poverty in the African-American community and among households headed by women has more to do with discrimination than with character flaws. Historically they have been denied access to good education, good jobs, promotions and even unions. And while many Americans continue to hold that the poor are lazy and don’t want to work, as Barbara Ehrenreich in her popular book, Nickel and Dimed, makes abundantly clear, poverty in this country is no longer a matter of not working but the kind of work one does (Ehrenreich 2001). The majority of America’s poor are working, but at wages too low to support themselves and their families. The National Conference of Catholic Bishops is correct in describing the attitude of the non-poor as “not only unsupportive but insulting to the poor” (National Conference of Catholic Bishops 1984, 363). The other side of blaming the victim is claiming that institutions have gotten so large and complex that their workings are virtually impossible to understand let alone change. They appear to be both impersonal and incomprehensible. There is no denying that today’s institutions and systems are extraordinarily complex and no easy formula exists for changing them, but as Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann argue, when we approach an object of human construction as something other than a human construct, and treat it as if it were beyond the ability of humans to understand or control it, it becomes “fixated as a non‑human, non‑humanizable, inert facticity (Berger and Luckmann 1967, 89). Structures and systems thus take on an air of givenness and we respond accordingly with resignation and fatalism. In addition, structures and systems can give the appearance of being guided by impersonal forces that are out of our reach and control. Many regard the market system this way, believing that it is governed by external forces, which, if allowed to work their course, will remedy humankind’s social ills. This attitude is very dangerous. By denying their human construction, our ability to direct and control them, and our responsibility for them, structures and systems are free to carry out their policies and practices unchecked. They become accountable to no one but themselves. Finally, Peter Berger suggests that because of their size, complexity and impersonality we do not look for mean-

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ing in structures and systems but instead are forced to find it in the private spheres of our existence (Berger 1977). This can lead to an over-privatization of life in which we limit the people we care about and feel responsible for to our immediate family and close friends. If it is true that poverty and injustice cannot be attributed merely to personal failure, to the greed of a handful of powerful individuals or to blind forces beyond our knowledge and control but rather are rooted in the very organization of society and its institutions, then education for justice in our churches and educational institutions must itself radically change to meet the task before it. It cannot afford to concentrate solely, as it has in the past, on changing the minds and hearts of individuals. Nor can its efforts be directed toward promoting service or charity. While they are absolutely necessary and appropriate at certain times and in certain circumstances, as I will explain later, they can serve as stop gaps and can do more harm. Thus education for justice that is serious will require a major shift in orientation. It must come to terms with institutional power, how to address it, challenge it and redirect it in ways that create conditions that optimize the humanization of life. Because it will enter new territory, employ unfamiliar and unconventional theories and methods, justice education will most certainly produce controversy and conflict. Thus it essential for those who would move in this direction to come to terms with, and ground themselves in, an understanding of the public and political character of the Christian tradition and their faith.

Power: Not a Bad Way to Express Love

Politics is not something foreign to the Christian tradition. In the words of British theologian J. D. Davies, politics is rather “the medium by which both love of neighbour and justice are made effective.” It is “The working out. . . of our faith in history” (Davies 1976, 12-13). Christian faith is not a private faith, it is public and political. While this position will be developed in greater detail in the following two chapters, suffice it to say here that our faith is public because it is lived publicly in this world and the Gospel summons is a public summons to further God’s reign in this world. The Gospel calls us to create the public realities of peace, justice and love in the historical situation of which we are a part. That summons requires more than interior

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conversion, it requires the conversion of structures and systems. And it is directed to more than face-to-face relationships; relationships within institutions and relationships toward institutions are under its mandate. Our faith is also political. The Gospel challenges the social order, that is, the social, economic and political arrangements that deny human beings the life and dignity that belong to them by virtue of the fact that they are made by God. We are called to build an order that gives priority to meeting basic human needs, establishes the economic, political and social rights of all human beings and cherishes and protects the environment. In short, education for justice that ignores the public and political summons of the Gospel is education for something other than justice. In addition, justice education must come to terms with the reality of economic, political and social power. It is seldom dislodged, controlled or redirected by persuasion alone (Harper 1969). Conflict, confrontation, coercion and the use of one’s individual and collective power play a necessary and positive role in the struggle for justice. They are not to be avoided or simply tolerated as necessary evils; without them there would be no social change. F. Nile Harper argues that if Christian education for justice is serious about its responsibility, then it cannot afford to “underestimate. . . the brutal character of all human collectives, and the power of self‑interest in the struggle for social justice” (392). Thus education for the creation of justice must teach both how to challenge and also use power effectively. Just as social analysis is central to the methodology of liberation theologies, it is central to education for justice. Social analysis represents a movement from the anecdotal to the analytical. To understand injustice and to act on it we must move from identifying and describing it to firmly grasping its roots. This will require serious research and critical questioning. And the situation, its roots and the course of action to address it all demand serious reflection in light of the Scriptures and Tradition. Finally, action for the creation of justice is a constitutive dimension of Christian education for justice. Discussion, analysis and reflection all contribute to alleviating the problem only in so far as effective action flows from them. It is only in acting to effect change that we

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begin to understand the evil we are up against, what is required to challenge it effectively, the meaning and implications of the Gospel mandate and the depth of our commitment to it.

Chapter 2 – A Working Theology for Justice Education

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ow that we have a better picture of some of the challenges before justice education it is important that our work be grounded theologically. This chapter will explore the integral relationship of theology to solidarity and active participation in liberation or the struggle to create a more just social order. To do this, however, it is essential to come to terms with where history fits into the theological project and also where it fits into salvation history. The insights of the Latin American Liberation theologians are particularly pertinent here.

Where You Start Matters

The Latin American Liberation theologians claim that human history, or human experience, rather than philosophical or theological concepts or principles must be the starting point for all theological reflection. Human history and experience are never secondary or peripheral to theological reflection. They are its starting point, the end toward which it is directed and the arena in which reflection is authenticated and verified. These theologians argue further that the concern of theology is not history or human experience in general, but a particular history, history as it is experienced by the oppressed and marginalized. Their experience is so central to the theological project that Brazilian theologian Hugo Assmann goes so far as to say that theology can ignore the suffering of the oppressed at the price of losing its own relevance and meaning. He writes, “If the state of domination and dependence in which two-thirds of humanity live, with an annual toll of thirty million dead from starvation and malnutrition, does not become the starting-point for any Christian theology today, even in the affluent and powerful countries, then theology cannot begin to relate meaningfully to the real situation (Assmann 1976, 54).

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Because the purpose of theology is ultimately to further God’s reign of justice, compassion and peace on earth as it is in heaven, the theologian cannot be faithful to that purpose and also be detached from the experience of the poor and marginalized and their struggle for justice. His or her work is itself “committed work,” committed to the purpose of rooting out oppression and marginalization as it is experienced. This is done through transforming or converting not only individuals but also the objective conditions that prevent the poor and marginalized from realizing the life and dignity intended by God. Thus, while study and analysis are necessary and integral to the theological project, they are not ends themselves. Rather they are means through which the theologian participates in and contributes toward the creation of a more just social order. The location for authentication and verification of theological reflection must shift. Its truth will be known in what it does. Sharon Welch, a North American theologian steeped in both the Latin American and Feminist Liberation theological traditions, argues that theology’s truth claims will find their verification, not in the purity or logic of their argument, but in their very power to liberate. She writes, “The verification principle of every theological statement is the praxis that it enables for the future. Theological statements contain as much truth as they deliver practically in transforming reality” (Welch 1985, 24). The matter of authenticity and verification is central to the praxis of justice education and will be addressed more fully later in this work. This call for attention to the poor and marginalized struggles against the dualistic mindset that has dominated so much of Western theological reflection for centuries. Traditionally, theology has sought to keep separate and distinct the “spiritual” from the “material” and the “sacred” from the “profane.” The spiritual was the “real” and all that was of value; the material was considered the “unreal,” that which was to be endured and from which we were to be delivered. Despite the urging of Vatican II to embrace history, discern the work of the Spirit in it and participate in shaping and directing it, the dualistic mindset continues to dominate much of our preaching, teaching, and action. It is a serious matter that educators must address up front and early on.

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The Liberation theologians have argued persuasively that there is no sound biblical basis for perceiving existence as two histories, one sacred and the other profane. There is only one history which God created, in which God intervenes, though which God is experienced and God’s works are known and which ultimately will be brought to fulfillment at the end of time. While this discussion of the biblical view of history may seem unnecessary, it becomes threatening when theological reflection shifts from addressing the idea of history in general to addressing the particular history of the oppressed and marginalized. History, from the experience of the oppressed, is not neutral but conflictive. It is a radically different story marked by domination, subjugation, exploitation, suffering, and struggle. Moreover, history, from this perspective, must be the account not only of individual oppressors, but oppression that has been institutionalized, systematized and legitimized. Scripture, read from the perspective of the oppressed, is also threatening. It is the story of a God who not only creates history, but who takes sides in history. The God of the Hebrew Scriptures takes the side of the oppressed. God is not indifferent to human suffering, but hears the cries of the poor. God is also angered by their situation and is moved to action. In the Hebrew Scriptures God calls forth leaders to rise up and lead the Israelites to struggle against oppression. God is at the very center of the conflict and at the very center of their political, economic, social and spiritual struggle for liberation. The theme of God’s concern for and action on behalf of the oppressed does not end with the Hebrew Scriptures. The Christian Scriptures speak of God choosing to enter history by taking on human nature. What was Word becomes flesh. But the Liberation theologians add a necessary corrective here made possible by the context from which they do their reflection. God entered history not just as a human being, a man, but as a poor man. Jesus, a poor Galilean, lived among the poor. To them he preached the Good News of God’s reign: liberty to the captives, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed and the year acceptable to the Lord (Luke 4:18-19). He taught that God was encountered through them and that the reign of God would come through them. Jesus singled out the oppressed and despised of this

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world as the instruments of salvation. Salvation would pass, not through the rich and privileged of this world, but through the poor, the very least among us. Moreover, fasting, prayers and worship alone would not gain one entry into eternal life, but it would come through one’s actions toward the poor and marginalized: feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, and visiting the imprisoned. Christians believe that Jesus redeemed history and humankind from sin. The Liberation theologians point out that God entered history as a poor man and by this poor man we and the world are redeemed.

An Ungodly World

Given the centrality of the experience of the poor and marginalized to the theological project, it would be presumptuous to assume that all theologians now need to do is apply their theological insights to the experience of the poor and marginalized. As Joseph Komonchak, S.J., argues, this would be a serious mistake (Komonchak 1981, 422-47). We need first to ask how is faith, the church, its preaching and teaching to be understood in light of this misery and oppression. This is a matter of no little significance. By beginning with this question we not only acknowledge the dialectical relationship between the experiences of the oppressed and faith, but assign weight to their experience for faith. In other words, by asking how faith, the church, its preaching and teaching are to be understood in light of this misery and oppression, faith, the church, its preaching and teaching are called to account for themselves. The oppressive and miserable conditions of the poor and marginalized force Christians and the church to account for the faith that is in them. Allowing ourselves to be questioned by the existing reality of suffering and oppression is important because it offers the possibility to see ourselves and the social order as they truly are, and it creates opportunities for change. For example, while it may be held that the reason the U.S. Catholic Bishops wrote the pastorals, The Challenge of Peace: God’s Promise and Our Response and Economic Justice for All, was to provide a faith perspective on the arms race and the plight of the poor, respectively, there is another way to look at their initiative. The arms race and the proliferation of nuclear weapons force the question of how U.S. Catholics, who profess to believe in a God who demands justice and peace, can remain indifferent to the

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accumulation and potential use of weapons of mass destruction when they threaten the church itself, human life, and all of God’s creation? Moreover, the growing number of poor, hungry and homeless in our society and in the global society forces the question of how much longer we individually and collectively can profess to believe in the Gospel command to love God and one’s neighbor as one’s self and continue to ignore or act punitively toward the poor without being hypocritical. The Latin American bishops in their historical meeting in Medellín, Colombia, in 1968 provide another clear example. In their deliberations they asked who constitutes the Latin American Church and, with that, whom has the Latin American Church been serving. They answered with refreshing candor, admitting that because of their colonial roots, the distribution of their resources, their holdings and privileges, it would be impossible to think that the Church itself was not rich and allied with the rich and powerful. In the face of the misery of the majority of their people, the bishops argued that the situation of the church was itself scandalous and demanded change. In their words, “The Latin American Church, given the continent’s conditions of poverty and underdevelopment, experiences the urgency of translating that spirit of poverty into actions, attitudes and norms that make it a more lucid and authentic sign of its Lord. The poverty of so many brothers cries out for justice, solidarity, open witness, commitment, strength, and exertion directed to the fulfillment of the redeeming mission to which it is committed by Christ…The poverty of the Church and of its members in Latin America ought to be a sign and a commitment—a sign of the inestimable value of the poor in the eyes of God, an obligation of solidarity with those who suffer” (CELAM 1976, 473). The honesty with which the bishops answered their own question forced a choice that continues to challenge both the Latin American Church and the Church worldwide. Although they did not use the precise phrase at Medellín the bishops decided to make a “preferential option for the poor.” In their words, “The Church—the People of God—will lend its support to the downtrodden of every social class so that they might come to know their rights and how to make use of them. To this end the Church will utilize its moral strength and

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will seek to collaborate with competent professionals and institutions” (453). This decision, as we know, proved very costly. Lay leaders or Delegates of the Word and Base Christian Communities were the first victims of disappearances, torture and murder. Priests, religious and bishops also shared their fate. The point is that when we begin our analysis by allowing ourselves, our institutions and the existing order to be questioned by the situation of the poor, we open the possibility of seeing reality for what it does to and for the poor more clearly and also for making a preferential option for the poor, as the Latin American bishops did.

Theology Is Not Distance Learning

As indicated above, for the bishops at Medellín, their social location itself was problematic. They recognized the fact that as long they remained at a safe distance from the suffering and struggles of the oppressed, the poor and marginalized would always remain an idea or an abstraction. They realized that they could not even speak with or for the oppressed with real understanding or credibility unless they were in relationship with them. Some bishops chose to divest themselves of the trappings of their office and move geographically closer to the poor. In the Medellín Documents the bishops extend this invitation to priests, religious and lay leaders. They write, “We exhort the priests also to give testimony of poverty and detachment from material goods, as so many do, particularly in rural areas and poor neighborhoods. … We encourage those who feel themselves called to share the lot of the poor, living with them and even working with their hands, in accord with the Decree Presbyterorum ordinis” (475). Everything we do, including our theologizing, preaching and teaching is done from a certain place, a certain social location. Where we situate ourselves is a matter of no small significance. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J., the brilliant philosopher/theologian and slain president of the UCA, was convinced that the place from which we do our theologizing determines our understanding of what we do, its purpose, how we do it, the degree of commitment and its urgency (Burke 1997; Ellacuría 1991, 283-292). Ellacuría argued that we must insert ourselves in the place where the truth of the social situation and the truth of God’s demand for that situation can be best apprehended. For him that place

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could be no other than “at the feet of the crucified people” (Ellacuría and Sobrino 1993, 580-603; Burke, 7-8). That is, where the poor are being put to death by repression and are dying the slow death of oppression. The poor, Ellacuría argued, “constitute the maximum and scandalous, prophetic and apocalyptic presence of the Christian God and, consequently, the privileged place of Christian praxis and reflection” (Burke, 7-8). As long as we are removed from the poor, both geographically, intellectually and emotionally, and are at a safe distance from where their cries can be heard, their suffering and struggle will remain mere ideas that can be turned on and off at our convenience. But when we draw close, building a sustained relationship with them and allowing ourselves to be affected by the reality of their suffering and struggle, it becomes much more difficult to turn off or rationalize their reality away. Sobrino argues that in the presence of the poor we are offered new eyes to see that which was before us all along and chose not to see (Sobrino 1994, 54-7; 150-2). From the poor and marginalized we receive light that can be received in no other place. They make it possible to see and hear the truth that the dominant society covers up. When seen with the eyes of faith, their oppression is understood for what it actually is, not only sin but mortal sin. It is mortal because it shortens their lives and brings them death. Thus, the social order and our entanglement with it, which we had taken for granted and found acceptable because it served our interest, now become problematic. At issue is how can the lives of human beings be discarded so easily or be of so little value or consequence to us and to the world? In the presence of the poor we are forced to see ourselves for who and what we are and the structures and systems of society for what they have done to and for the poor and marginalized. Individuals, structures and systems, their interests and priorities are called into account, as are our own humanity and faith. Sobrino asks, how we can call ourselves “human” or our society “humane” when intentionally or unintentionally we are instrumental in bringing death to others (Sobrino 3). How can we possibly call ourselves Christian, people of compassion for whom the suffering of another must become as real as our own? The poor and marginalized force us to ask what kind of faith we have, what we in fact believe in and what God we worship. If we place ourselves

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in a sustained relationship with the poor and marginalized and allow ourselves to be affected by their situation, we will be compelled not only to ask questions, but make choices that were not before us previously. Sobrino says that this relationship offers the possibility of recovering both our humanity and our faith. It is salvific. Jon Sobrino says that his slain Jesuit brothers made a deliberate decision to be in relationship and stand in solidarity with the poor and marginalized of El Salvador. They allowed the suffering of the poor to penetrate their minds and hearts, and they chose to be enlisted in their struggle for life. While the Jesuits worked at the UCA, Sobrino writes, “they did not live from the UCA standpoint or for the sake of the UCA, but rather from and for the reality of the poor” (174). Their actions went beyond works of mercy or isolated acts of compassion. They were governed by what Sobrino calls, the “principle of mercy” (16). Mercy became the structuring principle of their lives and the university itself. They thought and acted, individually and collectively, personally, publicly and politically from the scandalous reality of the poor of El Salvador. Using all that was available to them as priests, intellectuals, academics and citizens, the UCA martyrs deliberately and intentionally sought to reduce the misery of the poor and end the individual and structural violence against them. Moreover, they intentionally chose not to hide, but to expose the violence done to the poor by publicly bringing it to light and naming it. They analyzed it historically, politically, sociologically, psychologically, philosophically and theologically. They condemned it for what it was, a sin against God and one another. And they offered solutions and used their talents and skills and the influence of their professions, the university and the church to press for an end to the suffering and repression. And in this process, Sobrino argues, they and the institutions of which they were a part became more human and grew in faith. Thus the poor, as the Gospel tells us, became the mediators of their own salvation, the church, the university, the Salvadoran society and the global society. This shift in location entails more than a new base from which to do theology or a new choice of subject matter or focus. It represents a fundamental shift in relationship. In moving geographically closer to the poor, we choose not simply to encounter the poor but to allow ourselves to be affected by them and their suffering and struggle. In

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short, we choose to be in empathetic relationship with them and to have our lives changed by them. The Gospel story that best captures this shift is the story of the Good Samaritan. Unlike the priest and Levite who deny and try to avoid the responsibility they encounter on the way, the Samaritan sees the suffering man and acts. What makes the Samaritan different from the other travelers is the fact that he allows himself to be moved by the moans and suffering of the victim; he chooses to put himself in relationship with him. The victim’s cries penetrate the Samaritan’s being and he acts to end his suffering. Sobrino says that Jesus offers the story of the Good Samaritan, as an example of what God expects of “human” beings and our relationship to one another. In Sobrino’s words, “The ideal human being, the complete human being, is the one who interiorizes, absorbs in her innards, the suffering of another—in the case of the parable, unjustly afflicted suffering—in such a way that this interiorized suffering becomes a part of her, is transformed into an internal principle, the first and the last of her activity” (17). In the Gospel the Greek word that describes the reaction of the Samaritan is splanchnizomai (Sobrino, Ellacuría and others 1990, 104). This literally means to have one’s gut or innards stirred. The Samaritan’s entrails were wrenched at the sight of the suffering man. The Samaritan is first and foremost a merciful or compassionate being; he does not ignore or flee from the suffering of others, but recognizes himself in the pain of another. He has the capacity to feel for, identify with and respond to the victim. Thus, the Christian is someone who chooses to see the suffering in our world, to be in relationship with the victims, to be affected by their pain and to act to put an end to it.

Doing Theology and Meaning It

Compassion and solidarity are not simply beautiful ideals, good intentions or desires, they are fundamentally practical (Welch 1985, 46). Sharon Welch argues that relationship with and participation in the struggles of oppressed and marginalized communities is essential to the theological task. In her words, they change the very “contour of the theoretician’s work” (65). The theologians’ understanding of compassion and solidarity must be shaped in and through their relationship with the marginalized and their struggle for justice. In that relationship

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their work will take on not only deeper meaning but greater urgency. We will come to understand better how it contributes toward the historic process of creating truth, justice, compassion and peace, in short, how it participates in the process of restoring life. Leonardo and Clodovis Boff in their book, Salvation and Liberation, argue persuasively that faith does not add a religious dimension to the struggle for liberation. In their words, “It’s the other way around. It’s the objective, intrinsic meaning that the struggle already has, that gives faith its strength and force” (Leonardo Boff and Clodovis Boff 1984, 109-110). Faith gives us eyes to see and the words to name what is going on before us. The theologian does not add a faith dimension to a situation or struggle, but articulates what is taking place in order that we may perceive it more clearly and participate more fully in God’s salvific action in our history. This point is beautifully illustrated in a passage in Renny Golden’s The Hour of the Poor, The Hour of Women, in which she describes the faith of the Committee of the Mothers of the Disappeared: “By refusing to accept death as an end to life, to history, they refuse to allow the triumph of the national security state and reject the state’s authority to interpret death’s significance…they insist on naming the dead and disappeared. It is a contest the state cannot win. The bearers of life confront the destroyers, refusing to let the dead be anonymous, refusing to allow the mutilated thousands to remain ‘subversives’ and ‘terrorists.’ The mothers carry pictures of their disappeared relatives to attest to a particular violation of the body of a beloved humanity, their child or husband. . .The Mothers, according to Jean Franco, ‘were able to interrupt the dominant discourse and resacralize the body.’ The Mothers’ social presence maintains historical and moral transcendence. The Mothers have opened and held the space for survival and life’s continuance through a refusal to remain private in their grief, or to be driven into insignificance and invisibility that is the traditional role for women (Golden 1991, 108). The Mothers of the Disappeared refuse to allow evil to have the final word and triumph over life. Evil, for them, is not an abstract or universal notion, but the specific act committed against their precious children and husbands. The theologian who enters into relationship with them does not “add” a religious meaning to their actions. Their actions, in and of themselves, profess their faith. The theologian,

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instead, articulates what is before him or her in order that we may enter into solidarity with them. The theologian brings to light not only the faith of the victims struggling for liberation but the evil they are up against. As discussed in the previous chapter, evil encompasses more than the actions of individuals; it is also structural and systemic. Because structures and systems have eluded theological analysis for so long and because theological analysis of them is so central to the work of justice education, it is important to give them focused attention here. As Leonardo and Clodovis Boff recommend, we need to learn that “Where social analysis says ‘structural poverty,’ faith will say ‘structural sin.’ Where analysis says ‘private accumulation of wealth,’ faith will say ‘sin of selfishness’” (9).

God of Power, God of Might

The Liberation theologians remind us that the Jewish and Christian traditions teach that the Spirit of God permeates all of creation. God animates and fills all that exists including the economic, political and social structures and systems of society. Our religious tradition further teaches that all that exists has the capacity to reveal God. While we recognize the fact that we come to know and experience God through nature and personal relationships, we also come to know and experience God through the structures and systems of society and through public and political relationships. They too can reveal or conceal God. Gustavo Gutiérrez says this powerfully in The Power of the Poor in History. He writes, “the question here will not be how to speak of God in a world come of age, but rather how to proclaim God as Father in a world that is inhumane. What can it mean to tell a nonperson that he or she is God’s child?” (Gutiérrez 1983, 57). Thus the challenge before us as people of faith is to reshape the structures and systems of society and public and political relationships so as to better reveal God’s justice and mercy. Our tradition also teaches that God’s work and the work of salvation are carried on in and through all of creation. Leonardo and Clodovis Boff remind us that this includes structures and systems. They write, “just as God creates the world, and the human race, and uses all sorts of mediations for it—the forces of nature, of history, and so on—so

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also in the political realm: God’s action passes by way of the intermediation of political forces, including economic forces” (100). Human life is sustained through economic and political forces. They determine who and what lives, the quality of life and its duration. Take the very obvious example of work. Lives are sustained, enhanced, diminished or cut short by work or the lack of work. Work makes it possible or impossible to live, that is, to feed, clothe, house, educate and provide health care for one’s self and others. Through work one finds meaning and exercises control over one’s environment. Society and the planet are affected for better or worse by the work that is done. Because work can so powerfully impact life and death, God is accepted or rejected in and through the organization of work. The Scriptures tell us that God is Lord and Sovereign over all creation. Nothing escapes God’s presence, interest, or care, and nothing escapes God’s judgment. Thus, to exclude the structures and systems of society as well as economic, political and social action from theological and ethical analysis is to flirt with idolatry. Idols, Jon Sobrino argues, are not a thing of the past. They are present today. He defines them as entities, people, institutions, systems, policies, ideologies, etc., that feel no need to justify themselves; they are their own justification (Sobrino 1991, 3). He argues that some of today’s most sacred idols are profit, the accumulation of wealth and national security (3). Daily the lives of human beings and the planet are wasted or “sacrificed” to them. No price is too great to feed and protect them. Christians and Christian institutions must be at the forefront, calling structures and systems into account, reminding society of their ultimate purpose. Sobrino argues that we must publicly expose the idols of today and name them for what they are: bearers of death and destruction (5). In their document, Faithful Citizenship: A Catholic Call to Political Responsibility, prepared for the 2004 elections, the U.S. Catholic bishops state that participation in the public and political arenas is not an option for Catholics, but an obligation that flows directly from the Gospel command to love God and neighbor. They write, “In the Catholic tradition, responsible citizenship is a virtue; participation in the political process is a moral obligation. All believers are called to faithful citizenship, to become informed, active, and responsible participants in the political process” (United States Catholic Conference

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2003). They encourage Catholics to “embrace their citizenship. . .as an opportunity meaningfully to participate [more fully] in building the culture of life (United States Catholic Conference 2003). And finally, they call for a new kind of politics, “focused more on moral principles not on the latest polls, on the needs of the poor and vulnerable not the contributions of the rich and powerful, and on the pursuit of the common good not the demands of special interests”(United States Catholic Conference 2003). They argue that the moral responsibility for ordering society belongs not only, or even principally, to the affluent. It belongs to the poor and marginalized as well. The bishops ask, “How can the poorest people on Earth and those who are vulnerable in our land, including immigrants and those who suffer discrimination, have a real place at the tables where policies and priorities are set?” (United States Catholic Conference 2003). It can be argued that when the poor and marginalized are denied a voice in the economic, political and cultural institutions of the global society they are denied their proper role in creation.

Savior to the World

In Mark’s Gospel we learn that the purpose of Jesus’ ministry was to heal and restore everything to God’s intended purpose for creation. We call Jesus Savior and Redeemer and believe that he freed us from sin. However, before we discuss what salvation and redemption might mean today, it is important to address the question of who or what is saved or redeemed, and in particular, whether this applies only to individuals. It is important to make clear from the start that even though the tendency in our churches is to talk about salvation in purely personal or individual terms, Catholic Social Teaching is absolutely clear on the matter that human beings, by their very nature, are social. Leonardo Boff argues that to talk about the individual is, in essence, to talk about an abstraction (Boff 1979, 142). In his words, the social dimension “exists prior to the will of individuals or their encounter with each other. … Either a person is social or is not a person at all” (141). From the moment of conception our lives are related to and are dependent upon others. That relationship is as basic as our dependence on the labor of thousands for the food we eat and as complex as our depen-

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dence on others for our personal meaning and identity. In addition to being social beings, however, we are economic and political beings. The economic, political and social dimensions are not added to our existence or peripheral to it. They are who we are. Thus, even when we say that Jesus brought salvation to us individually, we must guard against falling into the trap of thinking of the individual in the abstract. The individual that Jesus saves is saved in his or her totality, that is, in the complex configurations of our existence as human beings. While the Scriptures tell us that Jesus brought salvation to individuals, they also tell us that he brought salvation to nations as well. Walter Wink points out in Unmasking the Powers that the biblical story of creation does not end with the creation of Adam and Eve and their fall, but with the creation of nations, the tower of Babel and the confusion of tongues. In the Scriptures, nations are never treated as historical accidents; they are presented as part and parcel of God’s creation (Wink 1986, 97). Jesus proclaims justice and calls for repentance not only of individuals but of nations. They too will be put under God’s judgment and they too are the objects of redemption (96-97). In the Scriptures, individuals and nations are portrayed as integrally related; we will be held accountable for our own actions and for the actions of our nation. In Matthew’s parable of the sheep and the goats (Matt. 25:3l-46) Wink focuses particularly on the line that addresses the judgment of nations, “Before him will be gathered all the nations [ethne, a neuter noun], and he will separate them [autous, a masculine pronoun] one from another. (Matt.25:31-32).” Wink believes that the pronoun shift from the neuter to the masculine is significant; it indicates that individuals are accountable for more than themselves. Wink writes, “people are gathered by their nations: they will be individually held accountable for what they have done collectively as nations to provide food, clothing, shelter, health care, and justice” (96). As to the matter of how we are to understand salvation and redemption, Leonardo and Clodovis Boff argue that it is important to think of salvation not as a moment or a single event, or something that will happen at the very end of history, in eternity. Rather, salvation is a process that is ongoing in history and which will culminate in all its fullness at the end of history (Boff and Boff 1984, 18). It is the process through which all of creation is brought into conformity

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with God’s design. Thus liberation or the historical process that frees people from the oppression that robs them of their lives and dignity is integral to salvation. Salvation, Leonardo and Clodovis Boff write, “is the great reality within which liberation is situated. Liberation is the political ‘dimension’ (an aspect, an expression, a concretization) of salvation” (103).

Salvation in Liberation

If liberation is integral to salvation, how might it be said that Jesus liberated us? Walter Brueggemann argues that Jesus liberated or freed us by breaking with the “royal consciousness” in both his words and deeds (Brueggemann 1978). Earlier in this chapter we defined idols as entities that require no justification and expect unquestioning obedience. By his action Jesus freed himself of the power of idols and, in so doing, made it possible for us to do likewise. Beginning with his birth, Jesus lived among and preached to those who were cast off or discarded by society. It is no accident that the Gospels are full of stories of Jesus befriending, speaking to, eating with, touching and healing people who were excluded by his religion and his society. He had compassion on those for whom there was no compassion. Their need and their suffering took precedence over obedience to custom and law. The Scriptures describe Jesus’ message as Good News to the poor. He promised the Kingdom of God to them and said that in it they would be first. He taught that God’s Reign was breaking in among them and would come in all its fullness through them. It is interesting to note that God’s Reign is in actuality a radical inversion of the existing order: the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given drink, the proud are scattered in the imagination of their hearts, the mighty are put down from their thrones, the lowly are exalted and the rich are sent away empty. In short, what society rejects or discards becomes an instrument for God’s purposes. The suffering of the poor and marginalized matters in the Scriptures. Attention to it opens the way both to liberation and also salvation. It opens the possibility for breaking with the “royal consciousness” so that we may forge the kind of relationships and create an order that is in keeping with God’s salvific plan.

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To the halt and lame Jesus says, “arise and walk,” and to the sinner he says, “your sins are forgiven you.” While, Jesus did not cure or forgive everyone in his society, he did challenge all who suffer and who sin to act as if suffering and sin had no power over them (Wink 1992, 175-193). Jesus taught that the Reign of God was breaking in among them, and if they truly believed in him, they were to act accordingly. Walter Wink captures this beautifully: “To those whose lifelong pattern has been to cringe before their masters, Jesus offers a way to liberate themselves from servile actions and a servile mentality. And he asserts that they can do this before there is a revolution…They can begin to behave with dignity and recovered humanity now even under the unchanged conditions of the old order” (183.). When both the oppressed and the oppressors dare to break with the “royal consciousness” and the dominant order by acting in ways that reflect the Reign of God, their actions participate in and contribute toward furthering God’s Reign. However, when they acquiesce to the dominant order, they cooperate with and become accomplices of the anti-Kingdom. For the oppressed, the challenge of the Gospel is to act as if they are equal, or as Wink says, “to act with dignity and recovered humanity” (183). They must challenge those who would treat them any less and demand what rightfully belongs to them. Just anger, protest and refusal to cooperate with injustice are essential for recovering their humanity. For the oppressors, the challenge is not only to break with the existing order but to stand in solidarity with the oppressed and accompany them in their struggle for liberation. There is no more powerful example today of the kind of liberating consciousness and action described above than Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador. Romero was convinced that no matter how intent the dominant powers are on destroying God’s creation and all that is good and life-giving, God refuses to be absent. He said, “God wants to give us life, and everyone who takes away life or damages life, mutilating, torturing, repressing, is showing to us also by contrast the divine image of the God of life, of the God who respects the life of humans” (Brockman 1982, 208). Romero steadfastly encouraged the oppressed to continue in their struggle for their lives and dignity against what seemed insurmountable odds: “Blessed are you poor, for yours is the kingdom of God! You are the most able to understand

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what those do not understand who are on their knees before the false idols and who trust in them. You that do not have those idols, you that do not trust in them because you have no money or power, you that are deprived of everything: the poorer you are, the more you possess the kingdom of God, provided you truly live that spiritually. The poverty that Jesus Christ here dignifies. . . is a poverty that awakens consciousness, a poverty that accepts the cross and sacrifice, but not out of conformity, because it knows that that is not the will of God” (208). Romero clearly understood and situated the struggle of the Salvadoran poor for human rights, land, just wages and political power within the context of liberation and salvation. He said, “We run the risk of wanting to get out of pressing situations with quick solutions and we forget that the quick solutions can be patches but not true solutions. The true solution must fit into God’s definitive plan. Every solution that we want to give to a better distribution of land, to a better administration of money in El Salvador, to a political organization fitted to the common good of Salvadorans, will have to be sought always in the totality of the definitive liberation” (216). Romero called the oppressors idolaters, reminded them to Whom they are accountable and demanded that they stop the repression. “Woe to the powerful when they do not take into account the power of God, the only powerful one! When they try to torture, to kill, to massacre so as to subjugate people to their power. What terrible idolatry is being offered to the god of power, the god of money! So many victims, so much blood, for which God, the true God, the author of human life, will charge a high price to these idolaters of power!” (209-210). Romero called on the army itself to break with the “Royal Consciousness,” to lay down their arms and stop the killing. “Brothers, you are part of our own people. You kill your own campesino brothers and sisters. And before an order to kill that a man may give, the law of God must prevail that says, Thou shalt not kill! No soldier is obliged to obey an order against the law of God” (217). Romero believed that the Church must immerse itself in the reality of the poor, accompany them in their struggle and use its resources and influence to call attention to and bring an end to the injustice and the war. In a speech he gave in Louvain he said, “The church lived in

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the polis, in the city, that is, in the world; and in El Salvador, it was the world of the poor. It had to be incarnated there among them, like the Savior himself, and proclaim to them the good news. It had to defend them and share in their persecution. From its experience with the poor, the church was understanding better what is sin, whose fruit is death, ‘the death of Salvadorans, the rapid death of repression or the slow death of structural oppression’” (208). In the face of death threats and bombings, Romero believed, with his whole being, that death had no power over life. About two weeks before he was assassinated, he spoke these words to a Mexican reporter: “I have often been threatened with death. Nevertheless, as a Christian, I do not believe in death without resurrection. If they kill me, I shall rise in the Salvadoran people…Let my death, if it is accepted by God, be for the liberation of my people and as a witness of hope in the future…A bishop will die, but the church of God, which is the people, will never perish” (223). In light of what we have just said about Archbishop Romero and what we know about the suffering and struggle of so many courageous Salvadorans and other oppressed and marginalized people, how can we, or better, how dare we, allow ourselves to be resigned to the present order! How many times have we ourselves said or heard it said that things will never change, that history only repeats itself, that politics is politics, war is inevitable, and that there will always be rich and poor. To say this is tantamount to admitting that individuals, structures and systems are beyond the salvific power of God and are even more powerful than God. Christians are people who believe that death will not have the final word. We also believe that it is not only we who are at work in the struggle for justice, but God, even in what appears to be the most hopeless of situations. At issue is how can we, the non-poor, so easily adopt a posture of resignation when so many with so little, who are up against so much, continue to show us what faith and love are.

Sin: The Bible Is “Big” on It

Now that we have addressed the posture necessary for liberation and salvation, it is important to be clear, from a theological standpoint, what liberation is from. The answer, pure and simple, is evil or sin.

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From a biblical perspective, evil or sin is that which subverts God’s intended purpose for creation. It is a break or a disturbance in the will of God; a break in the righteous relationship with God, one another and all of creation. Gustavo Gutiérrez describes sin as a turning in on or preoccupation with one’s self (Gutiérrez 1973, 152). The Scriptures are neither abstract nor narrow when it comes to the matter of evil or sin. To begin with, evil and sin are described very much as this worldly. They exist in the here and now, and are experienced through our physical existence. In his biblical study of sin, Naming the Powers, Walter Wink argues that according to the biblical authors, the “Powers,” or evil, do not have a separate “spiritual” existence; they are encountered, “primarily in reference to the material or ‘earthly’ reality of which they are the innermost essence” (Wink 1984, 105). The biblical authors tell us that evil is not something mysterious, unknowable, or out of our grasp. Rather, it is visible and encountered in and through normal human experience. Generally when we think of sin, we tend to think of it in very individualistic terms, that is, one person doing harm to another. But that is only one form of sin. As mentioned above, human beings are fundamentally social, and because they are, sin itself is fundamentally social. Christine Gudorf points out that even the sin of gluttony, which we tend to think of as a private sin—a sin one commits against one’s own body—is a social sin (Gudorf 1993, 3-4). She argues, for example, that in a hungry world the glutton, by eating more than he or she needs, takes food from the hungry and, therefore, sins not only against himself or herself, but the world’s hungry. The Latin American bishops, in the Medellín documents use the term, “sinful situation” to describe the conditions that their people are forced to live in (CELAM 1976, 455). They argue that the oppressive poverty and the repression in their countries bring death to the poor and marginalized, and therefore, clearly violate God’s intention for creation. The Scriptures, moreover, do not limit evil and sin to the intention or action of individuals (Weber 1980, 70). Individuals are portrayed neither as the only nor the main perpetrators of evil. Evil or sin are experienced through unjust laws, institutions, situations and events. The accounts of Jesus’ persecution and death, for example, do not restrict responsibility for the crime to the Roman authorities or Jew-

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ish leaders. The evil that caused Jesus’ death worked its way through religious institutions and political power structures. Time and again, when laws, structures or systems claim to be ends in themselves and above God’s judgment, the biblical authors judge them as evil and sinful. To determine whether the New Testament authors equated evil and sin only with individuals and their actions, Walter Wink studied how the terms “power” and “Powers” are used in the New Testament (1984, 101). Wink argues that the term archai, for example, could be an expression for persons in office such as magistrates, but it could also refer to the office itself and the power it represents. The word thronos, on the other hand, refers more to the seat of office itself as the symbol of legitimacy or popular consent rather than to the person in office. Excousia was used most frequently to express the authorization of the use of power such as a sanction or legitimation. And when dynameis is used, it refers to the forces that are used to impose power. From his study, Wink concludes that the biblical writers seem aware of the fact that evil and sin are manifest not only through the actions of individuals holding office, but also through the office itself, that is, through the forces of an office and the legitimacy that surrounds the office. Wink further argues that for the biblical writers, spiritual forces, good as well as evil, are the “interiority of earthly institutions or structures or systems” (Wink 1992, 77). He supports this with Eph. 6:12 and its companion references to “Powers.” Good and evil “are the inner and outer manifestations of political, economic, religious and cultural institutions” (78). In short, the Scriptures themselves open the way to understanding evil in its structural and systemic form. Many of us learned early on in our religious instruction that human beings are born into a world of sin and that we are predisposed to it. The question, of course, is how to make sense of this in a way that illuminates the complex moral challenges and responsibility before us. Christine Gudorf is helpful here (Gudorf 1993, 3-4). She argues that we are indeed born into a world of sin, but we also learn to sin much the way we learn to talk and walk and acquire what we need to navigate our way in the world. Using the example of the Jim Crow laws and racism in the United States, she argues that many, both white oppressors and black oppressed in the South, did not make the

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Jim Crowe laws, but were “born” into them. In a very real sense, they were born into and inherited structures and social situations that were evil and sinful that denied human beings, African-Americans, what belonged to them by God. The customs and laws of the South fundamentally violated the right relationship of human beings with one another and with God. But the customs and laws were evil and sinful in yet another sense: they coerced behavior that was evil and sinful. Gudorf argues that these structures and situations both expected and demanded a particular kind of sinful behavior of everyone at every level of society in the South. If we were to take the requirement that Blacks sit at the rear of the bus as an example, bus drivers, white and black passengers, police, prosecutors, judges, wardens and others were affected. Under Jim Crowe, while the “authorities” forced compliance, custom also insured it. Gudorf observes that not only the oppressors but the oppressed maintain the sinful situation. She uses the example of African-American parents. Out of love for their children and for their children’s own safety, parents taught their children the “appropriate” behavior. Thus, evil is systemic and structural. It continues long after those who create it die. New generations are born into it. And both the victimizers and victims continue it through compliance and enforcement. Now to the question of who bears responsibility for this sin. Gudorf holds that there is merit to Elie Wiesel’s argument that more than the German leaders should have been held morally responsible for the holocaust. She writes, “The recent European resurgence of antiSemitism, as well as discrimination against the Gypsies and other victims of attempted Nazi genocide, can be understood as evidence that Wiesel was right—that only when the collectivity is held guilty can it be morally pressed toward contrition, repentance and methods for preventing recurrences of the sin” (8). Gudorf argues her case as follows. First, structures and systems make it possible to do things that one would never do on the interpersonal level. Behavior we would never tolerate of individuals acting on their own, we tolerate when it is done within a structure or system. Thus, structures and systems not only free us but encourage and even approve evil acts that we would never do on our own. Moreover, because it is possible to hide behind the structure, one can escape the consequences of and responsibility

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for one’s own actions. Having said this, one must ask realistically whether punishing the leaders and holding them responsible for the evil is sufficient to stem the evil and prevent it from being transmitted to the next generation. It would seem that in addition to the creators of the structure and its leaders, the structure itself and all who participate in and profit from it must be held accountable for the evil they commit. When relationships are fractured and victims are robbed of what rightfully belongs to them, society must be satisfied with nothing less than restoring to victims, as much as humanly possible, what was taken away. Restitution attempts to make the victims whole again and restore the righteous relationship. In the case of structures and systems, because it is more than individuals who have violated the righteous relationship, the structure or system itself will need to be dismantled, restructured or replaced in order to restore righteous relationships in the present and insure them for the future, In sum, because all five parties—the creators, the leaders, the structure, the participants and those who benefit from the exploitative relationship—have a role in the evil situation, they must bear guilt and responsibility for correcting the situation. Holding all accountable is important for a number of reasons. It reminds us of the various ways we are in relationship with one another and the ethical nature of each of these relationships. It can help shape behavior that is morally consistent. It can develop a keener awareness of the various means and mechanisms through which both injustice and justice are exercised. It can hold them to high moral standards. Finally, meting out justice individually, structurally and collectively is important for overcoming a sense of fatalism and experiencing victory over sin. One point bears repeating. Good and evil, while spiritual realities, have a material and historical existence. As Walter Wink writes, “None of these ‘spiritual’ realities has an existence independent of its material counterpart. None persists through time without embodiment in cellulose or in a culture or a regime or a corporation or a megalomaniac (Wink 1984, 105). We must become skilled at discerning the “spiritual realities” present in every government or corporate policy and practice and how we are implicated in them. Finally, just as sin is not only spiritual but material and historical, the same can be said of salvation.

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Material and historical change is evidence of spiritual change. Spiritual salvation awaits historical, material salvation. The Gospel is addressed to the human person who exists in relationship with others and who is an economic, political, and cultural being. When the church or religious educators ignore or minimize the relational, economic, political and cultural aspects of our existence they are dealing with an abstraction. Not only is the Gospel summons addressed to economic, political and cultural beings that exist in relationship with one another, but it can be understood and accepted only within a specific historical concrete reality. It is impossible to hope, love and struggle for justice and peace spiritually or in the abstract. In other words, our understanding of hope, love, justice and peace is both shaped by and accepted in our concrete historical experience. To hope, love and struggle for justice and peace in general is not to hope, love and struggle at all. Human beings can hope only for specific things; we love only specific people; and we can struggle to overcome only specific injustices. Understanding and accepting the Gospel summons are concrete historical acts that take place in concrete historical situations.

Mercy Is More than Pity

Given the discussion above, let us now examine what the Gospel command to love the neighbor might mean. Traditionally Christians have responded to their neighbor’s suffering through charity. While charity is good and necessary and certainly provides some immediate relief to the victims of injustice, it is by no means sufficient, especially in this day and age in which so much suffering is the product or byproduct of structural and systemic policies and practices. Moreover, charity does nothing to address the root causes of injustice. It allows the structures and systems to continue to operate as before, thereby creating more victims and more suffering. So the question is, what more is demanded of the Christian? No work, in my judgment, sheds more light on charity or the works of mercy than Jon Sobrino’s The Principle of Mercy (Sobrino 1994). To delve more deeply into the question of what it might mean to be a Christian in a world of immense suffering and death, Sobrino reflects on his own experience of the terrible suffering and the response

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to that suffering in El Salvador, especially during its twelve year civil war. Sobrino notes that hundreds of visitors, hearing of the terrible repression, came to El Salvador during the war to see the situation for themselves and to offer help. They came from all over the world, from all walks of life, all economic classes and all religious denominations. Some were cardinals, bishops, priests, religious, Catholics, Protestants, politicians, theologians, journalists, labor leaders, representatives of human rights organizations and aid agencies. They met with the poor in refugee camps, in the campos, in the city and wherever they were. Many others who could not travel to El Salvador also responded. Hundreds of them wrote letters, made official statements, published articles, circulated theological and pastoral writings from El Salvador, shared information, organized demonstrations, testified before legislative bodies, held prayer services and liturgies and gave material aid. Sobrino says that there was something very different about the response of these outsiders. It did not resemble the kind of aid that usually flows into a country after a natural disaster. And it seemed to be more than charity or what Christians might call, “works of mercy.” It had more depth to it, was more relational, involved mutual giving and receiving, and became an ongoing process. Sobrino says it had the quality of St. Paul’s admonition to “bear with one another” (147). These individuals and their organizations clearly had made the poor of El Salvador their neighbor. Curiously, what initially drew the visitors to El Salvador, Sobrino says, was not the persecution and death of thousands of poor people, which had been going on for years, but the persecution of the church, that is, the murder of priests, nuns, lay workers, faculty of a Catholic university and a bishop. Their persecution forced outsiders to ask what the church was doing in El Salvador to merit such a violent response. They discovered that the church was doing what, in fact, the Gospel was calling to be done. It was binding the wounds of the victims of poverty and oppression and accompanying them in their struggle to reclaim their lives and their dignity. The persecution of the church led the outsiders not only to ask why, but to investigate the situation in El Salvador. In an odd way, when priests and nuns are murdered, the reality of the situation, the suffering, torture, disappearances, and

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death of the poor, becomes more believable. Sobrino says the truth becomes more true (148). But something even more significant happened to the outsiders who chose to come close to the poor of El Salvador. What perhaps had been known theoretically, now was known in their gut, and it evoked indignation and protest (148-9). But more than that, it demanded action that took on a sense of urgency. In other words, the reality of the situation in El Salvador, for the outsiders, registered on a different level, not only on the level of the intellect, but on the levels of feeling and conscience. Given the tendency of the rich and powerful to ignore, distort, and resist the truth, it is now clear why the church not only belongs among the oppressed but must accompany them in their struggle for justice. By incarnating itself in the lives and struggle of the poor, the church discovers the truth of the oppressed as well as the truth of how we individually and collectively are implicated in it. But it also makes possible the discovery of our own humanity and our faith, that is, our fundamental relationship to one another and the ethical imperative to eradicate the suffering of our neighbor. Finally, it opens the way to action. Had the Salvadoran church not suffered the same fate of the poor, one can only wonder how much longer the world would have ignored the terrible misery and death of the Salvadoran people. Sobrino also reflects on his own experience in El Salvador. He says that when he first came to the country in 1957 as a young novice, while he saw the poor and the conditions in which they lived, he really did not see them. Their situation, at least, had very little to say to him. He was caught up in making good European Christians out of them. But something changed, he says, when he returned to El Salvador in 1974. Already there were Jesuits and other religious who were responding to the call of Medellín to draw closer to the poor so they might know their suffering, and share their lot. It was that encounter with the poor, Sobrino says, that brought about an awakening in himself and others. The basic question for them came to be, “are we human and is our faith human?” (3). Sobrino explains that in encountering the poor, the victims left along the side of the road to die, the Jesuits and others began to think, not from “within” the church or the university, but from “without.”

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As they entered into relationship with the victims of oppression and began to identify with them, they began do their thinking from the perspective of “the crucified people” (4). Their understanding of the social, political and economic situation of El Salvador as well as their understanding of the mission of the church and the university and their very own work took on a whole new perspective. It also took on a whole new purpose: that of “taking down the crucified people from the cross”(10). In the face of such terrible misery and such terrible sin nothing was of greater priority or took on greater urgency than ending the suffering of their brothers and sisters. While some might say that the visitors to El Salvador, the Jesuits at the UCA, Archbishop Romero and the others who struggled for justice in El Salvador were doing works of mercy, Sobrino holds that something more fundamental was at work. They did not simply engage in good works or make “contributions.” They made a commitment. Sobrino argues that the Gospel calls us to more than good works and contributions. It calls us to lives that are shaped by mercy and compassion. The people who entered into solidarity with the Salvadorans and who “bore with their neighbor” in their struggle for their lives and dignity, lived by the principle of mercy. Mercy and compassion oriented, informed and guided their personal and professional lives and their institutions. They entered into relationship with the victims, identified with them and so the agenda of the poor to reclaim their lives and dignity became their own. Sobrino writes, “This world is ever ready to applaud, or at least tolerate, works of mercy. What this world will not tolerate is a church molded by the principle of mercy, which leads the church to denounce the robbers who victimize, to lay bare the lie that conceals oppression, and to encourage victims to win their freedom from the culprits” (23). To live by the Gospel requires more than works of mercy. In brief, we must move closer to the poor and marginalized, enter into relationship with them and identify with their suffering. We must publicly denounce the evil that exists and name it for what it is: sin against our brothers and sisters and sin against God. We must publicly expose its structural and systemic roots and confront those responsible for it and who profit from it. The poor must be given voice and we must struggle alongside them to reclaim what has been taken from them

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and restore their lives and dignity. Finally, to prevent a recurrence, we must work with them to build new structures and systems that re-establish and maintain the righteous relationship of human beings to one another, to creation and to God. Gustavo Gutiérrez writes that feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty and sheltering the homeless are themselves political acts (Gutiérrez 1973, 202). To this I would add that they are some of the most public and political acts we can perform today.

Chapter 3 – A Church Working for Justice

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hapter 1 tried to establish that poverty, hunger, racism and other social problems cannot be attributed merely to the accumulated failure of isolated individuals. Rather they are rooted in the organization of the economic, political and social structures of society. In addition, it is not simply individuals, but whole classes, races, genders and nations that are prevented from living their lives or living with dignity. As we know, in the poor regions of the world, 850 million people are undernourished; 1.1 billion lack access to safe water; 2.4 billion access to improved sanitation; 800 million lack access to basic health care and the list goes on. While the situation is less extreme for the poor and marginalized in the non-poor regions of the world, they too are denied work or work at a living wage; access to basic health care, education and housing, real and effective participation and power in society; and they too experience institutional discrimination. In this country alone, more than 36 million people are living at or below the official poverty line and in households experiencing food insecurity. And as David K. Shipler in The Working Poor and Barbara Ehrenreich in Nickel and Dimed make abundantly clear, working in America is no longer a guarantee that one will not be poor. In chapters 1 and 2, I also tried to establish that these structures and systems are more than the individuals who oversee, are employed by or profit from them. They are much more complex and have their own history, organization, momentum and agenda. Nevertheless, their complexity does not absolve us of moral responsibility for them. They are not gods, but are under God, and therefore must be ordered and directed toward God’s intention for creation. When they contradict God’s intention, they must be held accountable and changed. Thus, it is not only individuals who need redemption but the economic, political and social structures and systems of society as well. The question

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before the church, therefore, is how can it participate in and contribute specifically toward the redemption of economic, political and social structures and systems. To do this effectively it must be clear about and embrace its mission in the public and political arenas.

The Church, a Family: As in “All in the Family?”

Let us begin by looking at where the church is now and where it needs to go. Parker Palmer in his popular book, The Company of Strangers, argues that the church has been trapped by its own imagery (Palmer 1985). The church, particularly in the United States, often refers to itself as a family. But as Palmer points out, it is the idealized family, free of power struggles, family divisions and conflict. Unity in the church must be preserved; conflict and confrontation are to be avoided. In the Catholic Church certain issues such as abortion, euthanasia, gay marriage and stem cell research, are “non-negotiable”; there is no discussion and nothing to debate. Palmer holds that the family imagery raises the expectation that at least in the church one will find certainty, security, intimacy and warmth. Thus, the church itself becomes an extension of the family; it identifies with and consequently is itself identified with the private sphere. Nowhere was this made clearer than in the 2004 presidential elections. While the churches actively participated in the public arena, their agenda was clearly the non-negotiables. Despite a major effort on the part of the U.S. Catholic Conference of Bishops and its department of Social Development and World Peace to argue for a consistent life ethic approach to evaluating the political platforms of the candidates, in the end it was the non-negotiable message that was heard in the pews. The image of the family, in addition, can foster a ministry that focuses on the private sphere, becoming a substitute for the ministry of justice with moral responsibility for public and political domains. Instead of finding in the church prophetic denunciation of all that harms God’s people and creation, a call to build the reign of God and a demand to engage modern-day principalities and powers, the church as family can disengage Christians from accepting responsibility for the public realm. It can unwittingly promote acceptance of the social order and complacency toward it, regardless of how unjust it is. Palmer points

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out that this is especially ironic given the fact that Gospel frees us for public relationships, or as he says, relationships with “the stranger,” those we don’t know, those left by the side of the road to die (110). Perhaps the problem is that the stranger, the poor and marginalized, are increasingly becoming strangers to the church. Throughout the United States the church is becoming a suburban church. Like so many institutions, the church, with few exceptions, has fled the inner cities and poor, rural communities, pleading a lack of personnel and resources. In Philadelphia, for example, Roman Catholic Cardinal Anthony Bevilacqua in 1993 closed thirteen inner city parishes and seven inner city schools despite a highly successful capital campaign that had as one of its goals raising $20 million for an endowment fund to meet the future needs of indigent parishes and strengthen its poor elementary and secondary schools. At the very time of the closings, the archdiocese oversaw a $70 million campaign to build new churches and schools in the suburbs. There is another angle to this. Because the churches are removed from them, the poor and marginalized can then become objects of the church’s charity or pity. Well-meaning individuals organize money, food and clothing drives, usually during the holiday season, and the “more involved” parishes send volunteers to tutor, build habitat houses, or go on mission trips. When churches are far removed from the poor and not in any sustained relationship with them, the dominant explanation for poverty and responses to it are less likely to be challenged. Churches, like so many individuals and institutions, tend to accept the structures and systems of society as basically sound and proceed to work within them to meet the immediate needs of the poor. The poor themselves are seen as the problem; the rich hold the solution. The church’s separation from the poor poses another problem. Because its relationship with the poor is removed and sporadic—we drop in on them from time to time, for example, around the holidays—the message the church preaches cannot help but be compromised. How can the church possibly understand what Good News to the poor is when its knowledge of the poor is so limited. What would it mean, for example, to really see that the poor are fed, the naked clothed and the homeless given shelter? Abstract relationships cannot but produce abstract preaching and abstract action. Moreover, how can

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the church preach the Good News to the poor with any credibility or authenticity when the poor and marginalized themselves are not at the center of its mission, but are peripheral to it? As will be clear later in this chapter, Archbishop Romero’s decision to move closer to the poor had a powerful impact on him personally, on his leadership as archbishop and on the Salvadoran church itself. Under Romero the Salvadoran church became not a church that ministered to the poor, or even for the poor; it became a church of the poor. Romero frequently said that the poor and marginalized of El Salvador converted the Salvadoran church.

The Church: A Powerful Player

The church itself is not a family; it is an institution. It has a corporate life and exercises corporate power. To put it succinctly, the church is a powerful player in the public and political arenas. It influences the organization and direction of society by its action or inaction. While the leadership of the church at the national and international levels knows this and selectively uses its influence and power, the same cannot be said for the local church. John Coleman, S.J., contends that it conveniently carves out the political and economic spheres as “sacrally secular,” and treats them as if they are “untouched by God’s action and purpose” (Coleman 1982, 20). The exception to this is when it is called upon by the bishops to influence legislation on the non-negotiables. As we know, whether we are thinking locally or globally, the hard reality is that life and human dignity are mediated not only by individuals but also by economic and political institutions and systems (22). The vocation of the church is to discern where God is at work in the world, to denounce all that works against God’s intention and to participate corporately in furthering God’s reign. Not only does the local church exercise its public responsibility selectively, it is reluctant to address its members in their public reality. Members of congregations are not simply a collection of private individuals. They have all kinds of organizational and institutional affiliations through their communities, work, investments, professional organizations, political affiliations and so forth. Those affiliations and relationships are sources of power. Some individuals in congregations wield tremendous power and influence in the entities of which they

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are a part. That power could become a tremendous force for change. Despite this, the local church continues to preach the Gospel as if the congregation had no influence or power over anything other than their own private lives. Consequently, the Gospel’s demand for justice, to build a more just and compassionate social order, largely goes unheard. Gayraud Wilmore argues further that if and when the Gospel demand to build a more just and compassionate social order is preached, it is couched in terms of a call to personal conversion (Wilmore 1962). The Gospel certainly does call individuals to personal conversion, but as discussed above, it also calls for the conversion of the social order. The problem is that even when the need for converting the structures and systems of society is intellectually understood by the church, its overarching message is that societal conversion is dependent upon personal conversion, and that personal conversion, of necessity, precedes societal conversion (8). As mentioned in Chapter 1, Martin Luther King, Jr., and other leaders of the civil rights movement knew that racism would not end in America without converting the minds and hearts of individuals. This is the reason they adopted non-violent resistance as their strategy. Like Gandhi, they believed in the humanity of their oppressors, trusting that if they persisted to resist nonviolently, absorbing the blows of their oppressors even to the point of death, their oppressors would become converted to the justice of their cause. They also counted on arousing the moral sensibilities of those who read, saw, or heard about the violence committed against AfricanAmericans, thereby gaining allies in the struggle for racial justice. And finally, they were convinced that the victims who incurred the wrath and blows of those who enforced the law would themselves be converted to the righteousness of their own cause. But King and the other leaders also understood that the laws, institutions, ideologies and customs that made discrimination possible in America also had to be changed. Thus the leaders of the civil rights movement challenged local, state and eventually the federal government to enforce existing laws, that is, to do what they were supposed to do and to protect U.S. citizens. The movement built allies in business, politics, churches, the entertainment industry and other areas. By their actions, that is, by putting their bodies on the line,

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registering to vote, sending their children to all-white schools, riding the freedom buses, sitting at segregated lunch counters and going to jail, they publicly exposed the evil, depth and scope of racism in our society so there would be no mistaking it. The civil rights movement clarified the fact that racism was not simply an attitude shared by a number of white bigots, but was integrated into the organization of the economic, political and social institutions of society. Because it was, it had to be combated, not only on the personal level, but on the institutional level as well. In short, they waged their campaign on not one, but two fronts. They aimed to convert the minds and hearts of individuals, especially those responsible for governing this society and enforcing its laws. And they also aimed at converting the racist structures, systems and ideology in America. It is important to point out that one did not take priority over the other or precede the other; in fact, both were part of one and the same effort. To focus on converting the individual to the neglect of converting structures and systems, or to give priority to one over the other, as I argued in the first chapter, is simplistic not only politically, but theologically. It takes neither the full reality of the individual, the church, the structures and systems of society nor the building the reign of God seriously. John Coleman has argued that if there is anything sorely lacking in Christianity today it is a “coherent, fully developed, Christian theory of citizenship, a specifically Christian sense of any sacredness or vocational meaning of membership in a particular nation.” (Coleman 1989, 43). We also need, he says, a theology of power (44). In short, the churches cannot afford to concentrate only on personal conversion, but must take both their own and their members’ economic power and power as citizens seriously and enlist them in the struggle to build the reign of God. Before we turn to examining the mission of the church today, there is one other caution that the Brazilian theologian, Leonardo Boff, raises (Boff 1985). Boff claims that the church today appears to be turning in on itself and becoming more self-centered. Instead of emphasizing its “instrumental” role in salvation, there is a growing tendency to see itself as the locus and exclusive bearer of salvation. It directs us not to where God is at work in the world but to itself, to find God principally through liturgy, sacraments, bible study and parish activities. The church

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creates parallel institutions such as Catholic schools and universities, Catholic hospitals and Catholic nursing homes, Catholic social services, Catholic charities and even Catholic credit unions instead of using its resources, influence and power to reshape existing entities. Perhaps this is its way of building a society over which it has total power and control. Boff argues further that because the church maintains its status and security by allying itself with the existing economic, political and social powers, it tends to be light-handed in its criticism of them. And when disagreement is unavoidable, it substitutes a “slap on the wrist” for prophetic denunciation and action. Boff claims, however, that the church does not exercise the same light touch when it comes to movements or organizations pressing for significant change. Even when their cause is just, the church holds their ideologies and/or methods suspect. Finally, while the church continues to call upon the rich to aid the poor rarely does it question the legitimacy of their wealth or what produces and sustains it. As stated in the previous chapter, Jesus did not proclaim himself but the reign or kingdom of God. The Gospel characterizes his life and message as Good News to the poor. What is good news to the poor is that God identifies with them. God chose to enter human history as a poor man and lived among them. Moreover, their suffering and their situation are not a matter of indifference to God. God hears their cries and acts. It is to the poor and marginalized that Jesus announces the coming fullness of God’s reign, a reign of justice, compassion, peace and unity among people and with God. He also announces that God’s reign was breaking in their midst. God’s reign of justice, compassion, peace and unity is not simply an idea or ideal, but a reality, a radical change in their concrete situation of misery and oppression and their experience of it. Moreover, Jesus announced that God’s reign would be established through them. Jesus, by word and action, offered a way for all to participate in God’s reign, enjoy its fullness and find salvation. Love is the means: love of God and love of neighbor, especially of the poor and marginalized. The two commandments, he proclaimed, were integrally related: where love of neighbor is absent, love of God is absent as well. Salvation comes not through changes of mind and heart alone but through action toward the “least among us.” The call to love can also be understood as a call to conversion: to

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convert to God’s intention for us as human beings who are responsible for one another and for all that God created. Jesus calls us to love or convert to our neighbor, especially the least among us, that is, to identify with the poor and marginalized as God does; to respond to their suffering and situation as if it were our own, and to restore to them what sin has taken away: the life and dignity intended by God. The Gospel gives signs or indications of God’s reign: the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given drink, the blind see, and the lame walk. All reflect changes in the actual situation of the afflicted; they restore life and its possibilities.

The Social Teaching of the Roman Catholic Church

Over the last century the Roman Catholic Church has developed a body of teaching commonly referred to as Catholic social teaching. While it finds formal expression in papal, conciliar and episcopal documents, it is important to point out that this is a lived tradition developed and witnessed to in individual and collective efforts to secure justice and peace. The Catholic social tradition is not something attached or secondary to the life of the church. It is at the heart of its understanding of itself and its mission, and is rooted in scripture and tradition. Also, it should be pointed out that it is a tradition that continues to evolve as the church faces some of the most pressing issues of our day. As a whole, the documents clearly acknowledge the evil unleashed by powerful economic, political and social forces. They specifically address the exploitation of labor by capitalists and the capitalist system, the subservience of individuals to the state and the denial of basic human rights by socialism and the communist system, the structure and integration of an international order that concentrates wealth and robs the vast majority of the world’s people of their power and resources to sustain their lives and dignity, the proliferation and sale of arms that fuel conflict and weapons of mass destruction that threaten to annihilate God’s creation, institutionalized racism and sexism, and the destruction of the ecosystem. The papal, conciliar and episcopal documents situate both the suffering and the forces that give rise to it

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in a moral context. In addition, they lay out fundamental principles to guide the actions of individuals, structures and systems. Beginning with the fundamental understanding of the human person, the documents state that all human beings are made in the image and likeness of God. Consequently, their lives are sacred and have inherent dignity. Each human being’s life, regardless of gender, race, class, ethnicity, or nation is precious and is to be treated as such. No less precious are the lives of the unborn, the mentally and physically impaired, and the elderly. All of life is God’s gift and can be taken away only by God. Therefore, all life, including all of God’s creation, must be cherished, protected and furthered. Human beings are social; they all share the same human nature. And because they do, they are related and bound to one another. That relationship is more fundamental and more binding than the ties of nation, class, ethnicity, gender, or race. In short, because human beings share the same nature, they are brothers and sisters to one another and are thus responsible for one another. Human beings are social in yet another way: their lives are integrally dependent on one another from the family to the global order. Human life and dignity are sustained and mediated through a complex web of individual, collective structural and systemic relationships. They must be ordered in such a way so as to protect and promote life and dignity. All human beings have certain inalienable rights given them by God. It is important to point out that these rights do not come from the state, constitution or charter. Rather the purpose of the state, constitution, or charter is to insure and protect these rights. Human beings have the right to life and dignity and all that is needed economically, politically and socially to protect and further it. While this includes basic human rights, in this day and age the right to life and dignity must include the right to food, water, clothing, housing, basic medical care, rest, education, social services, work, just working conditions, a living wage, the right to be informed truthfully about public events, the right to organize and the right to participate and have a voice in shaping the economic, political and social institutions that affect the quality of life. With rights also come responsibilities. We are responsible for one another, especially the weakest and most vulnerable members of society.

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That responsibility, it must be pointed out, extends beyond taking care of individuals; we are responsible for shaping a social order that protects, promotes and insures the basic human, economic, political and social God-given rights of each and every human being. According to the Catholic social tradition, economic, political, and social institutions can never be ends in themselves; their purpose is to contribute to the flourishing of all human beings and God’s creation. The state has a particular responsibility in this regard: its purpose is to secure and protect the common good. Finally, given the increasing and very real threats to the planet today, the Catholic social tradition holds that we are no less morally responsible for its care and protection. It is God’s creation and we are to cherish it and be good stewards of it.

The Preferential Option for the Poor

The phrase, “preferential option for the poor,” first appeared in the social documents in the late 1970s and has been widely used to express the church’s commitment to furthering justice. The term, “preferential,” has not been without controversy. At issue is whether “preferential” means that the church is a church only or primarily for the poor, and thus the non-poor are of lesser value. Pope John Paul II who himself frequently used the phrase tried to resolve the matter by explaining that because God has shown special care and preference for the poor and marginalized, the church must do the same. Were one to ask who is at greatest risk of losing their lives and dignity, it is clearly the poor and marginalized. Therefore, it stands to reason that if the church is charged with the responsibility to remind society of the sacredness of life and human dignity, and if a segment of the population is threatened with the loss of life and dignity from the actions of individuals or the social order, then the church is compelled to speak out and take a stand on their behalf. In other words, if the church is to be faithful to what is at the very core of its existence, then it must be in solidarity with the poor and marginalized. The term preferential does not imply that the church or the Gospel now literally belong to one group over another; the call to conversion and salvation are issued to both. John Paul II says it best when he writes, “You know that the preferential option for the poor, forcefully proclaimed at

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Puebla, is not an invitation to exclusivism, and would not justify a bishop’s refusal to proclaim the Word of conversion and salvation to this or that group of persons on the pretext that they are not poor. … But it is a call to a special solidarity with the humble and the weak, with those who are suffering and weeping, who are humiliated and left on the fringes of life and society, in order to help them to realize ever more fully their own dignity as human persons and children of God” (Dorr, 1992, 278).

Medellín: A Paradigm Shift

While the actual phrase “preferential option for the poor” first appeared in the documents of the Third General Conference of Latin American Bishops held in Puebla, Mexico in 1979, the inspiration for it can be traced to the Second General Conference of Latin American Bishops that met in Medellín, Colombia in 1969. The Medellín Conference arguably represents a paradigm shift in the church’s understanding of the role it must play in the struggle for justice. It broke new ground and set a bold direction for, not only the Latin American church, but the church throughout the world. Because its statements continue to speak to and challenge the church’s work for justice today, it is important to give it the attention it deserves here. As Jon Sobrino writes, “At certain periods one local church better incarnates the suffering of humankind, better announces the good news to the poor, denounces sin more clearly, suffers persecution more than other churches do, and gives the witness of supreme love in martyrdom. In a word, it better carries out the mission and embodies the essence of the church, is more clearly seen to be the sacrament of salvation, and gives greater witness of faith in God, in Christ, and in the Spirit. As a result, some local churches are a leaven for the whole church, as the church should be a leaven for the world, and these local churches should be seen as occasions of grace for the universal church” (Sobrino, 1994, 154-155). Medellín and the witness to justice that flowed from it continue to be leaven for the whole church. In their deliberations at Medellín the bishops courageously acknowledged that since the colonial era, the church, with few exceptions, had primarily served the rich and powerful and their interests. When the colonial powers invaded Latin America, took over the land and

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resources and enslaved the indigenous peoples, the church served as an instrument of pacification. It cooperated with the conquerors, justified the annihilation and subjugation of the native peoples and profited from them. The institutional church, by commission and omission, has been a willing accomplice in the misery and premature death of the poor. The bishops at Medellín concluded that were the church to continue along this path, it would violate the Gospel itself and its own mission. Without a conscious and deliberate change of direction, they questioned whether they could preach the Gospel with integrity or credibility. By the end of their deliberations, the bishops decided that the Gospel itself and the concrete situation of the poor in their countries demanded that they make a preferential option for the poor. They committed the institutional church, its representatives and its members at large to stand in solidarity and join with the poor and marginalized in their struggle to reclaim what belongs to them. In their words, “The Latin American Church, given the continent’s conditions of poverty and underdevelopment, experiences the urgency of translating that spirit of poverty into actions, attitudes and norms that make it a more lucid and authentic sign of its Lord. The poverty of so many brothers cries out for justice, solidarity, open witness, commitment, strength, and exertion directed to the fulfillment of the redeeming mission to which it is committed by Christ” (CELAM 1976, 473). Medellín was exceptional for a number of reasons. First, the bishops acknowledged that the struggle to create a more just social order is an “eminently Christian task,” and they committed the church to participate in it (462). Secondly, they acknowledged that the poor and marginalized themselves were the agents of their own liberation. Therefore, the role of the church is not to do “for” them, but to join “with” them in their struggle for justice. And they identified some very concrete steps the church might take to express its preferential option for the poor. It is important to point out that in the Medellín documents, the bishops place responsibility for the misery of the poor squarely on the shoulders of the rich, who as a class, structure, control and jealously guard the institutions of society to serve their interest. The bishops describe the conditions in which the majority of their people are forced

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to live as a situation of “institutionalized violence.” In their words, “in many instances Latin America finds itself faced with a situation of institutionalized violence, when, because of a structural deficiency of industry and agriculture, of national and international economy, of cultural and political life, whole towns lack necessities, live in such dependence as hinders all initiative and responsibility as well as every possibility for cultural promotion and participation in social and political life, thus violating fundamental rights. This situation demands all-embracing, courageous, urgent and profoundly renovating transformations” (460). There is good reason for the bishops to use the term “violent” to describe the situation in which the poor and marginalized find themselves. It is violent precisely because it violates God and human beings. The economic, political, and social structures and systems defile God’s creation and destroy the lives of the poor. The violence is “institutionalized” both because it is mediated through institutions of society and also because the violence itself had become an institution in society. The extreme hunger, poverty, powerlessness, and violations of human rights had become a way of life and, especially for the wealthy and powerful, were acceptable. Moreover, institutions that normally could be counted on to rectify injustice such as government, the press, the law, the courts, law enforcement and others were not only inaccessible to the poor and marginalized but worked against them and exacerbated the situation. The bishops condemn the institutionalized violence of their societies as sinful; it is rooted in sinful individuals and sinful social structures. Therefore, the church whose purpose is to eradicate sin and its causes, committed itself at Medellín to the radical transformation of society. They write, “To us, the Pastors of the Church, belongs the duty to educate the Christian conscience, to inspire, stimulate and help orient all of the initiatives that contribute to the formation of man. It is also up to us to denounce everything which, opposing justice, destroys peace” (462). They call the rich and powerful to conversion. The bishops urge them not to resist the radical changes that are so desperately needed, but to work with the church and use their influence and power to create a more just and compassionate social order. They demand that the rich end the abuse of the poor, their powerful monopoly of

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economic, political and social institutions and remove the obstacles in the way of change. The bishops committed themselves to denounce the inequalities and abuses of wealth and power, to resist personal and collective injustice and to defend the rights of the poor and marginalized. They committed themselves to using the media to awaken a greater awareness of injustice in society as well as the responsibility to correct it. They committed themselves to integrate and give greater focus to the social demands of the Gospel in their preaching, liturgy and catechesis. Their schools, seminaries and universities must foster the development of critical social analysis and the vocation of service. They called for a reform of the justice system in their countries and asked universities to use their resources to investigate and report on the progress toward human rights in their countries. They demanded a halt to the arms race among their countries that squanders precious resources that could be used to meet the basic needs of the poor. Recognizing the power richer nations have in Latin America, the bishops called on the churches and people of good will in affluent nations and also international organizations to use their influence in the political and economic spheres to promote solidarity and economic justice for Latin America. They denounced efforts by rich nations which interfere, even at the cost of invasions and war, with the selfdetermination of poorer nations. As noted in the previous chapter, the bishops acknowledged that they needed to come closer to the poor in order to better understand and share their suffering and struggle. To bring the internal structure of the church more in line with their words they made a decision to reject titles, eliminate fees for sacraments, adopt more modest lifestyles and keep their work and institutions from becoming showy or ostentatious. They wanted to eliminate those things that might set them apart or keep them apart from the poor. They wanted church properties to be put in the hands of competent lay people and better used for the welfare of the community. Church resources and personnel should be distributed in a way that gives preference to the poor. The bishops invited priests and men and women religious to share the lot of the poor by living and working with them, and they encouraged religious communities to better witness to the evangelical vow of poverty by

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using their goods, resources and services in ways that gave effective service to the poor. In short, the bishops committed themselves at all levels to be actively engaged in the struggle for justice. The bishops at Medellín realized that the church could not bear faithful witness to the Gospel in Latin America without a conscious and deliberate commitment to the poor and the struggle for justice. Their commitment had to be active and effective. In their words it must be “concretized in criticism of injustice and oppression, in the struggle against the intolerable situation which a poor person often has to tolerate, (and) in the willingness to dialogue with the groups responsible for that situation in order to make them understand their obligations” (474).

Choosing the Poor: The Charism of the Latin American Church

Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J. claimed that its decision to move closer to the poor is perhaps the charism of the Latin American church (Ellacuría 1991c, 290). Jon Sobrino writes eloquently on the theological reasons for this, “Our God is an incarnate God, lowered to more than one level: lowered to humanity, lowered to the lowest of humanity, the poor and weak. This lowering is not accidental or passing, but rather God has taken the lowest place in history. The suffering of those who are lowest in history, without life, without dignity, without elementary rights or freedom is what has moved God to self-revelation as the God in the Exodus, in the prophets, and in God’s Son, Jesus of Nazareth. The bottom of history, the real poverty that takes away life, the injustice that takes away community, the world of tormentors that produces victims, that is the place of God in this world. It is not the only place, but unless we find God in that place, to look anywhere else is dangerous and suspect” (Sobrino 1993, 622). The point here is not that the church simply place itself among the poor and oppressed; any institution can locate itself anywhere and remain immune to everything around it. Rather, the church must deliberately choose to locate itself in the midst of the poor and marginalized in order that it may be opened to the presence and salvific work of God today. Ellacuría argues that it chooses to locate itself among the poor so that it may be opened to that which it can-

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not be opened to in other places. His words bear repeating, the poor “constitute the maximum and scandalous, prophetic and apocalyptic presence of the Christian God and, consequently the privileged place of Christian praxis and reflection” (Burke 1997, 7- 8). When it chooses to come closer to the poor and marginalized and opens itself to seeing reality from their perspective, sin and the reign of sin in society become much more apparent. It is much more difficult to deny evil and all the forces that maintain it. Ellacuría says the clear lines we draw between the individual and the structural, the personal and political, the historical and the transcendent and human liberation and salvation become more blurred and the interrelationships become more obvious (Ellacuría 1991c, 291). Thus the church is forced to come to terms with the presence and reality of evil in society in its personal and structural manifestations. More importantly, it is forced to come to terms with what they represent: the denial of God. The structures and systems that human beings have put in place have appropriated what belongs to God alone: the right to give and take away life. They have become accountable to nothing other than themselves. And the fact that they cling to preserving their interests at all costs, even at the cost of human life, is testament to the pervasiveness of the reign of evil, the reign of sin, not the reign of God in society. The location of the poor, however, makes it possible for the church to see grace and experience it, that is, to see God’s salvific action at work in the world and the invitation to participate in it. Wherever men and women, individually and collectively, resist the evil that is done to them; where the poor and marginalized refuse to cooperate with evil and instead choose to reverse it; where human beings not only sacrifice for one another, but sacrifice their lives so that others may have life, God’s saving presence is breaking into the world today. From the location of the poor, the choices before the church take on flesh and immediacy. When the church puts itself at the feet of Jesus crucified today, at the feet of the crucified people, it becomes difficult to avoid the questions: “what have we done to cause all these people to be crucified, what are we doing about their crosses and what are we going to do to bring them down from the cross” (Sobrino 2003, 69). The choice comes down to cooperating with the forces of life,

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the forces of grace and salvation or the forces of death. It is a matter of worshiping God or idols of our own creation. The Latin American church at moments in its history, chose not to bypass—not to stay in its own world—but rather to come closer and enter the world of the poor. It allowed itself to be affected by their suffering to the point that the suffering of the poor became its very own. Fr. Moréno said the experience of suffering was so intense that the church was forced to expel or get rid of it. And in so doing, it restored health to the poor and to itself, and in the process recovered its life (Moréno 1990, 98-123). Moréno says it is not accidental that the Gospels use the phrases, “seeing the crowd,” “looking at him,” “upon hearing” and others to describe the moment that preceded Jesus compassionate action (104-06). If there is anything to be learned here it is that the experience of coming closer to the poor, and not theory or ideology, is decisive (Ellacuría 1991c, 286). From the social location of the poor, the church can better speak God’s salvific, liberating word. It must speak God’s word where, when and to whom it is most needed. But to do this effectively today the church cannot proceed on the assumption that it already knows God’s word, or as if it possesses God’s word in its entirety and in all its fullness for all time. No individual or institution can make claim to that, not even the church. The church must itself come to terms with the fact that God spoke not only in the past, but continues to speak today in new words, new ways and through new means. Thus, it is absolutely essential for the church to assume a posture of radical openness. The church needs to know that it does not know, precisely so that it may hear God’s new word. If it is to be an instrument of the Word becoming Flesh today, the church must open its own ears and eyes and be prepared to hear God’s word where it is being spoken (Sobrino 1993, 617).

Speaking Prophetically

If the church is to speak God’s word today, it must be prepared to speak God’s prophetic word, a word of contrast that brings the reign of God to bear on the reality of the present order. Propheticism speaks the truth where there are lies; promises freedom where there is oppression; demands justice where there is exploitation and calls for conver-

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sion where there is suffering and indignity. (Sobrino 1993, 623). It both announces and denounces. In his essay, “Utopia and Prophecy in Latin America,” Ellacuría attempts to define the characteristics of the prophetic word (Ellacuría 1991e, 44-88). As noted above, the Christians’ belief in the coming fullness of God’s reign is grounded in the experience of God’s saving action in history. God’s salvific action manifests itself in more than interior change; the situation itself is changed from dealing death to giving life. Ellacuría argues that the prophetic word is the word that paves the way for the creation of a radically new reality. When spoken, it both animates and eventuates in a new reality. The prophetic word pries open the present situation so that grace can insert itself where there is sin, making change possible. The prophetic word is known in what it does. It is recognized as true by the new reality it creates. Therefore, when the church speaks God’s word today in situations of sin, it is sure to produce conflict. It will bring sin and its source to the surface, expose it to the light of day and offer the choice of conversion. Thus, the conflictual word should not be avoided by the church; rather it should be seen for what it is: a medium of grace. From the location of the poor and marginalized, the church must ask itself what is the life-giving word that must be spoken in this particular, concrete situation? What words are required to pry open this situation to God’s saving action? In short, what word from the church is needed to produce greater justice, greater compassion, greater peace, and greater hope in this particular situation? However, the church must not fall into the trap of thinking that speaking prophetically is all that is required of it. While denouncing and announcing are forms of critical action, they are not all of action. The church’s work is not done with speaking the truth; its mission is to create a new reality, the reign of God. In Sharon Welch’s words, “liberation is not merely a matter of will and thought, but practice and power” (Welch, 1985, 84). The fact of the matter is that words can, and often do, become substitutes for action (82). Rhetoric does not miraculously translate into action. And one must not forget the fact that oppressive structures have an almost limitless capacity to absorb words, even the most critical words. Finally, God did more

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than speak in human history; God also acted to change its course. The church must do the same.

Acting Prophetically

The document, “Justice in the World,” issued by the Second General Assembly of the Synod of Bishops meeting in Rome in 1971, contains one of the most important statements clearly linking the church’s word to action for justice. The bishops write, “action for justice and participation in the transformation of the world. . .(are) a constitutive dimension of the preaching of the Gospel” (Synod of Bishops 1976, 514). Action for justice, the bishops suggest here, is not secondary to preaching the Gospel. Nor is it optional for the church; rather it is central to its mission. This effort to link preaching to action marks significant progress in the church’s understanding of its salvific role in the world. It is important, therefore, that we analyze just how integral they are. The British theologian Charles Davis has argued that the church for centuries has operated with a distorted notion of truth (Davis 1980, 9). It has placed its emphasis on doctrine and not on practice. The church approached truth as a body of knowledge and certitudes, and assumed that it already had the truth and was guardian of it. One could access the truth only through the church. Davis argues that “permanence and universality in the realm of truth and value are desired achievements; they cannot be prior claims” (26). Truth is not something to be had once and for all, either by an institution or by individuals. It is the nature of truth to be alive and constantly unfolding. The Latin American liberation theologians remind us that the search for truth is not simply an exercise of reason. Reflection, understanding and intellectual assent are second steps. We must begin with a commitment to the poor and marginalized, expressed in just and compassionate action. The articulation of faith emerges out of that action. The Hebrew Scriptures reflect an effort by the Jewish people to articulate their experience of God’s saving action in their history. Experience preceded articulation. The Christian Scriptures make clear that God is known in exercising compassion and justice: “in so far as you did this to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me” (Matt 25:40). Thus, the discovery of the truth and its

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articulation are not only integrally related but dependent upon action. In stating that permanence and universality in the realm of truth are desired achievements, Davis is arguing for orthopraxis, a way of acting and reflecting that lead one to the truth by participating in its creation. As Jon Sobrino writes, “to know the truth is to do the truth, to know Jesus is to follow Jesus, to know sin is to take away sin, to know suffering is to free the world from suffering, to know God is to go to God in justice” (Hennelly 1977, 724).

The Prophetic Church Must Keep New Company

As discussed above, where the church situates itself, its social location, is key to determining the kind of action it will take. When the church situates itself among the poor and marginalized and begins to think from their perspective, it will know better the kind of action required of it to secure compassion, justice and peace in society. Having said this, however, it should be noted that the church is often reluctant to place itself in relationship with the organized poor. This becomes problematic. Since its beginning the Catholic social tradition has taught that the poor and marginalized are the principal agents of their own liberation. Social change, however, rarely comes through individuals acting alone. It comes through counter institutions, for example, unions, community organizations, caucuses, movements and other organizations which mobilize, organize, amass power, apply pressure, and negotiate. Through counter institutions the poor and marginalized find solidarity, gain strength, develop power, strategize and take the action needed to effect change. They organize and struggle, at great personal sacrifice, to effect economic, political and social change. Ellacuría called them “the poor with spirit,” because they are not resigned to their oppression and refuse to allow the forces of death to have the final word (Ellacuría 1991e, 70-71). John Coleman brings out an important point regarding movements for social change. He writes, “Christians have no privileged access to social-political questions, no special blueprint for the economic and social order, no substitute access to political technique and the density of political experience which comes only from sustained engagement in

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political movements (Coleman 1989, 58) “Through a common struggle with other citizens to tame and channel power to creative use in the service of their guiding vision of the human, they learn the humble way of shared responsibility and solidarity in history” (59-60). At issue is what is lost when the church withholds itself and what is gained when it puts itself in a relationship of solidarity with the organized poor. Shouldn’t its moral vision and power be used to influence and strengthen them to further God’s reign? Archbishop Romero had to face this precise issue, under extreme pressure from forces within the church and the larger society. His letters and sermons, I believe, are instructive for helping the church take the next step, from making an option “for” the poor, to being “in solidarity with” the poor and becoming a church “of ” the poor.

Oscar Romero: A Living Example

Oscar Romero, the slain archbishop of San Salvador, was born to a poor, rural family in the eastern part of El Salvador in 1917. He was fortunate enough to receive a good education (stopping short of pursuing doctoral studies because of World War II). He was appointed to one of the highest offices of the church and had friends among the wealthy and socialized with them. However, Romero never forgot his roots; he always had a special love for the poor. There are hundreds of stories of Romero’s charity as a priest and as bishop of Santiago de Maria, collecting and distributing money, food and material goods to the poor and securing favors for them from more affluent friends. As bishop he offered the vacant seminary building as a shelter to coffee plantation workers who had nothing but the ground to sleep on at night. For most of his life, Romero was known for being a rather timid, cautious and a theologically and politically conservative man. Romero was chosen over the more progressive Bishop Arturo Rivera y Damas to head the Salvadoran church because he could be counted on to keep the church to the center during a time of increasing political unrest. But his biographers, including those who knew him well, note that Romero seems to have undergone a radical change or conversion after the murder of Rutilio Grande, S.J., a good friend whom he respected and admired. His relationship with the poor seemed not only to change but deepen. The last three years of his life, in particular,

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were characterized by extraordinary openness to the poor and also courageous leadership of the Salvadoran Church in their defense. His biographers note that he was radically open to history, that is, to the concrete economic, political, and social realities of El Salvador, the terrible suffering of the Salvadoran poor, the individuals and organizations who were trying to put an end to that suffering and the experiences and judgments of others—including those with whom he did not agree. Far from having a neutralizing effect, this openness enabled him not only to discern the words and actions that were called for on the part of the church, but to execute them despite grave personal and institutional risks. Some say his openness was a reflection of the fact that he was basically an intellectual, or at least a perpetual student, who believed in the pursuit of truth and in its unfolding nature, always in need of clarification and revision. But the more compelling reason was his faith in God. Romero, with every fiber of his being, believed in a God who is alive in history and who continues to reveal God’s self in history. In his last three years, as he drew closer to the suffering and struggle of the Salvadoran poor, Romero became convinced that God is found, not where we would prefer to find God, but where God has promised to be: among the poor and oppressed of this world (Sobrino 1990a, 180). Jon Sobrino, who was also a friend and advisor to Romero, writes, “Archbishop Romero’s faith in that God meant for him, personally, that he had ever to learn of God anew and that he had constantly to learn to believe in God. It meant that he had ever and again to ask himself the will of God in new situations of poverty, conflict, repression, and political organization on the part of Christians; he had continually to discern the will of God as regarded the social and political implications of his own activity and that of the church. . .” (198). Many have said that the Salvadoran poor converted Romero. He himself often acknowledged that from the social location of the poor, truths were revealed that were inaccessible to him before. In his most powerful address, on the occasion of receiving an honorary doctorate from the University of Louvain in February 1980, he said, “And we say of that world of the poor that it is the key to understanding the Christian faith, and that ecclesial activity. It is the poor who tell us what the world is, and what the church’s service to the world should

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be” (Romero 1998b, 179). His relationship with the poor allowed him to see clearly the sinfulness of the Salvadoran social situation. As bishop of Santiago de Maria, he observed the deplorable working conditions and wages of the workers on the coffee plantations, and would ask himself how their employers could go to Mass on Sundays. The sin of oppression daily crushed the poor, cheating them of their labor, their land, the basic necessities of food, clean water, adequate housing, electricity, education and medical care. In addition, the poor suffered from the sin of repression, unspeakable violence that was unleashed on them when they organized to demand justice. In his Louvain address he says, “children of God, temples of the Holy Spirit, the body of Christ in history, [are turned] into victims of oppression and injustice, into slaves to economic greed, into fodder for political repression” (183). The social location of the poor also revealed the sources of sin. He names and denounces them: “It is not a matter of sheer routine that I insist once again on the existence in our country of structures of sin. . .That is why we have denounced what in our country has become the idolatry of wealth, of the absolute right, within the capitalist system, of private property, of political power in national security regimes, in the name of which personal security is itself institutionalized. No matter how tragic it may appear, the church through its entrance into the real socio-political world has learned how to recognize, and how to deepen its understanding of the essence of sin. The fundamental essence of sin, in our world, is revealed in the death of Salvadorans” (183-4). Just as sin and its roots revealed themselves more clearly, so too did grace. Romero saw love in heroic proportions: people with virtually no material possessions and many who had lost everything from the repression including members of their own families, sacrificing and laying down their lives for one another. Their belief and trust in God and their courage to struggle for justice and peace despite what seemed insurmountable odds not only inspired, but forced him to come to terms with his own understanding of love, hope, faith and courage. In the lives he saw concretized Christian love, faith, hope and the struggle for justice and peace. He said, “The greatest sign of faith in a God of life is the witness of those who are ready to give up their own life. . .And we see this daily in our country. Many Salvadorans,

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many Christians, are ready to give their lives so that the poor may have life. They are following Jesus and showing their faith in him. Living within the real world just as Jesus did, like him accused and threatened, like him laying down their lives, they are giving witness to the Word of life” (185). Romero also learned from the poor the meaning of the incarnation and its implications for a church whose mission is to continue the salvific work of Christ. Instead of passing by those who suffer, the church must choose to notice the poor and marginalized, come closer to them, insert itself among them and identify with them as did the Incarnate God. Moreover, it must allow itself to be affected by their suffering and struggle, that is, allow its gut to be stirred so much so that it cannot carry on as usual, but is forced to act. To identify with their suffering and aggressively work to stem it, as if it were one’s own, is precisely what the great commandment to “Love God and Neighbor” demands of Christians and the institutional church. In Romero’s words, “It is within this world devoid of a human face, this contemporary sacrament of the suffering servant of Yahweh, that the church of my archdiocese has undertaken to incarnate itself. . . I say it with immense joy, for we have made the effort not to pass by afar off, not to circle round the one lying wounded in the roadway, but to approach him or her as did the good Samaritan. This coming closer to the world of the poor is what we understand both by the incarnation and by conversion” (180). “Experiencing these realities, and letting ourselves be affected by them, far from separating us from our faith has sent us back to the world of the poor as to our true home. It has moved us, as a first, basic step, to take the world of the poor upon ourselves” (179). For Romero, the poor reveal to the church what its mission should be. Acceptance of that mission is related to the kind of God the church believes in. Romero expressed this powerfully, “We see, with great clarity, that here neutrality is impossible. Either we serve the life of Salvadorans, or we are accomplices in their death. And here what is most fundamental about the faith is given expression in history: either we believe in a God of life, or we serve the idols of death” (185). With equal clarity he saw and understood that the poor and marginalized, particularly the poor with spirit, were the main vehicles

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through which a more just and peaceful society would be created. In his words, “The world of the poor teaches us that liberation will arrive only when the poor are not simply on the receiving end of handouts from governments or from the church, but when they themselves are the masters of, and protagonists in, their own struggle and liberation, thereby unmasking the root of false paternalism, including ecclesiastical paternalism” (184). Thus, he was convinced that the church could best serve the poor, not by doing things for them or through individual acts of charity, but rather by struggling with and accompanying them in their pursuit of justice. He powerfully expressed this conviction, “The poor have shown the church the true way to go. A church that does not join the poor, in order to speak out from the side of the poor against the injustices committed against them, is not the true church of Jesus Christ.” (Romero 1998a, 189). The issue was not whether, but how, to concretely use the institutional authority of the church to advance their struggle for justice. Romero began by using the institutional authority of the church to defend and encourage the right of the poor to organize. He said, “Nobody can violate the right to organize. … it is a human right. The demands that these organizations make are just, and they must be heard. The point is not to repress a demonstration that is asking for justice but to listen to what is being said in order to attend to the cry of this large sector of our people for the sake of the common good” (Dennis, Golden and Wright 2000, 53). When the poor organize to secure their rights, Romero argued, they exercise their sacred responsibility before God. When the poor are resigned or passive in the face of such evil and sin they, in effect, cooperate with it. It was absolutely essential, therefore, that they understood and believed in the moral righteousness of their struggle. This was especially important given the severe intimidation and repression they encountered in the hands of the powerful, the security forces and the military. Moreover, Romero defended their right to defend themselves when they were viciously attacked. He said, “It is something new among our people that today the poor see in the church a source of hope and a support for their noble struggle for liberation. The hope that our church encourages is neither naïve nor passive. It is rather a summons from the word of God for the great majority of the people, the poor, that they assume their

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proper responsibility, that they understand their own conscientization, that, in a country where it is legally or practically prohibited. . .they set about organizing themselves. And it is support, sometimes critical support, for their just causes and demands. The hope that we preach to the poor is intended to give them back their dignity, to encourage them to take charge of their own future” (Romero 1998b, 180). The church must do more than defend the right of the poor to organize, Romero argued, it must defend the poor themselves against the institutional forces that are destroying their lives and dignity. Romero made himself accessible to those whose relatives, friends and co-workers were disappeared, kidnapped, detained without cause, tortured, or whose rights were violated. He created a diocesan office to document their experiences and its reports were made available to the press and the international community through organizations like Amnesty International, the International Federation of Human Rights, the International Commission of Human Rights and others. He also created a legal office, Socorro Juridico, to defend them. When land was seized from the poor or when the security forces occupied their towns, churches and industrial properties, Romero would be called on to act as mediator. The cathedral itself became a place where people and organizations could meet in safety and find sanctuary. At times it served as a hospital and a mortuary for the dead. It should be noted that Romero made a decision to stop construction on the Cathedral until the basic needs of the Salvadoran poor were met. He also opened the San José de la Montaña Seminary and the Basilica to serve as camps for refugees fleeing from military repression. The diocesan printing press, which published the Catholic weekly, Orientacíon, and the diocesan radio station, YSAX, which broadcast Romero’s Sunday homilies, were also located on the seminary grounds. They were one of the few sources of accurate information, reporting what the government-controlled and censored media would not. Because of this, they were bombed repeatedly. Romero used his Sunday homilies to preach the word of God as it bore directly on the concrete situation in El Salvador. His homilies, broadcast through YSAX, would expose the atrocities carried out by the security forces and the paramilitary the week before. He would also openly criticize the Salvadoran government, its judges and judicial system, the wealthy classes, and foreign

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governments. While he denounced these actions with all the moral authority of his office, he also called on those responsible to conversion. Also, Romero never hesitated to publicly support specific efforts that appeared to move the country toward greater justice and peace. He used his pastoral letters to do the same, but in greater detail. The following excerpt taken from his fourth pastoral letter illustrates the specificity with which he addressed himself to the structural injustices in Salvadoran society. Analysts of our economy point out that, if it is to function well, it needs a large and cheap labor force. Producers of coffee, sugar cane, and cotton, which go to make up the agricultural export trade, need unemployed, unorganized campesinos. They depend on them for an abundant and cheap labor force to harvest and export their crops. On the other hand, the agricultural and cattle-raising sector of the economy is the one that pays the most taxes to the public treasury—which is one of the reasons why it has the greatest influence upon the government. And still today many industrial or transnational corporations base their ability to compete in international markets on what they call “low labor costs,” which in reality means starvation wages. All of this explains the firm opposition of important sectors of capital to initiatives, whether of the people or of the government, that, through trade union organizations, seek to improve the living conditions, or to raise the wages, of the working class. The ruling class, especially the rural elite, cannot allow unions to be organized among either rural or urban laborers so long as, from a capitalist point of view, they believe their economic interests are at risk. This viewpoint makes repression against popular organizations something necessary in order to maintain and increase profit levels, even though it is at the cost of the growing poverty of the working class (Romero 1998b, 121-122).

Romero was convinced that if the church is truly to be Christ’s presence in society, it must speak with the boldness and courage of Christ. In his words, With the courage of a free man, therefore, he [Jesus] denounced the distorted image of God created by the manipulation of human traditions that destroy the authentic will of God (Mark 7:8-13). …

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Suzanne C. Toton ~ Justice Education He denounced a religion that was devoid of works of justice—as in the well-known parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:29-37). He also denounced all those who made of their power a means to keep the weak and powerless in a state of oppression, rather than using it to serve them. He accused the wealthy of not sharing their wealth, the priests of imposing intolerable burdens (Luke 11:46), the wise of carrying off the key of knowledge and leaving the others without learning, the rulers of looking only to their own advantage and not to the service of their people (Matt. 20:25 ff..) (72).

Romero believed that the church must direct its critique to the specific situations of sin in society. He writes, And, like anyone who has the smallest degree of foresight, the slightest capacity for analysis, the church has also to denounce what has rightly been called “structural sin”: those social, economic, cultural, and political structures that effectively drive the majority of our people onto the margins of society. When the church hears the cry of the oppressed it cannot but denounce the social structures that give rise to and perpetuate the misery from which the cry arises. … Jesus fulfilled his mission in a particular kind of world, in a particular sort of society. Like him, the church does not simply proclaim the kingdom of God in the abstract. It also has to promote the solutions that seem most likely to bring the kingdom into being, those that are most just (74).

Romero was also well aware of the fact that if the church acted with the freedom of Jesus that it too would be attacked and suffer. In his words, “From the beginning of Jesus’ public life, these denunciations brought in their train frequent attacks upon him (Matt. 2:1-2). They brought personal risk and even persecution” (72). Romero often said that the church must be the voice of the poor. It must use its institutional authority to amplify their voices so they can be heard by the forces in both the Salvadoran and the global society. The church must also be their voice to God who has promised not to turn a deaf ear. On the day before he was assassinated he spoke these bold words on behalf of the Salvadoran people to the military at Sunday mass,

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I would like to make an appeal in a special way to the men of the army, and in particular to the ranks of the Guardia Nacional, of the police, to those in the barracks. Brothers, you are part of our own people. You kill your own campesino brothers and sisters. And before an order to kill that a man may give, the law of God must prevail that says: Thou shalt not kill! No soldier is obliged to obey an order against your consciences and to obey your consciences rather than the orders of sin. … In the name of God, and in the name of this suffering people whose laments rise to heaven each day more tumultuous, I beg you, I ask you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression! (Brockman 1982, 217).

A month before, he had written to President Jimmy Carter asking him not to provide military aid to El Salvador. He read his letter as part of his sermon at Sunday mass. Here is an excerpt: “Instead of favoring greater justice and peace in El Salvador, your government’s contribution will undoubtedly sharpen the injustice and the repression inflicted on the organized people, whose struggle has often been for respect for their most basic human rights. … I ask you, if you truly want to defend human rights:—to forbid that military aid be given to the Salvadoran government;—to guarantee that your government will not intervene directly or indirectly, with military, economic, diplomatic, or other pressures, in determining the destiny of the Salvadoran people” (Romero 1998a, 189). While enumerating, condemning and calling for conversion are the proper work of the church, Romero argued that this was not enough. He believed that the church cannot be content to pass judgment as an outsider, but must have a presence in and contribute toward, organizations, programs and processes that offer the best hope for fundamental change along Christian lines. Romero argued that the church must incarnate itself there as well. It must lend its institutional authority to advance their just demands, and at the same time, critique, humanize and inspire them. With regard to the popular organizations engaged in the struggle for justice in El Salvador, he wrote, “There is a more fundamental connection, based on faith, between the church and popular organizations, even if they do not profess to be Christian. The church believes that the action of the Spirit who brings Christ to life in human beings is greater than itself. Far beyond the confines

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of the church, Christ’s redemption is powerfully at work. … The church tries to see the popular organizations in this way in order to purify them, encourage them, and incorporate them, together with the efforts of Christians, into the overall plan of Christ’s redemption” (Romero 1998b, 105). Romero believed in and was particularly committed to an “apostolate of companionship to politically committed Christians” (Sobrino 1990a, 67). He believed that this is an apostolate of the institutional church, and encouraged religious and the clergy not to absent themselves from, but rather to play a critical role in these organizations and programs, regardless of any misunderstanding or criticism that might ensue. He said, “A church that tries to keep itself pure and uncontaminated would not be a church of God’s service to people. The authentic church is one that does not mind conversing with prostitutes and publicans and sinners, as Christ did—and with Marxists and those of various political movements—in order to bring them salvation’s true message” (Dennis, Golden and Wright 2000, 35). He rooted this apostolate and its risks in the New Testament. He wrote, “Those who, in the biblical phrase, would save their lives—that is, those who want to get along, who don’t want commitments, who don’t want to get into problems who want to stay outside of a situation that demands the involvement of all of us—they will lose their lives. What a terrible thing to have lived quite comfortably, with no suffering, not getting involved in problems, quite tranquil, quite settled, with good connections politically, economically, socially—lacking nothing, having everything. To what good? They will lose their lives” (Romero 1998a, 127-128). Romero was often accused of mixing religion with politics and of being more political than religious. He responded to the charges with clarity and passion (Romero 1998b, 182). He argued first and foremost that the reason the church is accused of being political is because it has opted for the “poor in reality” and not the “fictitious poor.” In his words, We have found the real faces of the poor. … we have met landworkers without land and without steady employment, without running water or electricity in their homes, without medical assistance when mothers give birth, and without schools for their children. There we have met factory workers who have no labor rights, and who

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get fired from their jobs if they demand such rights, human beings who are at the mercy of cold economic calculations. There we have met mothers and the wives of those who have disappeared, or who are political prisoners. There we have met the shantytown dwellers, whose wretchedness defies imagination, suffering the permanent mockery of the mansions nearby (Romero 1998b, 179-180).

When economic, political and social structures harm and bring death to God’s people, or in Romero’s words, when “politics touches the altar,” then the church has every right to get involved (Denis, Golden and Wright 2000, 39). The church’s mission is to real human beings, who live in real historical contexts and whose lives are conditioned by economic, political and social structures and systems. Thus, the church must be present, its voice must be heard and its influence must be felt where the fate of human beings is being determined. Romero knew that the words and actions of a church committed to furthering the reality of justice, and not just its idea, would be accused of being political and conflictual. He was also certain that it was not the church that was conflictual, but the sinful social situation which was itself in conflict with God’s intention for creation. Romero believed that the church must not avoid conflict. In his words, “The world of the poor teaches us what the nature of Christian love is, a love that certainly seeks peace but also unmasks false pacifism—the pacifism of resignation and inactivity. … The world of the poor teaches us that the sublimity of Christian love ought to be mediated through the overriding necessity of justice for the majority. It ought not to turn away from honorable conflict” (Romero 1998b, 184). The church’s identification with and its defense of the poor in El Salvador did produce conflict and also the persecution of the church itself. Romero recounted the persecution in his Louvain address: “In less than three years over fifty priests have been attacked, threatened, calumniated. Six are already martyrs—they were murdered. Some have been tortured and others expelled. Nuns have also been persecuted. The archdiocesan radio station and educational institutions that are Catholic or of a Christian inspiration have been attacked, threatened, intimidated, even bombed. Several parish communities have been raided” (Romero 1998b, 181-182). Romero’s life was threatened many times. He was also offered protection many times, but refused saying

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that he would accept protection on the condition that the poor receive the same protection. He not only chose not to pass by those beaten up and left by the side of the road to die, but to stay with them and run all the risks they did until they were healed. And he encouraged the church to do the same (Sobrino 1990a, 33). His profound commitment to accompany the poor in their struggle for justice is captured in his words now famous, I rejoice, brothers and sisters, that our church is persecuted precisely for its preferential option for the poor, and for seeking to become incarnate in the interests of the poor. … How sad it would be, in a country where such horrible murders are being committed, if there were no priests among the victims! A murdered priest is a testimonial of a church incarnate in the problems of the people. … The church suffers the lot of the poor—persecution. It is the glory of our church to have mixed its blood—the blood of its priests, catechists, and communities—with the massacres of the people, and ever to have borne the mark of persecution. … A church that suffers no persecution, but enjoys the privileges and support of the powers of this world—that church has good reason to be afraid! But that church is not the true church of Jesus Christ (Sobrino 1990a, 38).

In sum, in Archbishop Oscar Romero we have an example of church leadership that seeks, not to limit, but to be fully engaged in the struggle to create justice. He did not run from conflict or distance himself from the organized poor, but understood that it was essential to the process of furthering God’s reign in the here and now. It has been said that he was willing to risk not only himself, but the church for the reign of God. That is what the church and we, who educate for justice, are called to today. In sum, the direction for the church, so clearly laid out at Medellín and the prophetic words and actions of Archbishop Romero continue to be moments of grace and leavens for the church worldwide.

Chapter 4 – A University Working for Justice

G

ustavo Gutierrez writes, “There was a time when the Church responded to the questions asked of it with an imperturbable appeal to its doctrinal and institutional traditions. Today, the problem we call liberation is so serious and so widespread that it calls both Christianity and the Church into question. They are being asked to demonstrate their significance when faced with a human problem of such magnitude” (Assmann 1976, 54). While Gutiérrez’s challenge is to the church, it could very well be directed to educational institutions that take their inspiration from the Gospel. Were a Catholic college or university to take this challenge seriously and allow itself to be affected and questioned by the reality of poverty and marginalization today to the point of taking effective action, what would the university look like and what would it do? This is the focus of this chapter. In my judgment, there is no better place to begin our study and analysis than with the Universidad Centroamericana José Simeón Cañas (UCA) in El Salvador.1 It was thoroughly committed to the struggle to effect justice and create peace in El Salvador. And for that commitment it paid the ultimate price: the murder of its Jesuit president, five members of the Jesuit university community and two innocent women who sought safety behind the university walls during the FMLN’s final offensive on November 16, 1989. By examining the UCA, its mission and its attempt to live that mission faithfully in the extreme conditions of poverty and repression in El Salvador, my hope is that Christian and Catholic higher educational institutions in the United States may be inspired and emboldened to become more actively engaged in the struggle to create a more just and peaceful social order.

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The Theological Foundation of the UCA’s Mission

Because the UCA is first and foremost a Catholic university our analysis must begin with the way it defined its mission theologically (Sobrino 1990b, Ellacuría 1990). If there is a principal theological theme that oriented, directed and integrated all of the UCA’s activities it was the presence and the coming of the Kingdom or the Reign of God. The UCA’s leadership believed that ultimately the university did not exist for itself, the church, its students or even El Salvador. Its reason for being was to further God’s Reign as an academic institution in the society of which it was a part and in the global society. The UCA’s leadership was very conscious of the fact that the university is a social force and plays a role in shaping history. Theologically speaking, it could very well be a force for the anti-Kingdom or the Kingdom, an instrument of sin or grace; it could bring more death or life. The university, in short, also possesses an ethical character; its decisions affect the quality of life in society and life and death themselves. One of the challenges facing the UCA was the matter of for whom the social weight and intellectual power of the university should be used and how they might be directed in such a way so as to reduce human suffering and repression. The university’s leadership ultimately decided that in the face of such immense suffering and violence neutrality could be no more an option for the university than for any other institution or individual that professed to be Christian. Just as God chose the poor, the university, institutionally, must also make a preferential option for the poor. Moreover, that option or choice would have to be reflected in the very structure of the university, its research, teaching and social projects. It understood its institutional option for the poor to be grounded in compassion. Jon Sobrino, who was a member of the theology faculty at the UCA, explains that his fellow Jesuits were murdered and the university bombed over sixteen times because they tried to introduce compassion into a society that had become anti-compassionate. He writes, “Knowledge can be orientated by compassion. … it is possible that compassion would be the motivation to think seriously within a university. … it should be the principle which shapes and configures university life” (Sobrino 1991, 6- 7). Reflecting on the lives of the

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murdered Jesuits, Sobrino notes that they were first and foremost men of compassion. Their compassion was evident in both their personal and professional lives. He writes, they “saw a crucified people, and because they saw that, and because they were moved to mercy or compassion, they reacted within the university, and through the university, to heal the wound” (5). The UCA’s leadership believed that in the end the university would be judged not by the number of successful students, its publications or its international reputation, but by whether it was compassionate and contributed toward furthering God’s Reign in El Salvador and the global society. They believed that a Catholic or Christian university must itself become a sign of the Kingdom. Because it is a university, the UCA is dedicated to pursuing truth. Later in this chapter I will discuss how it pursued and exposed the truth specific to the situation in El Salvador. However, before doing that, it is important to highlight how the university’s pursuit of truth was informed by its religious foundation. The UCA understood that the pursuit of truth was integrally related to identifying what would constitute its denial. In El Salvador and throughout the world, the grossest denial of the truth is evident in the treatment of the poor. Because of their race, gender, nation or class the poor are treated as expendable. They are less entitled to life, rights, privileges, power and access to resources than the wealthy and powerful. They live lives of “forced anonymity” (Sobrino 2003, 4). Sobrino contrasts the memorializing of the U.S. soldiers who died in Viet Nam and the victims of 9/11 to the forced anonymity of the poor. He writes, “We have lived it in El Salvador and in Central America, and it is also happening in the African Great Lakes region. The immense majority of victims no longer have names, in fact and (almost) under law, because they are not ‘rich’ but ‘poor.’ They are Salvadorans, Haitians, Rwandans, Congolese. The western world does not care about their names. They are poor people” (4). That their situation is acceptable or even understood as part of God’s design is a fundamental denial of the truth. In Sobrino’s words, “Forced anonymity—a massive, routine, and still common reality—is a quintessentially ungodly act, for God moves us to ‘give names’” (4). Sobrino says, however, that a miracle happened in El Salvador. Archbishop Romero and Ignacio Ellacuría refused to cooperate with the dominant powers and instead

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gave the anonymous poor “titles of dignity” (5). “They called them ‘the suffering servant’ (Isaiah 52:13-543:12), ‘Christ crucified in history,’ ‘the crucified people’” (5). In short, the Christian foundation of the university compelled it to give names to those society would have preferred to remain nameless. In addition to the false anonymity, the UCA leadership argued that truth is denied when the powerful refuse to acknowledge their own link or the causal relationship between their situation and that of the poor and marginalized. They treat suffering as if it were a natural occurrence. The denial of economic, political, social and, most importantly, moral responsibility was unacceptable to the UCA. And finally the UCA challenged the claim that the powerful believe in God. As mentioned above, Sobrino persuasively argued that the god they believe in seems more to resemble the idols of ancient peoples that demanded victims in sacrifice (Sobrino 1991, 3). Given the Gospel admonitions on wealth, the UCA’s association with and dependence on the wealthy itself became problematic. Because the university’s existence and development depended on their resources or the resources they controlled, the UCA’s leadership was concerned that the university could easily lose sight of its Christian mission, be distracted from its work and pressured to comply with their interests and concerns. As a corrective, the university leadership made a decision to come closer to the poor. Ignacio Ellacuría argued that while it was impossible to physically move the university closer to the poor or to admit a greater number of students who were poor (primarily because the poor rarely attain education beyond the primary level) the university, nevertheless, must do its research, teaching and carry on its social projects from the social location of the poor (Burke 1997, 7-8). It would have to find ways to become incarnated among the poor. In his essay, “The University, Human Rights, and the Poor,” Ellacuría wrote that the university must be situated in the “theoretical locus” of the poor (Ellacuría 1991d, 213). Jon Sobrino writes that Ellacuría would say, “we think and write and do research at a desk. That’s why we need university buildings and libraries. We need a physical space, so that with a minimum of tranquility, you can think. But we don’t think from the desk. … we try to think from the crosses of the world” (Sobrino 1991, 9). The UCA leadership believed that the locus of the poor was essential to keep the university focused and faithful to

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its call. In his powerful essay, “The Cost of Speaking the Truth,” Jon Sobrino writes, “What is the place of the university? The place of the church and the university is at the foot of the Cross. … If the Church is not at the foot of the Cross of this world, then tell me where the Church should be. The same thing goes for the university. If our place really is not at the feet of the crucified people, you tell me what we are doing” (Sobrino 1991, 8). And finally, theologically speaking, the mission of the university was to bring the suffering Salvadorans down from their crosses.

The UCA’s Mission: Within Its Walls

Now that I have laid out some of the theology that informed the UCA’s mission, let us turn to the impact it had on the university structure, its teaching, research and social projects. As stated above, the UCA’s leadership clearly understood that the university functioned both as a social force and an ethical force in the society of which it was a part. In El Salvador forty percent of the population lives in poverty, one third lack access to safe drinking water and adequate housing. Sixty percent do not have access to basic health care. And the country’s wealth and power is concentrated in the hands of roughly two percent of the population. El Salvador is also a country in which organized attempts to effect change by the poor consistently met with repression. From the late 1970’s until the Peace Accords were signed in 1992, El Salvador was embroiled in a barbarous civil war. For the UCA’s leadership, this situation reflected a fundamental denial of both reason and truth. They believed that it is unreasonable for the vast majority of human beings in a society to be denied access to the basic goods, services and the power they need to secure their lives and live in dignity. When the powerful in society are indifferent to, or prefer this situation, and take steps to actively prevent the poor from securing their basic human rights, they are not acting rationally. Moreover, they themselves are living in denial—denying the most basic truth of human existence—that human beings have a right to basic necessities to live. The UCA’s leadership believed that were the university to ignore this reality or cooperate with it, the university itself would violate its own reason for existing. The moral choice came down to acting reasonably or unreasonably, preferring the truth or living a lie.

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The UCA, therefore, made the decision to participate institutionally in solving the problem of injustice in El Salvador. In so doing, it chose reason and truth. Having committed itself to this path, the UCA’s leadership had to determine where and how solving the problem of injustice would fit into the work of the university. The question became whether this is tangential to preparing students with the knowledge and skills to participate effectively in society? Ellacuría strongly argued that “the university should not only devote itself formally and explicitly to having the fundamental rights of the poor majorities respected as much as possible, but it should even have the liberation and development of those majorities as the theoretical and practical horizon for its strictly university activities, and it should do so preferentially” (Ellacuría 1991d, 20). In short, solving the problem of injustice in El Salvador was to be the highest priority of the university and integral to all university work. Now to the question of focus. One would assume that the university should concentrate on changing the minds and hearts of its students who would become the future leaders of Salvadoran society. While the UCA’s leadership acknowledged the importance of this, it nevertheless felt that students should not be the sole or primary focus of the university’s work for justice. Because the situation of the poor and marginalized is integrally related to the structural organization of society, their situation cannot be changed without changing the structures. To increase its effectiveness, the university leadership decided to focus its efforts on transforming the structural order (Ellacuría 1991d, 188-189). They reasoned that ultimately it is society that is the beneficiary of university education. While it educates students to enable them to acquire certain knowledge and skills, the knowledge and skills are employed by society. While the UCA’s leadership did not see individual and structural transformation as mutually exclusive or in opposition to each other, the leadership was convinced that it mattered where the university placed its emphasis. Thus, transforming the social order into one that was more just, compassionate and peaceful became the objective that directed and integrated all university activity: its teaching, research and social projects. It is important to point out

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that integration was key for the leadership lest one university activity cancel out the work of another. For the university to take on the work of transforming the social order, it would need to become expert on the Salvadoran reality. The leadership decided that the national reality would need to become the great “learning field” of the university (213). The challenge was for each academic discipline to rethink its discipline from the oppressive reality of the poor and marginalized. Thus the unjust suffering of the poor, its roots and history; the needs and aspirations of the poor; the forces and obstacles to it; and initiatives and the strategies needed for change, would need to become the proper subject of analysis for the disciplines of political science, economics, philosophy, psychology, history, sociology, theology, science, engineering and others. Without this kind of deliberate, critical engagement with Salvador’s oppressive reality, the concern was that university and the disciplines themselves would continue to reproduce the existing social order and serve the existing interests. The goal was to consciously and deliberately separate the university from this oppressive reality so that it might become an instrument for liberation. Ellacuría wrote, “This striving for liberation should be primarily an effort of the university as such, that is, of the whole university structure. It has two essential moments: separating itself as critically and radically as possible from the demands of the system in which it lives and which to some extent is forced to serve (the moment of liberation-from), and turning towards the liberating service of the oppressed majority (the moment of liberation-for). … One cannot serve two masters at the same time. . .” (216-217). Teaching the national reality from the perspective of the poor and marginalized was especially important for students enrolled in the UCA. The UCA itself was founded by the upper class as a “conservative” alternative to the national university which was perceived to have “leftist” and radical leanings. The majority of students at the UCA came from upper class families and would become the future teachers, lawyers, journalist, physicians and public officials—in short, the leaders—of Salvadoran society. One of the concerns of the UCA’s leadership was that it would be the channel through which more privileges would flow to the already privileged, thereby reinforcing the system of privilege (Ellacuría 1991a, 200). They were well aware

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of the fact that the knowledge and skills acquired in universities, and even Catholic universities, have contributed to the exploitation of the poor and marginalized worldwide. By using the national reality as the basis from which even the more technical courses would be taught, their intent was to prepare skilled professionals who would approach the social order critically and ethically. And to give the students greater exposure to this reality, one of the UCA’s requirements for graduation was 600 hours of community service. Ellacuría would say that where students come from is not as important as where they are going (198). Ellacuría was often heard to express the concern that the UCA not contribute to the production of “more predators” (210). The UCA’s decision not to reproduce the unjust social order through the university structure was also reflected in its program and course offerings. This was especially difficult given the fact that El Salvador is an underdeveloped country and desperately in need of skilled professionals. But the leadership reasoned that even its program offerings could promote certain kinds of development over others. Given the country’s preference for meeting the superfluous needs of the rich over the basic needs of the vast majority, they argued that the criteria for deciding which academic programs to offer could not be left to popular demand, market forces, or funding availability. It had to be decided on the basis of what was most needed to promote equitable, sustainable development in El Salvador. The same reasoning carried over to research topics for degree completion. The UCA maintained that a country plagued by poverty, oppression and civil war could not afford the luxury of random research. The university focused research by giving priority to certain research topics and directing students and faculty to them. Among the topics were: agrarian reform, demographics, appropriate technology, educational reform, public health, public housing, socio-political participation, foreign dependence and integration into the global economy. The UCA also encouraged research topics that could be carried on by several departments simultaneously in order to increase the social impact.

The UCA’s Mission: Beyond Its Walls

Just as the knowledge and skills that students acquire in the university contribute to the larger society, the UCA’s leadership understood that

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the university itself had a role to play and a contribution to make toward the larger society. They were convinced that the university has responsibility to enlighten society and serve as its conscience. It should stimulate change and devise concrete plans and models for a more just social order. And finally, it should participate in the process to implement those changes. The UCA referred to all this as the university’s “social projection.” The UCA’s leadership was convinced that its social projection, if exercised effectively in the public arena, would have an even greater impact on social transformation than its teaching of students. While they were convinced that the poor themselves must be the agents of their own liberation and the liberation of Salvadoran society, they nevertheless believed that the university’s resources and power could be enlisted in their struggle. Ellacuría wrote eloquently that “the university should be present intellectually where it is needed: to provide a science for those who have no science, to provide skills for the unskilled; to be a voice for those who have no voice; to give intellectual support for those who do not possess the academic qualifications to promote and legitimate their rights” (Ellacuría 1990, 150). The leadership insisted that while the university’s bias toward the poor and marginalized was reflected in taking their experience as the starting point and their liberation as the end for its social projection, the university’s research and contributions to the public arena must be conducted with impeccable scientific rigor and objectivity. They also believed that its research must draw, as much as possible, from direct contact with the poor and those organized in the struggle for liberation. In the end this would become the basis for publicly criticizing and denouncing the actions of the government, the military and the oligarchy, demanding effective change and proposing appropriate and workable solutions. The UCA’s leadership made a decision to use every forum available to it, including its institutes and centers, academic publications, the press, the media, public symposia, conferences, awards, and testimony before U.S. congressional committees. In an interview with Teresa Whitfield, presidential candidate, Ruben Zamora, who was forced to flee El Salvador until his return in 1987, said that the UCA, and particularly Ellacuría, dared to say things inside the country that no one else had the courage to say (Whitfield 1995, 241).

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The “Social Projection” of the UCA

Ignacio Martín-Baró, S.J., one of the murdered Jesuits, was a socialpsychologist and vice-rector of the UCA. Martín-Baró observed that the polling in El Salvador relied consistently on a very small and elite segment of the population and consequently could be counted on to reflect the dominant ideology. Thus, the accuracy of its data and its interpretation were suspect. To counteract this, Martín-Baró founded the Institute for Public Opinion, IUDOP, under the university’s sponsorship in 1986. Between 1986 and 1989 it conducted 23 national polls, sending teams into the urban and metropolitan areas and the countryside to interview not only the affluent but the poor to insure a broader sampling and more accurate information. IUDOP polled on issues ranging from negotiations to end the war to health issues. The data from IUDOP polls was significant for a number of reasons. It gave support to those positions and individuals that were believed to have been in the minority. IUDOP polls also provided a much needed mirror to Salvadoran society. Finally, they offered evidence and alternate perspectives to observers outside the country. Segundo Montes, S.J., another of the murdered Jesuits, was chair of the UCA’s sociology department and also religious superior of the Jesuit community. In 1985 he founded the university’s Institute for Human Rights, IDHUCA. Unlike Tutela Legal, the archdiocesan human rights office which documented and reported on individual cases of human rights abuses, IDHUCA provided another invaluable service. It studied trends in human rights abuses and the issues that seemed to launch them. Montes’ own research on land tenure, social class, and particularly human rights and refugees won him international reputation. His research led him to the conflictive zones and also to refugee camps in Honduras where he listened to and documented the refugees’ stories of persecution and flight. There he witnessed their indomitable spirit and ingenuity in rebuilding their communities. Inspired by them, Montes often told them they were the hope for peace and the future of El Salvador. Montes often traveled outside El Salvador to present reports at major conferences on the plight of refugees and violations of human rights in El Salvador. Estudios Centroamericanos (ECA) was one of the most important journals of the UCA. Originally, it was a journal of the Central

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American Province of Jesuits. ECA had an international reputation for being the most reliable and the most relevant journal of social science in El Salvador. In her study on the murdered Jesuits, Paying the Price, Teresa Whitfield notes that copies of ECA could be found in offices ranging from the U.S. Embassy to popular organizations to government ministers (Whitfield 1995, 244). In 1969 the journal seemed to take a new direction, devoting the entire issue to the war between El Salvador and Honduras. Then in 1970, ECA came under the direction of the UCA. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J., the president or rector of the UCA, became its editor. Under his leadership ECA developed a reputation for tackling some of the most difficult issues facing El Salvador. After an issue devoted to land tenure and land reform, with an editorial criticizing the government’s capitulation to the oligarchy in 1976, ECA’s offices were bombed. In addition, the university lost its national subsidy. Nevertheless, Ellacuría and the ECA staff refused to be intimidated. They courageously continued to address issues that needed to be addressed, and their editorials continued to speak “truth to power.” In 1980 a Center for Information, Documentation and Support for Research called CIDAI was founded at the university. It published Proceso, a weekly newsletter of social analysis edited by students of Ellacuría. Ellacuría also founded a university forum, Catedra de la Realidad Nacional, at a time when even the suggestion of dialogue with the opposition brought recriminations. This forum was the only place where highly-sensitive issues like a negotiated settlement to the war, election fraud, land reform and others could be openly discussed and debated in El Salvador. And finally, the university created a theological center, now called Centro Monsenor Romero, where seminarians, delegates of the Word, and lay catechists were trained to be a church for, with, and of the poor. Altogether, the university published nine journals. As the independent press was silenced and more and more of the opposition eliminated or forced to flee the country, the UCA’s publications, its institutes, journals and activities played a critical role in El Salvador. They became vehicles for independent voices, some of whom were in

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exile, and they provided sources of reliable information and critical analysis both in and outside the country. Now that I have described the theological basis for the UCA’s mission and how it found concrete expression, it is time to turn to the lessons for U.S. Christian and Catholic institutions of higher education that can be learned from the UCA experience.

Do We Suffer from an Institutional Failure of Nerve?

In a 1978 commencement address to Canisius College, Buffalo, New York, the then Central American Jesuit provincial, César Jerez García, asked the graduates, “Do you plan to use your degree for your own profit, be it profit in the form of money or power, status or respect? Will you end up with General Motors or Morgan Trust, with Chase Manhattan or Abbot Laboratories, with Goodyear or Boeing. … Will you become people who use your knowledge for the furtherance of justice. . .or live the good life of manipulated, unconcerned people in suburbia who grant honorary degrees to people from the Third World but refuse to join them in the fight for justice and liberty for the poor of the world” (O’Brien 1994, 187-188). This question could very well be posed to Christian and Catholic higher educational institutions themselves. Exactly what is the level of our commitment to the struggle for justice? And how might our efforts be deepened and expanded to more closely resemble the extraordinary example set by the UCA? While our institutions seem to devote more attention to social justice issues today, in my judgment, their efforts fall considerably short of the kind of serious critical analysis and engagement required to restructure a fundamentally unjust social order. Education for justice in our institutions has been relatively effective in raising the level of anguish or concern; much less effective in developing critical consciousness; and significantly less effective in developing, promoting and engaging in action that would effect structural and systemic change. We seem to be much more successful at promoting charity and immersion and service experiences. This is precisely the kind of response to injustice that society finds totally acceptable; it leaves the social order essentially unchallenged and unchanged. While it is true that some educators try to promote and engage the academic com-

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munity in advocacy, emphasis should be placed on the word, “try.” Advocacy is usually approached with utmost caution and timidity for fear of offending, appearing biased, taking sides or being political. David O’Brien attributes the well-meaning but rather ineffective response to structural injustice on the part of educational institutions to the segregation of the academic from the religious (195-209). He argues that it goes well beyond what is needed to insure academic integrity. Christian and Catholic academic institutions have a religious tradition that should inspire and call them institutionally to social responsibility. They also have the intellectual and political resources that can be harnessed to effect change. In short, there is every reason for them to be engaged institutionally in building a more just social order. O’Brien believes our institutions suffer from a “failure of nerve” the result of which is a marginalization of the religious in our institutions and what amounts to institutionalizing political and civic irresponsibility (195). While I believe O’Brien’s insight is essentially correct, in my judgment, Christian academic institutions have been able to avoid their responsibility because of something much more fundamental. They have nothing to decenter themselves. That is, they have nothing to pull them out of their preoccupation with their own narrow interests and concerns. Their failure of nerve, I would argue, has to do with a failure to enter into sustained, committed relationships, on levels other than charity, with the poor and marginalized and particularly those Ellacuría called, the “poor with spirit,” the organized poor who actively resist injustice and work to create a more just order. It can simply be said that while our educational institutions may use the language of making a preferential option for the poor, in reality that preferential option remains, for the most part, on the level of ideals, good intentions and charity. I would also argue that the failure of nerve is evident on another level: our institutions are reluctant to support and promote genuine praxis, that is, education within and beyond its walls that truly integrates critical reflection and critical action. Some might say that service learning on their campuses is a form of praxis. I will argue later in this chapter that, in my judgment, service learning is a far cry from praxis. Suffice it to say here that the action component of service learning,

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with rare exception, is service, not critical intervention in society to effect change. I also take issue with the position that the university must start somewhere, that service is the obvious place to start and that service will eventually lead to critical action. From my experience, this is not necessarily the case. Service sets up the wrong dynamic from the very start, and for the most part, leads to only more service. While the education and action for justice in which we and our educational institutions now engage may be first steps, they are precisely that: first steps. We must not be satisfied with or settle for them. The real test, in fact the only test, for measuring the effectiveness of our efforts is whether they result in changes in the institutional arrangements that keep the poor and marginalized poor and marginalized. In other words, the real test is the actual difference made in the situation and life chances of the oppressed. Our efforts, if not critiqued and taken to deeper levels, can easily become stopgaps, substituting good will and charity for the kind of engagement, critical analysis, strategizing, mobilizing and sustained public and political action that is demanded by the Gospel and required by the oppressive situation.

What Has the UCA to Teach Us?

Before answering the above question, it is important to point out something that may not be very obvious. The responsibility to educate for justice and to promote justice in and through the UCA was not the assignment a few faculty, a vice-president for mission, a department or a center. There were no justice education courses. Rather, the responsibility to educate for justice within the university, El Salvador and the global society was integral to the way the UCA defined itself and its work as a Catholic university in a society characterized by massive poverty and oppression. Now to two insights that were key to the UCA’s transformation that I believe are essential for North American colleges and universities committed to the pursuit of justice and peace. First, the UCA institutionally made a preferential option for the poor. It chose to come closer to them geographically, intellectually emotionally, spiritually and politically. It chose to know them and allow itself to be affected by their suffering and struggle. While the UCA identified with those who were beaten up and left for dead alongside the road, it took even more of

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a risk. It put itself in relationship with those who were organized and engaged in the struggle against oppression, “the poor with spirit.” It stayed with the poor and the poor with spirit even in the face of being misunderstood, threatened and persecuted. And because it did, the university discovered how its resources and power might specifically be used to restore compassion, justice and peace in Salvadoran society. It is no exaggeration to say that the poor truly entered the university’s mind and heart. They converted the university. Secondly, the UCA took risks not only in its relationships but also by engaging in praxis, that is, by engaging in critical reflection and critical intervention in society. Jon Sobrino argues that the university’s knowledge changed from being descriptive to becoming liberative. (Sobrino 1990b, 164). As described above, the national reality became the great learning field of the university in its curriculum, forums, research, publications and outreach. Its praxis was not limited to the university community; it reached far beyond its walls to Salvadoran society and even the global society. Because of its praxis, the university itself became a powerful “player” in the struggle for economic, political and social justice. It became an agent of life. And finally, in giving its life, as the Gospel bids, the university found its own life. In the pages that follow, I will examine in more detail the importance of these two great lessons for our colleges and university and their own institutional transformation and the transformation of the larger society.

Keeping New Company: “The Poor with Spirit”

In Beyond Our Tribal Gods, Ronald Marstin takes issue with the commonly accepted definition of mature faith. He argues that we tend to define mature faith “in terms of a keener sensitivity to injustice but not in terms of taking action to change things, or in terms of some broadened ‘community of identification’ that doesn’t demand of the comfortable any real change in the circumstances of our lives. This is consciousness‑raising without vulnerability” (127). He asks whether we should measure change by changes in our mind or changes in society. In his words, “while the idea of justice may involve a change of consciousness, the reality will involve a change of society. And

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changes in our minds need not wait upon changes in the world…. It will matter little if, as the mind grows and the visions expand, the social structure itself remains unchanged. If we do not take hold of the reality of justice it will matter little that we have taken hold of the idea” (51). Marstin’s analysis, I believe, is correct. It is all too easy for the university, teachers and students to fall into the trap of thinking that because they now know more about injustice, injustice is somehow lessened, and the world is a better place because we are now more informed. We assume that because we talk about injustice, condemn it, offer a careful analysis of its roots, or proclaim the need for justice, we have done something about it. But, as Marstin argues, in reality all we have really done is talk about it. In short, our efforts to educate for justice suffer not from saying too much, but from doing too little. Marstin is eloquent on this point. It is well to remember that an extensive and well-funded industry—the knowledge industry—exists in large part to provide the necessary skills for dealing intellectually with the world’s pain. The main problem is not that our colleges, classrooms, libraries, and study circles fail to acknowledge the justice issues. In liberal circles at any rate, our course lists and bookshelves are filled with discussion of these themes. But that is precisely the problem: while the situation cries out for action we continue the endless round of discussion, all the time convinced that in our wordy concern we are really addressing the issues. We are not. We are avoiding them. Our failure to take the kind of action that might change an oppressive situation results less from any failure to consider the oppression or to be concerned about it than from our uncanny ability to keep channeling our outrage into a flow of words (52).

The key issue here is how to link talk about injustice with effective action for justice. We who educate for justice have no idea that anything more, or even what more, is called for on our part. That is precisely because, like the institutions of which we are a part, we not in relationship with the poor with spirit who are struggling against injustice. At a safe geographical and emotional distance from them there is no reason for their suffering, demands and agenda to have any claim on our

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educational efforts (Marstin 127). The argument for the necessity to be in relationship with the oppressed and those who are struggling for justice is not new; it was called for by the Latin American liberation theologians, by Oscar Romero in his speeches and homilies, and by the UCA Jesuits, martyred for their efforts to effect structural change. In short, for those who would commit themselves to more than promoting the idea of justice, that is, making justice a reality in our world today, it is essential to venture beyond the walls of our institutions to build relationships of solidarity with communities struggling for justice. Until we are willing to take this risk, we will stay prisoners of our own perceptions, caught up in our own agendas, and never really contribute to furthering justice in more than words and good deeds. Over the years, I have taught courses in social ethics that address the struggle of the poor in the Third World and the U.S. to achieve liberation and I have also taught courses on the theory and practice of justice education. I often use powerful documentaries to put a human face to the issues we are analyzing. Two documentaries are particularly significant: Eyes On the Prize, the famous chronicle of the Civil Rights movement, and El Salvador: Portraits in a Revolution, that captures the journey of Salvadoran refugees returning home from U.N. refugee camps in Honduras (Eyes on the Prize 1989; El Salvador 1992). They have helped me to better understand the significance of the above critique for freeing justice education from “the arena of ideas, good intentions, and moral anguish” (Marstin 57). The powerful image that I would like to highlight from Eyes On the Prize is the Montgomery Bus Boycott. We see not just the poor but the poor with spirit, mostly women, maids, hospital aides, janitors, groundskeepers, nursing home attendants, cleaning women, childcare workers—all walking for more than a year through hot, cold, and rainy weather to work. The image is of “unimportant people” speaking not so much with words, but with their feet, the truth of their personal dignity and the righteousness of their cause. They refused in the thousands, through every weary step they took, to allow anyone, including the most powerful and intimidating individuals and institutions of their day, to define them as anything less than they were in the sight of God. Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded these marchers and others time and again that through their action, that is, through

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their non‑violent resistance they would see and experience more clearly than ever the violence of racism. Its evil would be brought out into the open for them and for all the world to see. There would be no denying it. Moreover, he told them that their resistance would provide an opportunity for them individually and collectively to discover the depths of their own and one another’s character. After this experience, sisterhood and brotherhood would never be simply a beautiful ideal or idea. It would lose any abstract quality it once had for them and become tangible. They also would come to know, more profoundly than ever, what God’s mercy and justice are about and learn to trust in God as never before. In his study, Martin and Malcolm and America, James Cone argues that it was precisely the risks, the courage and the faith of these “unimportant people” that moved Martin Luther King, Jr. himself to accept and embrace the position of leadership in the Civil Rights Movement (Cone 1991, 87). Another powerful image of the poor with spirit comes from El Salvador a few years short of the end to that savage twelve-year civil war. It is of thousands of Salvadoran refugees, again mostly women and children, walking home to El Salvador from Honduras, their meager possessions tied to their backs or loaded on donkeys or flat bed trucks tipping from the weight. They were walking not in safety, but in war (their march itself declared illegal by the Salvadoran government). These refugees suffered no illusions. They knew, all too well, as only those who have been victimized do, the very real possibility of hunger, exhaustion, being shot at, wounded, killed, tortured or raped. Yet they freely chose to return to El Salvador to dare to rebuild their lives and their communities. Their long walk, like the Montgomery Bus Boycott, was a profound expression of faith in themselves and in their God. It expressed their deepest longing and determination, despite what would seem to be insurmountable odds to build a more just social order in the midst of war. It was a profound expression of their trust in a God of mercy and justice, who they believed, hears the cries of the poor. Like Martin Luther King, Jr., Father Segundo Montes took inspiration for his academic work and his faith from these “spirited” people. He visited their refugee camps in Honduras, documented their stories of terror and flight, and recorded the economic, social political, and faith

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communities they created out of nothing. He became a leading expert internationally on human rights and the plight of refugees and became their advocate. From his association with these communities, he came to believe that they were the hope for peace and for reconstructing El Salvador itself. Montes often said that he personally derived hope from them at times when the situation seemed most hopeless. Montes encouraged them in their desire to return home, telling them that they would be a sign to all El Salvador that it was possible to create a qualitatively different kind of social order. There are several things I find striking in both of these examples. The first is the public expression of faith in one another and God and its relationship to their determination to create justice, love, hope, and peace. I am also struck by the fact that the faith of both pastor and priest/sociologist is deepened and sustained by their relationship with these poor with spirit. Because of that relationship, unimagined opportunities to use their talents and influence in the concrete struggle to create a more just social order presented themselves. In addition, they articulate theologically, politically, economically, socially, and in the case of Montes, sociologically, what they see taking place. While we identify the Civil Rights Movement with the leadership and inspiration of Martin Luther King, Jr., the movement would have never been possible without the hundreds of thousands of spirited people marching, going to jail, demonstrating, and risking their lives and their family’s lives day in an day out. It bears repeating that both King and Montes made a decision to come closer to these communities, and in so doing, they received new eyes to see what was before them all along and new understanding (Sobrino 1994, 145-152). They found themselves enlisted in the struggle for justice in ways they would have never anticipated, which, in turn, gave new meaning and direction to their lives, their professions, and the institutions of which they were a part. Ronald Marstin captures this perfectly when he writes, “as long as we move habitually within the circles of privilege we are insulated from the experience of the poor. Closed to that experience, there is no reason to anticipate that we should be touched by the expectations of the poor, instructed by their perceptions, caught up in their agenda or drawn in any sustained fashion into the companionship of those laboring to build the just society. . . Our perception of things is a social

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rather than a purely individual construction. Consequently, we can break out of it only in the course of a different kind of social interaction. . . we can come to a new vision only in a new companionship. We grow in understanding only as we are touched by the experience of those whose experience has never before touched us (128-9). Thus, our best source for critique and also for restructuring our educational efforts to make them more effective lies in entering into a different kind of social interaction with the poor and marginalized. New visions, new models and new methodologies require new companionship (129). Sharon Welch reflects on the effect that relationships with communities struggling for justice have had on Latin American liberation theology. She argues that it has produced a distinctively different model of theology that is both based in liberating communities and committed to the process of liberation (Welch 1985, 33-78). Based in these communities, the purpose of the theologian’s work becomes fundamentally practical: freeing them from the specific oppressive situation and creating one that is more just. Because its point of reference is the community and its specific struggle for justice, the theologian evaluates his/her research, writing and teaching by the specific changes they effect and/or the possibilities they open for more effective reflection and action. In short, their effect on the concrete reality becomes the basis for new thought, words and action. Welch points out that the liberation theologians are committed to participate in, and contribute to, the process of change. Their skills are honed and refined in the process of struggling for the liberation of specific communities. Words like solidarity, compassion, justice, peace and salvation—as well as their opposites—lose their abstract quality and take concrete form and meaning in and through the struggle for justice itself. In short, the communities themselves and their struggle become a base from which to do theological reflection and deepen Christian commitment and action. Welch argues that “liberation is not merely a matter of will and thought, but of practice and power, a matter of the transformation of systems of language and behavior that imprison us. . .”(84). The implications for justice education are profound. While our efforts in and through our institutions have focused almost exclusively on will

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and thought, will and thought that are not grounded in experience must be suspect. In addition, there is the matter of power, specifically, how the power we possess individually, collectively and institutionally might be enlisted in the struggle to effect change. Were we to look critically at our educational discourse on issues of social justice, we would notice that our discussion and analysis tend to stay at a level of abstraction, generalization and detachment. More often than not, we begin our discussion with ethical principles and then move toward their application to case studies. Rarely do we begin with the actual experiences of poor and marginalized communities. Their names, their stories, the situation in their communities, the particulars of how they are robbed of their lives, dignity and power; the specific institutions, policies and practices the powerful use to insure their interests and deny them theirs; and their hopes and dreams, acts of resistance, victories and defeats and the strategy and concrete steps that must be taken to restore justice—those seemingly insignificant details are all left out. Suffering, evil, hope and liberation are not abstract ideas. Moreover, the discussion and analysis in our courses and programs do little to move us toward solidarity with the oppressed in their struggle. Because our study and analysis are not grounded in specific communities, they take on a theoretical tone, thereby producing a theoretical claim on us. This is not to argue against analysis, but to say that analysis that is not grounded in communities who suffer injustice and actively resist it has a better chance of producing detached observers rather than committed, engaged participants in the struggle for liberation. And the point is to educate not for more information about injustice, though that is an important and necessary step, but for engagement and mobilization in the struggle to overcome it. While issues of justice are matters of life and death to those who suffer, the sense of urgency, more often than not, is lost on us. Educators and their institutions rest content thinking that that they have done their part by exposing students to social problems or issues. Action is left to good will. For oppressed and marginalized communities injustice is not a theoretical matter; it is their lived experience. No one need convince them of the urgency with which it must be addressed. In relationship with them, faced with their suffering, courage and

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determination we have a better chance of taking the kind of action demanded by the situation. Our relationship with these communities serves as a constant reminder of the ultimate purpose of our educational efforts: to build a more compassionate, just and peaceful global society. This relationship helps us see more clearly what our own interests and commitments truly are as well as the interests and commitments of our institutions (Sobrino 1994, 145-152). We begin to shift loyalties. In relationship with them, personal ambition for its own sake—making a name for ourselves, traveling in the right circles, going to the right conferences, giving the right papers, publishing in the right journals—become unworthy pursuits. It is not a matter of losing interest in academic work, but rather taking steps to insure that academic work advances the struggle for justice. In relationship with these communities, the choices that we make individually, collectively and institutionally are heightened and take on a more ethical character. They free us to make the choices that need to be made. And as Jon Sobrino argues, we begin to recover our humanity and the humanity of our institutions (Sobrino 1994, 150-1). In short, a relationship with these communities creates opportunities to make real and practical the faith we profess.

Praxis Is Not Service

David O’Brien argues that the church and educational institutions are a little more skillful at propheticism and critique than they are at the practice of effecting social change. He writes, “Yet choices will be made. In a democratic society everyone is responsible for those choices, especially when they have moved, as so many Catholics have, from the margins to the center of society. Peacemaking (as opposed to war avoidance), and justice creation (as distinct from protest and agitation), and political responsibility (as opposed to a religious ‘culture of complaint’) all require such choices—a never-ending process of dialogue, negotiation, coalition building, and reform, an ongoing ‘new American experiment’” (O’Brien 1994, 200). I would argue that opportunities to engage in what Paulo Freire calls “praxis,” that is, critical reflection and critical intervention in society, are made possible by putting ourselves institutionally in relationship with these communities. This was certainly true for the UCA.

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While many of us who are involved in education for justice are drawn to Paulo Freire’s theory and method of education, I believe Freire is frequently misunderstood. As mentioned above, service learning is often equated with praxis. In my judgment, the choice of community service is itself problematic for education that has as its end restructuring the social order. Under the rubric of “serving the underserved,” educators use the “service” experience to give students first-hand experience of how the poor live. Students take van trips into the inner city once or twice a week or week-long semester break trips to poor rural areas in the United States or poor areas in the Third World. The service they perform includes tutoring, preparing meals and distributing food, repairing habitat houses, visiting the sick and elderly and doing tasks for social agencies that are usually done by volunteers. They return to campus with eyes opened wide, feeling bad that so many people have to live that way, surprised that the people they “served” treated them so nicely, feeling good about “giving back” to society and resolving to volunteer after college for a year or more and build volunteering into their adult lives. In my judgment, service—including the term itself—is fundamentally flawed. The term itself implies that the haves make a gift of their time and talent to the have nots; they “do” for those who cannot “do” for themselves. In serving the so-called “underserved” we, who I presume are “well-served,” humble ourselves by doling out services from our abundant reserve. The following assumptions implicit in service are also seriously flawed. The first is that the poor are in need of the services of the rich. The second is that the rich know which services the poor need and can give them what they need. The third is that the poor cannot “do” for themselves, much like very young child, or a physically or mentally incapacitated person. The fourth is that one-on-one services will make a difference in the social conditions of the poor and marginalized. Or as my students say, even if they are not improving the situation, at least they are making things a little better for one person, and it’s better to do something rather than nothing. Fifth, service proves to both donors and recipients that there really are good people “out there” who care. And sixth, serving and services are what the Gospel calls us to.

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In reality, community service leaves everything just about the same as it was before the visitors arrived. Neither the situation of the oppressed nor the oppressors—Freire’s terms—has changed. In fact, I believe that the services have helped to further entrench the rich and the poor in their respective situations. The rich can continue to innocently exploit through the structures and systems of society and make a “killing” doing it, and they can also feel good about themselves because they’ve lent a helping hand by volunteering a few hours a week. Those few hours of volunteer time can do more to shore up the system of injustice than address it. Kindness can become a substitute for moral outrage. Service can also contribute to the dominant ideology that the poor and marginalized have no one to blame but themselves for their situation. If the poor happen to be children, they are simply unlucky or unfortunate having been born into the wrong circumstances. It is their parents’ responsibility to do something about the situation. The rich consider themselves thoroughly blessed, smart and enterprising for taking advantage of all they have been given. Service is their way of “giving back” to society. In the end, it is “unfortunate” that things are the way they are. At least they, the volunteers, are doing their part to make life a little better for some people. Whether it is intentional or not, service can act as a stop gap. From my experience working with students in a service-learning capacity, service can get in the way of probing deeper and doing the difficult critical analysis of why all “those people” need our services and why there never seem to be “enough” volunteers, food and housing. Service is also very time-consuming. The tutoring experience, for example, keeps tutors so focused on the immediate task that there is little time, energy or interest either to critically examine the inequity of our educational system or organize to change it. Why is it, for example, that so few rich kids need the services of volunteer tutors or drop out of middle school and high school? Why do so many families, with one or more parents working full-time, some holding down two jobs, have to rely on soup kitchens and food pantries at the end of the month. Or why is there such a shortage of decent, affordable housing, and houses that can be brought up to a livable standard only with the help of crews of volunteers? If and when we get to those questions, the analysis and any action that flows from it, pale in comparison with the

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good feelings we get from “pitching in.” And we look for even more opportunities to volunteer, as if we never did the analysis. In short, volunteering is intoxicating. It is socially sanctioned. Why wouldn’t it be? It keeps the oppressive structure, the oppressors, and the victims all in their proper places. All the well-meaning service in the world cannot substitute for the kind of action required to effect structural and systemic change. And it can easily become a substitute for the time-consuming organizing, strategizing, mobilizing, confronting, reconstituting and negotiating that is part and parcel of action for justice. Action for justice does not fit neatly into weekday afternoons from 3 to 5 p.m., weekends, or a week during Fall or Spring semester breaks. It is time-consuming and demands flexibility. Two-week advance notices for a meeting or action are a rarity. It requires entering into relationships with strangers and power brokers. It is not always pleasant or satisfying and often frustrating and exasperating. Effective action requires a significant amount of research, not necessarily the kind found on-line or in a library, but through lots of conversations, interviews, and careful reading and analysis of newspapers, journals, reports, etc. Heavy doses of persistence, stamina, ingenuity, courage, boldness, creativity and risk-taking are also needed. It is hard-work, not for the faint of heart or those easily intimidated or discouraged. In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire makes a distinction between false generosity and true generosity, or false charity and true charity (Freire 1972, 27-56). He argues that oppressors are really not interested in changing an oppressive situation principally because it serves their interests. Charity is their way of softening the situation and giving the appearance of being genuinely concerned. He argues that the oppressed, the objects of the oppressors’ exploitation, now become the objects of their philanthropy. In addition, because charity does nothing to fundamentally alter the situation of injustice, it enables it to continue indefinitely. Consequently, there is an endless supply of opportunities for oppressors to exercise philanthropy. This, according to Freire, is false charity. False charity operates on the assumption that the social order is basically sound. Those who do not succeed are essentially misfits who deviate from society’s norms. With proper adjustment of attitudes and social

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skills and improvement in basic work skills, there is a chance that they can be made to fit in. Thus, charity and social service programs are useful in this effort. If society’s “misfits” do not succeed, even with the generous assistance available to them, society can legitimately discard them. Freire also points out that it is much less costly for society to adjust the consciousness of the oppressed, who are already convinced that they are inferior beings, than to transform the social order into one that is more just. False generosity or charity, Freire argues, focuses attention on individuals, conveniently ignoring the fact that whole social classes, races, a gender or nations are “misfit.” While they appear to be out of the mainstream of society, Freire claims that in reality they are not and never have been. They have always been inside, generating resources, labor and wealth for their oppressors. The difference between false charity and true charity in Freire’s words is, “False charity constrains the fearful and subdued, the ‘rejects of life,’ to extend their trembling hands. True generosity lies in striving so that these hands—whether of individuals or entire peoples—need be extended less and less in supplication, so that more and more they become human hands which work and, working, transform the world” (29). True charity or generosity begins with the premise that something is fundamentally wrong with a social order that generates so much suffering and inequity, a society which turns human beings into objects to be used when needed and then easily discarded. The social situation prevents them from acting as subjects, that is, from exercising their own power and realizing the fullness of their potential. It is also responsible for distorting the relationship of human beings to one another. That relationship cannot be restored without changing the social situation. This is an important point. If it is true, as I have argued above, that the relationship in the service experience between the volunteer and those they “serve” is fundamentally distorted, according to Freire, that relationship can be corrected only with entering into a different kind of relationship—one that would require effort to transform the social situation. Now, according to Freire, those who exercise true charity also recognize that the social situation is not given or static; it is unfinished and is

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always in process. It is made and remade by human beings. Moreover, they believe that it is the ontological vocation of all human beings to be subjects, that is to shape and reshape their social reality so that it becomes more just and humane. When human beings are prevented from exercising their power they are robbed of a fundamental human right. Those who exercise true charity, therefore, are convinced that the oppressed still have the capacity to shape the social reality and to act as subjects; no one need do it for them. Freire argues that “the power to create and transform, even when thwarted in concrete situations, tends to be reborn. And that rebirth can occur—not gratuitously, but in and through the struggle for liberation” (79). In the process of transforming the social order, the oppressed reclaim their subjectivity and cease to be objects for the oppressors. They become beings for themselves. In other words, they speak and act in their own names; they find their voice and their power. Moreover, by preventing their oppressors from turning them and all that exists into objects to generate more wealth and power for the oppressors, the oppressed liberate not only themselves, but the oppressors as well. As mentioned above, the aim of those who practice true charity is not to change the social order for the oppressed. They do not know the social order and its effects in the same way the oppressed do, nor do they possess the same interests, passion, knowledge or vision. True charity, Freire argues, requires that the non-poor enter into a dialogical relationship with the oppressed. This is virtually impossible to achieve, however, if they set themselves apart from them, perceive themselves to be superior, pretend to know the answers and solutions to social injustice, believe themselves to be self-sufficient or fear for their position or interests. In Freire’s words, “Someone who cannot acknowledge himself to be as mortal as everyone else still has a long way to go before he can reach the point of encounter. At the point of encounter there are neither utter ignoramuses nor perfect sages; there are only men who are attempting, together, to learn more than they now know” (79). In the dialogical relationship, with the oppressed the non-poor critically learn, act and struggle to transform both the objective situation and the awareness of it and thereby encounter “the emergence of the awareness of our full humanity, as a condition and as an obligation, as a situation and as a project” (82). True charity

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then, according to Freire, consists in entering into solidarity with and fighting along side the oppressed as they struggle to bring a more just and humane order into being. Because the oppressive situation absorbs not only the oppressed but everyone and everything around it, liberation from it and liberation of it require a radical change in consciousness and action. This is why critical pedagogy or praxis, the integration of critical reflection and critical action, are key in the process of liberation. Education, according to Freire, is never a neutral process; it either maintains the social order or challenges it. It is either the practice of slavery or freedom. Freire argues that traditional education has as its goal preparing students to fit into the social order. Overlooked is the fact that it prepares them to fit into an order that is fundamentally unjust. Critical pedagogy or praxis then, takes the unjust social order and the historical struggle to transform it as its starting point and its educational project. It aims to humanize that social order. Freire argues that the objective conditions that are responsible for destroying the lives of the oppressed by turning them into objects for others and submerging their consciousness, must be unmasked. Through praxis the oppressed confront their social reality. They dialogically analyze and objectify it so as to separate themselves from it, see it more clearly for what it is and what it does to them and others. And they act on it to transform it and then return to analysis and action again and again. It is important to point out that in Freire’s pedagogical theory and method, critical action or intervention in the social order to transform it is not an optional activity or something one does after completing one’s education. Freire convincingly argues that critical analysis is for the purpose of critical action. Analysis finds its power in the action it produces. If it produces no action, then it is a useless exercise and becomes a substitute for liberating action. Moreover, the social reality once analyzed presents itself to the oppressed as an ethical obligation; their own freedom and humanity hang in the balance. Freire also argues that critical perception itself is embodied in critical action (89). In acting to change the social reality the oppressed discover that that reality was only partially known or understood. In the process of recreating their social reality they come into new knowledge which was inaccessible to them before, without

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their action. It, in turn, becomes the basis for new knowledge and new action. In short critical knowledge goes hand-in-hand with critical action. They are mutually dependent on one another and part and parcel of the same critical pedagogical process. Freire writes, “Within the word we find two dimensions, reflection and action, in such radical interaction that if one is sacrificed—even in part—the other immediately suffers. . .When a word is deprived of its dimension of action, reflection automatically suffers as well; and the word is changed into idle chatter, into verbalism, into an alienated and alienating ‘blah.’… if action is emphasized exclusively, to the detriment of reflection, the word is converted into activism” (75-76). Freire’s distinction between false charity and true charity is particularly helpful for educators and educational institutions committed to furthering justice. To become an instrument of liberation, a different kind of pedagogy is needed; namely, one that integrates critical reflection on, and critical intervention in, the social order. They feed and depend on one another. In addition, if we are to enter into solidarity with the oppressed, our analysis and action cannot be done in isolation from specific communities who are struggling for justice. Our analysis and action become true and empowering when they are grounded in these communities and contribute toward liberating action. Moreover, critical analysis imposes a moral obligation on us to act in solidarity with the oppressed. Acting tests the depth of our individual, collective and institutional commitment, serves as a check for analysis, creates real opportunities for further analysis, action, and solidarity and contributes toward the actual creation of a more just social order. In sum, how much suffering is needed to convince us that the inherited educational forms are ineffective? If educators and their educational institutions are to do more than proclaim or talk about justice, if they are truly committed to the creation of justice, then they must come to terms with the limits of their own institutions, theories and methods. In short, they need to take risks. This is not to say that they should be academically any less serious or rigorous. But, like the UCA, they need to seek out new relationships, new teachers, new theories and methods, and new sites from which they can, not only learn about, but participate in the creation of a more just and compassionate social order.

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Note 1

Teresa Whitfield’s, Paying the Price: Ignacio Ellacuría and the Murdered Jesuits of El Salvador and Charles J. Beirne’s, Jesuit Education and Social Change in El Salvador were invaluable resources for this section.

Chapter 5 – The Poor with Spirit: The Local Connection

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n Directions in Catholic Social Ethics, Charles Curran writes, “Alinsky-style people’s organizations are the most distinctive approach to social justice involvement by the Catholic Church in the United States in the last few decades” (Curran 1985, 147). He notes, however, that despite the fact that they receive substantial support from the Catholic Campaign for Human Development (CCHD) they are not as well known as they should be in the Catholic community. Speaking from my own experience of trying to keep one foot in the academic world of theology, ethics and justice education and the other in an Alinsky people’s organization, I am convinced of a number of things with regard to them. The first is that the poor with spirit are not a third world phenomenon; these organizations are a very clear example of the poor with spirit in the U.S. Secondly, there is something profoundly religious taking place in and through these organizations in their effort to secure justice. Theologians, ethicists and justice educators need to attend to this. And thirdly, these organizations and others like them may be instrumental in overcoming our institutional failure of nerve. By putting ourselves in relationship with them we may begin to come to terms with both the urgency and demands of creating a more just social order. We may better identify opportunities for ourselves, our students and our institutions to be enlisted in that effort. And finally, we may come to understand what adopting a preferential option for the poor, in more than theory, might mean. In the pages that follow I will share some of my experiences, observations and analysis of these organizations. My hope is that it will lend support to a truth that Romero, the UCA martyrs, and the theologians from whom I’ve drawn share; namely, that new understanding, new ways of acting, new ways of being individuals and institutions committed to furthering justice

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come through entering into and keeping new company, particularly the company of the poor with spirit. For more than a decade I have been an active member of an Alinsky broad-based organization, Philadelphia Interfaith Action (PIA). PIA is an organization of about thirty congregations and associations. It is an independent, non-partisan, multi-racial, multi-faith, and multi-issue city-wide organization. Its purpose, according to its mission statement, is “to build a powerful vehicle in the voluntary sector of society that is able to relate to and negotiate with the public and private sectors on issues that impact the city and region.” (Philadelphia Interfaith Action 1998). PIA is one of more than sixty organizations throughout the United States affiliated with the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF), which was founded by Saul Alinsky in 1940. I came upon the IAF through a good friend, Reverend John McNamee, a Roman Catholic pastor, who has given his life to working with the poor in one of the most blighted areas of Philadelphia. I knew that most inner-city churches had extensive social service programs for the poor, but I was interested in researching where and how they were involved in effecting social change in these areas. McNamee told me that for about three years a group of Protestant and Catholic pastors had been in regular conversation with the IAF, were raising funds and generating interest among other inner-city pastors to create an IAF organization in Philadelphia. He had great hopes for this organization. In fact, he said it was his last hope; if the Industrial Areas Foundation couldn’t organize the poor communities in Philadelphia to reclaim their lives and their neighborhoods, no one could. PIA, at this writing, is now well‑established and has a successful track record effecting change in Philadelphia. For example, it built 135 Nehemiah homes. These are affordable homes for working poor, first-time home buyers. It identified, pressured and worked with the city to clean, seal and demolish over 800 vacant buildings. It cleaned up industrial sites and vacant, tire-strewn lots. It shut down dozens of crack houses and towed more than 1,500 abandoned cars. PIA initiated and led a successful political campaign to remove and replace an ineffective police commissioner. In an effort to link low-wage workers with living-wage work and keep remaining manufacturers from leaving the Philadelphia area, PIA recruited over 1,000 workers who were trapped in low-wage

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jobs, for Philadelphia Area Accelerated Manufacturing Education, Incorporated (PhAME), an intensive year-long machinist job-training program. When those same workers started dropping out of the program because they could not keep up with the training and hold down one or more evening jobs to support their families, PIA brokered $7 million in state funding for stipends to assist them. After a campaign lasting more than three years, PIA helped develop and won passage of the $300 million Neighborhood Transformation Initiative (NTI), the boldest initiative of any major industrial city in the U.S, to rebuild its blighted neighborhoods. As mentioned above, PIA is part of a network of about sixty organizations affiliated with the Industrial Areas Foundation (IAF). While the IAF has gone through major reorganization since Saul Alinsky’s death in l972, it still subscribes to his organizational theory and practice, beginning with his basic tenet that power concedes nothing without demand. Before analyzing the modern‑day IAF, however, it might be helpful to go back to its roots, and briefly tell the story of who Alinsky was, what he stood for, what he did and how he did it.

Saul Alinsky, the Father of Community Organizing

Saul Alinsky is often referred to as the “dean of modern community organizing.” 1 He founded the Industrial Areas Foundation in 1940. It is today the largest and arguably the most effective organizer of community organizations in the United States. Alinsky was born into a Chicago, lower middle income, Orthodox Jewish family in 1909. Alinsky’s son attributes his father’s passion for justice to his mother, Sarah Tannenbaum, who taught him that individuals have to be responsible for one another and that one cannot walk away from injustice (Media Process Educational Films & Chicago Video Project 1999). Alinsky’s thinking about the roots of poverty and how it should be addressed, however, were influenced by two of his undergraduate teachers at the University of Chicago, Robert Ezra Park and E. W. Burgess, both sociologists who were breaking new ground in their field. Park and Burgess were known for their “social disorganization” theory of urban poverty and also for developing new methods of collecting sociological data. While many social theorists at the time

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attributed poverty to heredity, Park and Burgess argued that poverty and its associated problems were due, not to heredity, but to the social environment of the slum. They believed that the slum itself produced certain “disorganizational” social and physical pathologies. Burgess, who specialized in delinquency, identified certain areas of Chicago as high delinquency areas and argued that even as one immigrant group replaced another, they remained high delinquency areas. Robert Park maintained that while the city was made up of economic, political, and social institutions, it also had traditions, customs, attitudes and sentiments which shaped the city’s residents and its institutions. The city had “internal” as well as an “external” character. He also argued that neighborhoods were vital units of the city. In neighborhoods, city residents developed their contacts and attachments. Therefore, any study of cities, Park held, must address their external and internal character and the dynamic and contribution of neighborhoods to them. Burgess taught his undergraduates his own method of collecting sociological data and required them to use it in the field. Unlike sociologists of his day, Burgess believed that dance halls, rooming houses and skid rows provided valuable sources of sociological data about the city, and he directed his students to do their research there. On finishing his undergraduate work, Alinsky was awarded a fellowship to pursue graduate studies in sociology, specializing in criminology at the University of Chicago. He studied with Clifford Shaw, a student of Burgess, and a leading specialist in American criminology. Alinsky began fieldwork for his dissertation researching the gang and mob scene in Chicago. One of his claims to fame was that he won the confidence of the Capone associates and Frank Nitti. Shaw, who headed the Institute for Juvenile Research, invited Alinsky to join the Institute staff. He was there only a short while before accepting a position as staff sociologist and member of the parole classification board for the Illinois State Penitentiary at Joliet, which housed underground figures like Roger (the Terrible) Touhy. Part of his job was to interview inmates to assess who were good risks for parole. After three years at Joliet, Alinsky made a decision not to pursue a career in criminology. He returned to the Institute for Juvenile Research where Shaw was starting the controversial Chicago Area Project, an anti‑delinquency

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program, and an offshoot of his research. The Institute’s controversial methods of dealing with delinquency came under heavy criticism by the social work community. Its philosophy was that the role of the professional social worker was not to take charge of the situation, to distribute services, or to make the system work, but to establish good, supportive relationships with area youth, many of whom were former delinquents, to the point of even overlooking crime. The purpose was to identify and train these youths to be role models and counselors for other youths. Among the Chicago Area Project’s successes were the creation of a Boys Club and the Russell Square Community Committee. Shaw was convinced that the genuine interest in the community and sense of empowerment among area residents generated by the Boys Club and the Russell Square Community Committee were more important than their activities. As we will see, the lessons Alinsky learned from Park, Burgess and Shaw all had a lasting influence on his own theory and practice of broad-based organizing. Shaw decided to test the success of the Chicago Area Project by assigning staff, including Alinsky, to another area in Chicago called the Back of the Yards. Alinsky’s assignment was to investigate the feasibility of setting up a juvenile delinquency prevention program there. The experience and contacts he made there, especially with John L. Lewis, changed the direction of Alinsky’s life. The Back of the Yards, named for its location behind the stock yards, was an area populated by about 90,000 mostly impoverished East European, Catholic immigrants. The largest employers in the region were the giant meat‑packing companies. At the time Alinsky arrived on the scene, John L. Lewis was in the area organizing a major Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) campaign to establish a meatpackers union. While working for Shaw, Alinsky volunteered his time with the CIO, where he got his real education in strategy and tactics. He was particularly impressed by Lewis’ realism, his ability to confront, his willingness to compromise and form alliances with former foes, his belief in mass organization and his understanding that there is power even in the appearance of power and the threat to use it. Alinsky so admired Lewis that he wrote a biography of him and named his daughter after Lewis’ own daughter, Catherine. Catherine

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Lewis became a good friend of Alinsky and eventually served on the Board of Directors of the Industrial Areas Foundation. With Joe Meegan, a young, energetic director of Davis Square Park, a popular community center, Alinsky attempted to build a neighborhood organization to support the packing house workers. One of the strengths of the Back of the Yards area was that it had at least a hundred organizations consisting of churches, ethnic organizations, fraternal clubs, athletic clubs, small businesses, unions and others. Unlike other organizations, which were organizations of individuals, Alinsky and Meegan decided to build an organization comprised of organizations. It would eventually become the Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council. Alinsky and Meegan recognized that any change in an area that was 90% Catholic would need the support of the Catholic Church. They found that support in Chicago’s Auxiliary bishop, Bernard J. Sheil, an outspoken supporter of the labor movement, the New Deal, a number of anti-discrimination policies and founder of the Catholic Youth Organization. Alinsky’s work with delinquent youth and his efforts to build an organization to support the meat-packers union were helpful in leveraging a meeting with the bishop. Bishop Sheil eventually became one of Alinsky’s most powerful allies. He not only supported the organizing effort of the Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council, but became its honorary chairman. Three days before the planned CIO strike, the Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council held its opening convention. John L. Lewis and Bishop Sheil appeared on the same platform. It is said that the public appearance of these men who represented two of the most powerful organized forces in the area, standing together and shaking hands, was intimidating enough to bring the giant meat packing companies to the bargaining table, thereby averting a strike. While Alinsky seriously thought about becoming a union organizer, his success with the Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council convinced him that neighborhoods had major issues that were not being addressed principally because they had no vehicle for doing this. He also believed that ordinary people, even the very poorest people, living in some of the worst neighborhoods, could pool their talent and energy and find solutions to their own problems. These solutions, he

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was convinced, would be far better than those of the social services establishment, government or business. Thus, Alinsky decided to make community, or broad-based organizing, his profession. Alinsky essentially wanted to create organizations across the country similar to the Back of the Yards Neighborhood Council, but he knew that he would need money to do this. So he approached Bishop Sheil who served on the U.S. Committee for the Care of European Children to arrange a meeting with Marshall Field, III. Field chaired that committee. Field was so intrigued with Alinsky’s idea that he gave him a $15,000 grant. With that, the Industrial Areas Foundation was incorporated on August 24, 1940. It is important to recognize the contribution of the Catholic Church from the IAF’s very beginning. Bishop Sheil was not the only member of the Roman Catholic hierarchy to support Alinsky. Monsignor John O’Grady, director of the National Conference of Catholic Charities, also opened doors for Alinsky. Monsignor Jack Egan, introduced to Alinsky by Jacques Maritain, became Alinsky’s first priest organizer intern and the first priest in the archdiocese of Chicago to hold a fulltime position devoted exclusively to organizing (Engel 1998, 647). Alinsky also won support early on from Cardinal Samuel Stritch and later from Cardinal Albert Meyer. While Alinsky sought these Catholic ties, he was concerned that his organizations might become too closely identified with the Roman Catholic Church and jeopardize the creation of the kind of broad‑based organizations he envisioned. But it wasn’t until he organized The Woodlawn Organization (TWO) in Woodlawn, Chicago in 1961 that Alinsky began to make serious inroads into the Protestant churches.

Power Concedes Nothing without Demand: Alinsky’s Theory & Method of Organizing

For thirty years, Alinsky organized people’s organizations around the country. In some areas his efforts met with great success such as in Woodlawn, Chicago and Rochester, N.Y. But he also experienced defeats. While his goal was to win, Alinsky, nevertheless, believed that action, even when it failed, was invaluable for providing opportunities to “distill experience from living” (Alinsky 1969, ix). Experience, in his

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words, “is the integrating of the actions and events of life so that they arrange themselves into meaningful universal patterns” (ix). Alinsky was convinced that democracy was eroding rapidly in this country. He believed that the only way to stem the decline was to restore participation in the public arena by the most disenfranchised members of this society. He argued that large economic, political and social forces were taking over the industrial areas of this country and robbing the poor of their power to act. This was compounded by social service bureaucracies who infantilized the poor and made them dependent. Consequently, they experienced alienation personally and publicly and lost confidence in their ability to take charge of their lives and their communities. Alinsky held that this situation threatened not only the dignity and life chances of the poor, but the democratic way of life itself. Fewer and fewer voices were being heard and fewer and fewer were exercising power in the public arena. For Alinsky, restoring power to the poor and restoring democracy were integrally related and could not be separated from each other. While Alinsky had no illusions about the evils of capitalism, he was fundamentally a pragmatist. He believed the more immediate and pressing task was to enable poor and minority communities to take control of their lives, given the existing economic and political systems. In his famous book, Reveille for Radicals, Alinsky writes, “This, then, is our real job—the opportunity to work directly with our people. It is the breaking down of the feeling on the part of our people that they are social automatons with no stake in the future, rather than human beings in possession of all the responsibility, strength, and human dignity which constitute the heritage of free citizens of a democracy. This can be done only through the democratic organization of our people for democracy” (50). It cannot be stressed enough that Alinsky placed as high a value on enabling the poor to discover, exercise and build confidence in their own power as he did on finding solutions to the social, economic and political problems that plagued them. In fact, he believed that working to find solutions to problems provided the vehicle for developing the power to meet and take on whatever problems the poor encounter in the present and the future.

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Power, Alinsky argued, was not a negative attribute although it is popularly perceived that way. In his words, “we prefer to keep it framed in the popular context of corruption and immorality as a defense, an excuse, to avoid entering the arena of conflict” (Boyte 1989, 51). Power, for Alinsky, was nothing less than the ability to act, and the ability to act is what makes a person human. It “is the very essence of life, the dynamic of life” (51). Alinsky was convinced that organizing begins with learning to listen to the poor and marginalized. But organizers also need to train them to listen to one another. Alinsky believed that, “When people are brought together, or organized, they get to know each other’s point of view; they reach compromises on many of their differences, they learn that many opinions which they entertained solely as their own are shared by others, and they discover that many problems which they had thought of only as ‘their’ problems are common to all” (Alinsky 1969, 54). Alinsky was convinced that people organize and build powerful organizations, not out of altruism, but self‑interest. Because the term, “self-interest,” is so often equated with selfishness, it is important to clarify how Alinsky meant it. He maintained that people are drawn to an organization and action out of what matters to them personally. However, it is in the process of organizing that they learn a number of important things: 1) what matters to them often matters to others, 2) they cannot continue to act solely out of their own interests and 3) acting in the interest of others is, in the long run, in their own self-interest. In Rules for Radicals he writes, “The fact is that it is not man’s ‘better nature’ but his self‑interest that demands that he be his brother’s keeper. We now live in a world where no man can have a loaf of bread while his neighbor has none. If he does not share his bread, he dare not sleep, for his neighbor will kill him. To eat and sleep in safety man must do the right thing, if for seemingly the wrong reasons, and be in practice his brother’s keeper. I believe that man is about to learn that the most practical life is the moral life and that the moral life is the only road to survival” (Alinsky 1971, 23). Alinsky also believed that strong organizations could not be built on the poor alone. In this day and age when the poor and marginalized have so few allies, broad‑based organizations—organizations that cut

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across economic, ethnic, racial, religious and political lines are essential. This not only strengthens the organization’s power, but in the process of broadening the base, information is gathered, understanding, respect and appreciation are developed and attitudes are changed. Alinsky wrote, “More important is the fact that leaders of groups that have seemingly conflicting interests get to know each other as human beings by working together on joint programs of mutual concern. They get to know each other as Johnny and Fred. They learn that they both admire the same ball team. They both cuss when they have a flat tire. They both are filled with the cute sayings of their three‑and four‑year‑olds and essentially they both want just about the same things out of life. Where they differ is in the means to be used in achieving the end” (Alinsky 1969, 156). From Alinsky’s experience, “When people get to know one another as human beings instead of as symbols or statistics, a human relationship—carrying with it a full constellation of human attitudes—will inevitably develop” (157). The experience of marginalization and powerlessness too often brings with it an attitude of resignation. Alinsky believed that this was a major stumbling block. In fact, he would often say that the organizer’s job was to rub raw the wounds of discontent. For Alinsky, anger and conflict were not necessarily negative; they were essential elements of effective change. But they had to be harnessed and directed. Alinsky developed a reputation for his tactics. He had no time for idols, that is, individuals and institutions who refuse to deal with the common person and who expect loyalty and blind obedience. In fact, he took particular delight in desacralizing and demythologizing those individuals, institutions and policies that had “broken faith with the future, with the dreams and hopes of a free way of life” (Alinsky 1969, xvii). He believed that scared human beings pave the way for sacred cows (xv). In his words, “Since the genesis and survival of sacred cows is rooted in fear and reverence, it follows that those who want change must be against sacred cows and not only innately irreverent but outwardly, purposefully irreverent in their actions. They must be iconoclastic bulldozers willing to be regarded as profane spoilers of sacred myths” (xv). His formula for attacking an issue was to pick a target, freeze it, personalize it and polarize it. But after the organization achieved what

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it wanted, it was every bit as important to depolarize. For Alinsky, in organizing there can be no permanent friends or permanent enemies. An enemy can be a friend or ally tomorrow and vice versa. Alinsky was a realist through and through. He believed that for the world to become what we would want it to be, it would be necessary to work with the world as it is. To effect change one has to learn the skills of dealing constructively with conflict, confrontation, negotiation and compromise. In the world as it is, Alinsky said, “The right things are done only for the wrong reasons, constructive actions have usually been in reaction to a threat, judgment among alternatives is made on the basis not of the best but of the least bad” (Boyte 1989, 61). In sum, Alinsky believed that the erosion of the real power of the poor and their experience of alienation had become so great that the only hope for improving their situation and for restoring democracy in this country, rested in creating organizations as strong as the forces against them. People’s organizations were needed to disengage and rearrange the existing power arrangements to create a more just social order. Alinsky claimed that there is another reason for organizing that goes beyond enabling the poor to shape their lives and communities. He argued that we need these organizations today, more than ever, to create opportunities for all of us, rich, poor, white, black, and brown, Protestant, Catholic, Muslim and Jew, Democrat and Republican, to reconcile our behavior with our moral beliefs. Alinsky was often labeled a radical, which he took as a compliment. He defined a radical as “that unique person who actually believes what he says. He is that person to whom the common good is the greatest personal value. He is that person who genuinely and completely believes in mankind. The radical is so completely identified with mankind that he personally shares the pain, the injustices, and the suffering of all his fellow men….He wants a world in which the worth of the individual is recognized. He wants the creation of a kind of society where all of man’s potentialities could be realized; a world where man could live in dignity, security, happiness and peace—a world based on a morality of mankind” (Alinsky 1969, 15). Alinsky died of a heart attack in 1972. It was said that no one had antagonized more people or broken more rules than Alinsky. But Alinsky was more than a hell-raiser to those who understood him and

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the depth of his commitment. His good friend, Jacques Maritain, in a letter to Robert M. Hutchins, president of the University of Chicago, wrote, “I am writing this on a personal basis because I have known Saul Alinsky for about ten years and because I admire and love him as a great soul, a man of profound moral purity and burning energy, whose work I consider the only really new and really important democratic initiative taken in the social field today, and whose natural generosity is quickened, though he would not admit it, by genuine evangelical brotherly love. I know Saul, not superficially, but deeply and intimately” (Döering 1994, 47).

Organized People and Organized Money: The Modern-Day IAF

Since Alinsky’s death, the Industrial Areas Foundation has continued to grow under the direction of its executive director, Edward Chambers. Under Chambers, the IAF has strengthened its economic base, professionalized the job of community organizer and become more intentional and systematic about training leaders and maintaining the life and vitality of its organizations. Its more than sixty working IAF organizations throughout the United States have approximately twelve hundred member congregations and associations, representing about two and a half million people. The modern day IAF, like its founder, builds powerful organizations out of organizations. It takes as its starting point one of the fundamentals truths of human existence: that we exist always in relationship to one another. These relationships are not only personal, but public and political. We are related to one another through a myriad of cultural, social, economic, political and religious networks. Since Alinsky’s death, the IAF decided to organize primarily through congregations. This is significant, in my judgment. By selecting congregations as its primary instrument for organizing, I believe the IAF says a number of things. It acknowledges the fact that organizing is a value-based activity. It recognizes the importance of religious institutions not only for our personal well being, but also for the well-being of society. It publicly brings focus to and reinforces the values expressed by churches, synagogues and mosques, namely that each and every human being is of immeasurable worth and has dignity, that human

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beings are co‑creators with their Maker and that the weakest, most vulnerable members of society deserve not only compassion but justice. And it identifies and organizes to combat specific threats to those values. There are also pragmatic reasons for organizing primarily through congregations in the inner cities. If one begins with the fact that the family is the primary relational unit and locus of values, and if one were to look for institutions remaining in the inner city that continue to sustain and support families and their values, it becomes clear that that responsibility today falls, more heavily than ever, to the churches, synagogues and mosques. We might look at congregations as a network or organization of families bound together by religious values. They are the last intact organizations in the inner city that bring families together regularly to reinforce, sustain and support them in their relationships and their deepest values. Alinsky was convinced of, and the IAF still operates on, the principle that to build powerful people’s organizations two key ingredients are needed: organized people and organized money. Congregations are practically the last remaining source for both in the inner city. Organized money is needed for very practical reasons: to employ trained organizers, to train local leaders, to cover the very practical expenses incurred in building and maintaining an organization and to maintain independence. Dues from its member organizations are a major source of organized money. Dues give the organization more independence and power to negotiate with other powerful organizations and gives members more investment in, and control over, the direction of their organization. While IAF organizations apply for and accept funding from foundations, dioceses and judicatories, they do not accept government monies as a matter of policy. Congregations are the main source of organized people. They are rich sources of talent and potential leadership. There one finds people who are invested, not only in their religious institutions, but in their families, their homes and their neighborhoods. In addition, inner city churches, synagogues and mosques are sources of potential allies. They are connected to a wider network of religious and secular institutions.

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Because these churches, synagogues and mosques have not fled the inner city as virtually every other institution has, their presence, more than their words, expresses a belief in the worth and dignity of the poor and a willingness to share their suffering and their deepest longings. Because they are there, the promises of justice, compassion, hope and peace continue to be preached, received and dared to be lived in circumstances where everything conspires against them. Finally, congregations in the inner cities are mediators between the real and the ideal, or as the IAF says, the world as it is and the world as we would want it to be. They are also mediators between the private world of the family and the world of public and political institutions. The IAF is not only convinced, but has proven time and again, that congregations in the inner cities are sources of power and hope in areas that have virtually succumbed to powerlessness and despair. Alinsky used to say that he taught priests and ministers how to function as a church in the world. The modern IAF teaches congregations how to become people of God. It enables them to recognize their human dignity and the rights that belong to them, to use the power that is theirs to secure it, to effectively combat the evil that threatens their lives and to build the reign of God in their midst. In the IAF’s statement of purpose, Alinsky wrote, “Along with these advantages (of industrialization) have arisen forces of so menacing a character that today they threaten the very foundation upon which rest the hopes of those committed to the democratic way of life. These destructive forces are unemployment, deterioration, disease and delinquency. From the havoc wrought from these forces issue distrust, bigotry, disorganization and demoralization” (Horwitt 1989, 104). The destructive forces in Alinsky’s day pale in comparison with what the poor experience in the inner cities of our nation today. In addition, they are up against an unparalleled concentration of corporate and government power, and are excluded from places where the decisions that affect the quality of their lives and their communities are made. The IAF argues that today, more than ever, new players are needed who are powerful enough to gain entry into those arenas, make their voices heard, and participate in shaping the decisions that are made. While the IAF is intent on restoring democracy, in my judgment, its organizations do much more. They bring to the table discourse about

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values which, in turn, paves the way toward introducing a different set of values in the public arena. For example, their very presence in places where they have been excluded signifies that they will no longer allow themselves to be treated as anything less than equal in worth, dignity, and respect. By bringing to the table their concerns, fears, hopes and dreams they refuse to accept the priority given to profit and wealth at the expense of the lives of the poor. They insist that institutions be at the service of human beings and not the reverse. And they insist that business and government accept responsibility for the common good, not special interests. Moreover, IAF organizations have the audacity to hold individuals, institutions and systems accountable for their stated values, claims and commitments. They will not allow them to get away with saying one thing and doing another. Finally, through their organizations the poor restore to themselves their subjectivity and sense of human agency. The IAF still holds to Alinsky’s basic organizing principles: 1) organizing is essentially relational; 2) self‑interest, not altruism, is the basis for organizing; 3) the objective of organizing is not to create social programs, but powerful organizations that can participate in the public arena; and 4) change comes about through the effective use of power, not simply through reasonable, logical persuasion. The first principle, I believe, is one of the most difficult to understand. Yet the longer I have been involved in PIA, the more sense it makes. Many believe that organizing begins with a specific problem or issue and ends with its resolution. They believe that the issue or problem is what brings people together and mobilizes them. By claiming that organizing is essentially the process of building relationships, however, the IAF is not saying that issues are unimportant, but that they are secondary to building relationships. For the IAF, issues are instrumental in building relationships. Because the IAF’s purpose is to build organizations that will grow stronger and endure over time and have the capacity to take on whatever issues come their way, to organize around issues would risk the dissolution of the organization when the issues are resolved or fail to be resolved. Building relationships with people who have never been in relationship with one another or who have been, but in a tangential or superficial way, is at the core of building IAF organizations. The IAF

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believes that to be strong, that is, to withstand the opposition they will experience in the process of organizing, their organizations must be built on relationships that cross religious, ethnic, racial, economic and political lines. This intentional diversity makes it possible to better survive the forces and interests that normally divide and pit races, economic classes, ethnic groups and religious denominations against one another. The IAF holds so firmly to this principle that it will not enter into a contract with a sponsoring committee (usually a committee of clergy interested in creating an IAF organization) to organize in an area unless the sponsoring committee commits itself to recruit congregations and organizations that are diverse. IAF organizations are organizations that are intentional about being connected to, and in relationship with, one another. Through the organization they come to know one another, rely on and trust one another, work with one another and become accountable to one another. Despite their diversity, they discover that they share many of the same values and interests. And through working together they truly become communities of mutual respect, trust, concern and accountability. It is important to point out that these relationships are public, not private relationships. While friendships may develop, that is not the goal of organizing. The purpose of organizing is to put people and organizations in relationship with one another and develop the skills that enable them to participate effectively in the public arena. The IAF uses “the individual meeting” as its primary tool for building relationships. They are “individual,” face-to-face meetings with potential or existing individual members, allies or opponents, lasting forty‑five minutes to an hour. Individual meetings are not “chit chat”; their aim is not “friendship” or intimacy. Their purpose is to identify potential leaders and people of character with whom one would want to be in a working relationship. In the course of the conversation, one tries to identify what makes that person “tick,” for example, what motivates, sustains, angers and interests him or her. Conversations in individual meetings should not be one way; they are opportunities to share what animates one’s self and the other person and discover shared interests. In its intensive Ten-Day Leadership Training, the IAF introduces new leaders to the technique of conducting “individual meetings” and provides opportunities to practice the skills of careful

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listening and questioning. It emphasizes, however, that these skills are developed and refined only through the practice of doing hundreds of such meetings. As mentioned above, the purpose of individual meetings is to build relationships with potential allies and opponents. One of the reasons the poor are not “players” in the public arena is because they are not in relationship with those individuals and institutions that make the decisions. Their phone calls are not returned, letters not answered and requests for meetings refused. It is as if they are nonexistent. If the poor are going to engage those who hold power in serious discussion and negotiation about matters that affect their communities, they have no alternative but to get in relationship with them. This too is done through individual meetings. While IAF congregations may be geographically located in the inner city, they are members of dioceses, judicatories, presbyteries and other bodies. In other words, they are part of a network of congregations, organizations and institutions—a network of relationships. Within this network, one can usually find contacts and/or channels through which the organization can gain access to the people it needs to be in relationship with. Individual meetings with allies and adversaries are critical, not only for initiating and building the relationship, but for gaining insight, information and developing additional relationships. “Actions” are another means for building relationships in IAF organizations. Actions are precisely what the word implies. They can be meetings with key leaders in the public and private sectors; they can use something symbolic to exert pressure and/or attract the attention of the media or they can be assemblies of 500 to 5,000 members meeting to commit to a plan of action or to provide an opportunity for a public official to publicly announce an agreement that has been struck. The large assemblies or actions provide opportunities for the organization to see itself, that is, to see its numbers, its diversity, its economic strength, its power and to see if it can deliver what it promises. Actions also can be meetings and strategy sessions for the organization’s members. While tension plays a role in many actions, one can usually count on a sense of exhilaration that pervades the room as poor people collectively assemble to speak in their own voice

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to the brokers of power and hold them accountable for their words and actions. The IAF still holds to Alinsky’s principle that friction is necessary for change; without friction there is no movement. Tension and conflict can be important elements in actions. They are another means of forming and strengthening organizational relationships. While there is always the possibility that conflict and confrontation may splinter an organization, they can also build cohesion. In addition, conflict and confrontation can attract new allies, who under other circumstances might never have been able to work together. They are also effective mechanisms for putting the organization in respectful relationship with one’s adversaries. In actions aimed at an adversary, the organization becomes clearer about who it is, what it is up against, what its vision is and who can be relied upon. Actions provide the opportunity for members of the organization to assess their strengths and weaknesses; to learn to work together; develop respect and trust in one another; and to hold one another accountable. In short, they are an effective means for building cohesive organizations. While I touched on the topic of self-interest above when discussing Alinsky’s philosophy of organizing, it is important to analyze it in more detail. The IAF argues that all of us would like to believe that we are basically altruistic, and even if we are not, we believe altruism is something toward which we should strive. Churches, in particular, have instilled the feeling that action that flows out of any other motive is in some way flawed or tainted. Like its founder, the IAF continues to maintain that self‑interest and selfishness are not one and the same, and that self-interest is not intrinsically evil. Self‑interest, as the IAF defines it, is that which matters most to a person. From more than fifty years experience working with organizations of poor people throughout this country, the IAF argues that if one scratches beneath the surface, one discovers that what the poor care about most are the “intangibles.” They want to live and they want their children to live; they want dignity, respect, to have a voice, to be heard, to be taken seriously, to be able to shape their future and to create a better future for their children. Undoubtedly, the poor are attracted to IAF organizations because they believe they will find help to solve their specific problems. But the IAF has found that through organizing

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and working collectively, the poor come to see: that their self‑interest is, more often than not, shared interests; the more pressing interests of others may necessitate that one’s own interest be put on the “back burner”; working on another’s interest can provide valuable experience for addressing one’s own concerns, and finally, working in another’s interest is, in fact, in one’s own interest. The IAF makes the distinction between a problem and an issue. A problem is something that someone has experienced personally. For example, one is turned down for a mortgage, one’s child has been harassed by police, or a person cannot live on her wages. Through organizing, poor people become aware of the fact that what they thought was an experience unique to themselves, more often than not, is an experience shared by others. There is a pattern. More importantly, they begin to see that their experience may be due, not to personal fault or failure, but to the failure of people in positions of responsibility and institutions. In other words, it may not be the poor who have failed, but society that has failed them. Banks do indeed redline, racial profiling does exist, police do harass and one cannot possibly feed one’s family and pay one’s bills on minimum-wage and part-time jobs. Taught the tools of research and analysis, organized poor people begin to see their reality much more clearly. In short, a problem is experienced as something that is particular to an individual, and perhaps a few others. Problems tend to generate feelings of personal failure and resignation. Through the organizing process, poor people look again at their so‑called problems and see that they are, in fact, issues. Issues are not unique to one individual or to a few people, but are commonly shared. Organizing helps individuals gain some distance from, and perspective on, their experience. As they begin to collect those experiences, notice patterns, analyze their roots and organize to address them, the poor experience a measure of control over their lives One of the tools the IAF uses to surface issues is the “house meeting.” The house meeting is a meeting of approximately a dozen people, for the purpose of identifying pressing issues, specific to one’s block, neighborhood or something experienced city-wide. To better understand where house meetings fit into training leaders, building an

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organization and setting an organization’s agenda, it might be helpful to describe one of PIA’s first house meetings. No one would have thought that this house meeting, and others like it, would have been the start of PIA’s aggressive campaign against blight that eventuated in an announcement by Philadelphia’s mayor of the $300 million Neighborhood Transformation Initiative (NTI). NTI is one of the most visionary and ambitious plans in the nation to rebuild a blighted, major metropolitan area. The hope is that it will become a model for other cities nationwide. At one of PIA’s house meetings, Allie Jo Metz, a member of the Episcopal Church of the Advocate, told her story of what had happened since the house next door had been abandoned. She started by talking about what her home meant to her. It had been her mother’s home. Her aging mother loved her home so much that, when the neighborhood started to deteriorate, against the advice of friends and family, she refused to move. She would say that the only way she would move would be feet first when the undertaker came for her. This is the home Allie Jo would visit with her children on Sundays. For Allie Jo, her mother’s home symbolized strength, independence, warmth and love. When her mother died, Allie Jo could not bear to sell the house. It meant too much to her mother, to her, and to her children. So Allie Jo moved in and invested her savings to get it in shape. Mrs. Rose, an elderly woman, lived next door. She had a daughter who was committed to a mental health facility and also a son who would visit Mrs. Rose’s home. Allie Jo said Mrs. Rose was a good neighbor. But one day, Mrs. Rose was taken by ambulance to the hospital, and the next thing Allie Jo heard, was that Mrs. Rose was in a nursing home. Mrs. Rose’s home was sold, and shortly thereafter rented to people Allie Jo said, “weren’t the type of people you would want living next door.” After some time, they were either evicted or they left on their own. The house sat vacant only a short while before Allie Jo began to notice boys coming out of the house with pipes. Then she saw toilets, bathtubs, siding and just about anything that could be sold, carried out of the house. Then the addicts moved in. Not long after, Allie Jo had to call the fire department when she smelled smoke; someone had started a fire in the basement. Allie Jo called just in the nick of time.

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Then Allie Jo’s troubles heated up. She came home after work one day to find her favorite, leaded-glass, front window—frame and all—removed from her house. Shortly after, she heard noises during the night. When she came downstairs, she found her mantle gone. It literally was pried out of the wall. Allie Jo began to fear for her life; she felt that it was only a matter of time before she and the thieves would meet. She called the police after each robbery, but all they did was file a report and recommend that she get more locks and bars. Allie Jo wondered where she would get the money for locks and bars since she was now retired and living on a fixed income. She was afraid that a fire next door might spread to her home and others in the block. To make matters worse, because of the abandoned home next door, the cost of fire insurance became prohibitive, and she simply could not afford it. So Allie Jo did what every good citizen would do to try to. She called the Department of Licenses and Inspections (L & I) to request that they at least seal the house next door. Month after month of letters and phone calls brought no action. In telling her story at a house meeting held at the Church of the Advocate, Allie Jo learned that she was not alone. Other homeowners expressed the same frustration. While they took pride in maintaining their homes, all it took was one row house in a city block to destroy, not only everything they had worked for, but their own sense of dignity and power. They had the same experience with L & I. Calls and letters were either unanswered or met with that response: the city’s funds for cleaning and sealing were limited, their names would be put on a list and they would have to wait their turn. Waiting their turn meant watching their investment, their block, their neighborhood and their own dignity deteriorate before their eyes. While individuals came to the house meeting with their personal stories, it didn’t take long before they recognized that their personal experience was shared by others and it was part of a larger story of incompetence and irresponsibility on the part of the city. They also met others, decent people, who cared about their homes, who had pride and were angry enough to want to do something about the situation. It was out of self‑interest that Allie Jo and her neighbors were drawn to PIA. Hundreds of house meetings in other PIA congregations

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confirmed the fact that the issue of abandoned homes was so widespread and serious, it was the right issue for PIA to organize around. Through individual meetings with key officials in L & I, PIA learned that the major hurdle for L & I wasn’t funding, but fear for their personal safety. They also learned that L & I was eager to work with an organization that would cooperate with them to keep a vigilant eye on the buildings they worked on. It was tired of wasting its budget resealing homes time and again. After a series of individual meetings between PIA’s Clean and Seal Committee and the Commissioner of Licenses and Inspections, a deal was struck. PIA agreed to construct a list of abandoned homes in the vicinity of member churches. It then secured a commitment from the police to be on hand at each site while L & I did its work. PIA members from the local churches agreed to be there as well. The Commissioner, in turn, promised to clean and seal 15 homes before Thanksgiving. When Thanksgiving arrived and only five homes were completed, PIA again met with the Commissioner. This time they negotiated a viable plan, which included pressure on the city to release more money for L & I to clean and seal 75 homes before Christmas. PIA invited the Commissioner to come before its members to make this commitment public. The Commissioner not only appeared before l,000 PIA members but praised the organization for being one of the few in the city he could work with. Now that the home next door to Allie Jo and others in the vicinity of the Church of the Advocate have been cleaned and sealed, L & I is working on homes in the vicinity of other PIA congregations. To date, 800 vacant buildings have been cleaned, sealed and demolished. But more important than the homes is the fact that poor people, like Allie Jo, have a renewed sense of dignity, power and community. I remember well the time we evaluated the assembly, celebrating our victory with L & I. Mike Gecan, a member of the IAF national staff, said the victory that evening was not about homes and budgets, but the coming of age of the Allie Jo’s who stood up publicly before the Commissioner and demanded the respect due them. Since that first house meeting at the Church of the Advocate, PIA has been unrelenting in its attack on blight. It has pressured the city

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to clean and seal hundreds of abandoned houses and industrial sites, to improve sanitation services and increase security in parks and schools. It has worked with the police to route out drug dealers and make the streets safer. And in the Logan and Feltonville sections of Philadelphia, the site of the largest sinking home disaster in the nation where 1,000 homes built on the city’s ash dump were literally sinking into the ground, PIA won a major campaign to speed up the demolition of the remaining unsafe homes, relocate the families and remediate the contaminated soil. PIA also built Nehemiah West, 135 homes for first-time home buyers. This was the largest development of new, affordable homes in Philadelphia in thirty years. Out of this experience of working on local issues, PIA recognized that blight was a city-wide issue. It could not be tackled piecemeal. Only large-scale, critical mass development could stem the city’s deterioration and the loss of jobs and residents. PIA, working with its allies, like The Reinvestment Fund, mounted an arduous campaign for more than three years, winning over the mayor and city council to take 320 acres of blighted and vacant land, city-wide, and turn it into homes, commercial and office sites and green spaces. As stated above, the IAF’s expressed purpose for organizing is to enable those who have no power to act in their own name to correct the injustice they experience and to participate in shaping their own lives, their community and this nation. Through organizing, they learn how to harness the resources available to them, that is, their values, anger, number, money, talent, love, hopes and dreams for their children. In so doing they come to experience and exercise their own power as never before. While the IAF uses its intensive Ten-Day Training and shorter training sessions to develop the skills needed to build strong organizations to act in the public arena, it emphasizes the fact that the real training takes place in action itself. In fact, each action, whether it succeeds or fails, is seen as a valuable opportunity for developing essential skills. Each action is carefully prepared. For example, the issues are carefully researched, spokespersons are designated and coached, the overall goals and strategies are mapped out for participants, and there is role playing that tries to anticipate a variety of scenarios. All actions, at the end, undergo critical evaluation by the organizer and the partici-

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pants. Through actions and their evaluations, the poor learn how to act collectively, research, strategize, confront, negotiate and critically evaluate what they accomplished. They discover what they and their adversaries are made of, and they also discover their own authority. In short, through IAF actions, the poor not only discover but recreate themselves. In the process of effecting change, they themselves are changed. Finally, when the poor act collectively in the public arena, they introduce not only new players but new rules. They refuse to play by the old rules of special interests and back room politics. Instead, they speak the truth publicly, hold power brokers to the same and demand accountability from them. The IAF puts an interesting twist on Lord Acton’s famous dictum by saying, “it is not only power, but powerlessness that tends to corrupt.” It argues that power in itself is neither good nor evil; it depends on how it is used and for what ends. All organizing, the IAF argues, is essentially reorganizing. It is reorganizing the existing order of society. Organizing addresses matters such as who makes the decisions, how decisions are made, where they are made, in whose interests they are made and for what purposes they are made. While we would like to believe that those who make major economic, political and social decisions affecting the quality of life in society respond to reason, logic and moral persuasion, the IAF argues that experience has proven, time and again, they are relatively ineffective. In the world as it is, it comes down to your power and their power. Because so much injustice is structural, it must be addressed structurally, that is, by creating structures or organizations of equal power. Controversy, conflict, confrontation, pressure, tension and polarization are necessary and essential elements in any serious battle for change. To believe that change can be accomplished without them, is to live in an ideal world, not the real world. In the world as it is, they are the mechanisms through which the ideal is made real. It is important to point out that they must be used strategically. The IAF holds to Alinsky’s principle that the threat to use power is often every bit as effective as its actual use. An important element of leadership training

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is learning precisely how to master these techniques non‑violently, creatively and constructively. IAF organizations throughout the country have claimed hundreds of victories. They range from relatively small victories like installing street signs in Bushwick, to those that are more large-scale, such as raising the minimum wage in the state of California; winning state financing for water and sewer lines along the Texas border; the Commonwealth Agreement in Baltimore, a corporate/city/community/ college/university guarantee of financial aid or jobs to students from inner city schools who graduate with good academic and attendance records and NTI in Philadelphia. Earlier in this chapter, I stated that I believe something profoundly religious is taking place in these congregations in the process of organizing. I am convinced that when the organizing experience is reflected on theologically, and integrated into the participant’s life and the life of the congregation, it becomes spiritually transformative. My experience with these IAF organizations reminds me very much of what Romero, Ellacuría and the Jesuit martyrs experienced as they associated with, and entered into solidarity with, the poor with spirit. These organizations offer an education in justice that cannot be acquired behind university walls or by acts of charity or service. My argument is that by building relationships, and entering into solidarity with the poor with spirit, we can not only learn about, but come closer to, becoming the people, church and university to which we are called by the Gospel. Poor churches, when organized, I believe, are the leavens Jon Sobrino writes about in the Principle of Mercy. The final chapter of my book will explore some of the ways these organizations have been leavens and occasions of grace. I am convinced that an education in justice awaits colleges and universities that would enter into relationship with them and other organizations like them. In their company we will not only discover genuine opportunities but acquire the skills needed to construct a more compassionate, just and peaceful social order. Finally, there we may rediscover the faith that we have lost, forgotten, or perhaps never really knew.

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Note

1 For this biography of Alinsky and Alinksy’s theory and methods of organizing I am principally indebted to Stanford D. Horwitt’s excellent biography of Alinsky, Let Them Call Me Rebel.

Chapter 6 – Leavens for Society, the Church and the University

M

y stories begin with the powerful story of East Brooklyn Congregations (EBC). Much of what I know about EBC has come from William Greider’s Who Will Tell the People, Samuel G. Freedman’s Upon this Rock and also from extensive conversations with Reverend Leo Penta, a former philosophy professor and colleague of mine at Villanova University and also former assistant pastor of St. Malachy Roman Catholic Church in East Brooklyn. My most important resource, however, was Sister Maryellen Kane, a former member of St. Barbara’s staff who then became an IAF organizer. Kane generously shared her masters’ thesis, The Influence of Saul Alinsky on Catholic Social Praxis in East Brooklyn, and her personal experiences in several conversations. They were invaluable for this section.

Building the Reign of God in Bushwick

East Brooklyn Congregations (EBC) was founded in 1978 by a handful of congregations, but by 1990 it boasted of 56 member units, comprised primarily of congregations, two homeowners’ associations, and a synagogue. Its members live in six communities and its population is primarily Hispanic and black with some whites. The majority are poor. The sections of New York that make up EBC are Bushwick, Brownsville and East New York. These areas usually conjure up images of high-rise public housing, block after block of rubble, abandoned houses, a high arson rate, children being shot at and drug dealers openly selling on street corners. In its midst are churches like St. Barbara’s, Our Lady of Mercy, St. Malachy, the Church of the Risen Christ, St. Peter’s Lutheran Church, the Southern Baptist Church and St. Paul’s. One of the Lutheran pastors, the Reverend John Heinemeier, a long‑time admirer of Saul Alinsky and a friend of two pastors in a neighboring IAF organization, Queens Citizens Organization, decided

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that something had to be done in East Brooklyn. He called a meeting of about fifteen pastors from churches in his area in April of 1978 to explore the possibility of forming an IAF organization in East Brooklyn. The group made an appointment with Ed Chambers, executive director of the IAF, to explore this more seriously. Chambers came, but gave the following as conditions under which the IAF would build an IAF organization in East Brooklyn. They would have to raise $300,000 in assets, develop a membership of thirty member congregations that were racially and religiously diverse, commit annual dues ranging from $500 to $3,000 per member congregation and identify and train 150 leaders from member congregations. While these conditions seemed impossible, so did the situation in East Brooklyn. However, in less than a year’s time, the pastors had made enough progress in meeting Chambers’ stipulations that they were able to announce the founding of East Brooklyn Churches at a major assembly. (The name East Brooklyn Churches was changed later to East Brooklyn Congregations when a synagogue joined.) The initiative, by which EBC is probably best known, its Nehemiah housing, didn’t happen all at once. It began, as all IAF efforts do, with holding hundreds of individual meetings and house meetings to surface leaders, that is, people angry and energetic enough to want to do something about the issues that were specific and immediate to their neighborhood. Training started with day and weekend‑long workshops and with getting to work researching, analyzing, strategizing, confronting, negotiating and evaluating “small” winnable issues at first. These included: pressuring city officials to install 3,000 missing street signs, demolishing 300 vacant and irreparable buildings, renovating a park and swimming pool, cleaning empty lots, voter registration drives, closing smoke shops, repairing and improving maintenance in public housing projects, insuring regular garbage pick up, improving conditions in subway stations and installing traffic lights. While a number of key leaders participated in the IAF ten day training, in reality the training of leaders is an ongoing process. It takes place in and through each and every one of the actions they participate in. As the IAF states in its pamphlet, Organizing for Family and Congregation, actions are “the womb of discovery‑‑discovery of self, of values, (and) of power” (Industrial Areas Foundation 1978, 22).

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One issue that surfaced, in over a hundred house meetings with over two thousand people, was the quality and service of grocery stores in the area. Residents complained about short-weighing, over‑pricing, spoiled goods and abusive managers. After doing their research, EBC whittled their list of eighteen negligent stores down to the ten worst offenders. At EBC’s invitation the director of the Manhattan Grocers Trade Association visited these stores. He too found the conditions unacceptable. After repeated appeals to the stores’ management to correct the conditions failed, EBC came up with a strategy. They decided to send EBC “shopping inspectors” sporting identifying buttons and carrying clipboards with checklists to the targeted stores on several Saturdays during prime shopping time. Their task was to note and collect evidence of the conditions in these stores. They piled shopping carts high with moldy bread, rotting vegetables and rancid meat. They noted the warm freezer compartments, the rodent droppings and the so‑called “miscalculations” at the register. In some stores, managers came rushing out offering to give them fresher items, others tried to intimidate and some threatened to call the police. However, for their own protection, the EBC inspectors had already alerted the police and had the media waiting. At the end of the inspection tour, each team presented the owner or manager with their findings along with a contract to sign obligating him/her to correct the situation. Those who refused to cooperate and sign the contract were warned that there would be repeated inspections and possible boycotts of their stores. For all but three of the stores, this was enough to pressure them into complying. The owners of the three stores who held out were invited to a meeting with EBC to which they came. When they entered the room they seemed taken by surprise by the 400 EBC members present. Before they could dominate the meeting, Father Penta who chaired the session, took command. He called each forward, as if on trial, charging them for refusing “to do not exceptional things, but decent things, normal things”(Freedman 1993, 325). He then put them “on probation by the community.” Each was asked to step forward and publicly sign the contract. Each did, and in the end, each corrected the violations in his store. In short, the store owners were being held

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accountable to the community which they served and also to the community’s standards. Another issue that surfaced repeatedly in house meetings was the shortage of decent, affordable housing in the area. It was virtually impossible to find housing at prices ordinary workers, bus drivers, postal workers, hospital workers, service workers and others could afford. While tackling the city’s housing shortage seemed daunting, it became clear that without decent housing, without a safe, clean, environment in which to live and raise one’s children, EBC could not hope to make a significant impact on improving the overall quality of life in their community. So the EBC strategy team started to dream about rebuilding their community on, of all places, the vacant, rubble‑strewn lot across from Our Lady of Mercy Church. The more they discussed this and did the research, the clearer it became that if they were going to build houses, they could not build a few houses or even groups of houses here and there. They would have to build enough houses to make an impact on the neighborhood. Thus, the building project would have to be massive. And to keep construction costs under $50,000 and affordable to the working poor, the homes would have to be built connected to one another. They also determined that vacant lots and abandoned buildings would be the major source of land for these houses. To insure stability, investment and pride in the homes and the neighborhood, the homes needed to be single family dwellings and be owner‑occupied rather than rented. And to have as much control over the project as possible they determined that funding could not come from public or government sources. The EBC strategy team set its mind to constructing 5,000 units of affordable housing in the devastated Brownsville area. It was decided that one of the sites would indeed be located directly across from Our Lady of Mercy Roman Catholic Church. Today, 2,800 Nehemiah homes stand, all owner‑occupied by the “working poor,” a number of whom had lived in public housing. Seven hundred more Nehemiah homes are under construction, and EBC recently secured $50 million from the City of New York to construct 600 additional homes in the Spring Creek section of Brooklyn. Visiting the Nehemiah homes in East Brooklyn is a moving experience. Where there was once rubble‑strewn lots, collapsed buildings, trash, tires, broken glass

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and pot‑holes the size of craters, there now stand neatly‑kept homes. There are flowers and trees, manicured lawns, patios, clean streets and sidewalks, even satellite dishes, and best of all, children are playing in the streets. People in the neighborhood seem to carry themselves differently—with a sense of dignity and pride. Nehemiah didn’t happen overnight. There was the problem of negotiating rights to vacant or partially-vacant land from the city, raising $12 million for construction costs, finding a builder who would take on building a private home for under $50,000 in New York city and securing low‑interest mortgage and interest‑free loans from the city that would reduce the price of the homes to make them even more accessible to the working poor. After months of negotiation that tested the character, creativity and stamina of EBC’s leadership, interest-free construction loans were secured from the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York in the amount of $5 million, $1 million for five years from the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, $1 million from the Episcopal Diocese of Long Island, $2,300 from St. Paul’s Church, and donations came from a number of local congregations who taxed themselves $12 per family per year. I.D. Robbins, a former developer and Daily News columnist, who claimed that homes for families earning incomes of $12,000 could be built in New York, was enlisted by EBC to build Nehemiah. After rounds of tough negotiations, Mayor Ed Koch agreed to provide rights to the land, a $10,000 interest‑free loan on each house that would be repaid when sold, and a ten-year property tax deferral on the land. And Governor Mario Cuomo agreed to state‑subsidized 9.9 percent mortgages for Nehemiah homeowners. When all was said and done, the actual cost to a Nehemiah home buyer came to $41,000. To qualify, one had to have a good credit record, a combined income of between $15,000 and $25,000, a down payment of $5,000 and be approved for a mortgage. Nehemiah homes, clean well‑stocked, quality supermarkets, new stoplights, street signs and renovated parks and swimming pools in one of the most blighted areas of this nation might appear, to the naked eye, to be the product of skillful community organizing or of poor people learning to exercise their citizenship effectively. However, there is something much more profound taking place. It has to do with the fact that much of this organizing is congregationally-based

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and thus rooted in and shaped by the values of the Christian, Jewish and Muslim traditions. When this is the case, I am convinced the organizing process itself and the faith community are themselves transformed. The organizing process becomes more than organizing for immediate economic, political and social objectives. Because of its deeper religious roots, it becomes a public expression of a truth beyond itself. The process of organizing seems to breathe new life into the faith and life of the congregation, and when it is reflected on systematically and integrated into the pastoral, sacramental and liturgical life of the congregation, a rich religious praxis emerges that reminds me very much of Romero’s, Ellacuría’s and the UCA martyrs’ experiences and relationships with the “poor with spirit.” Sister Maryellen Kane’s story of St. Barbara’s rebirth is a powerful example of this. When Sister Maryellen Kane came to St. Barbara’s to be part of a four person pastoral team, she had no illusions about how difficult the work would be. St. Barbara’s is located in the Bushwick section of New York, and it had witnessed the virtual disintegration of the neighborhood and the church in a span of about thirty years. Since 1900 some forty breweries had provided employment for German immigrants in this part of Brooklyn. The immigrants built their homes here together with a large church and a school. But with the influx of Puerto Rican immigrants in the 1950’s, middle class residents who had done well by their employment and who were fearful of the Hispanic population, fled to the suburbs. By 1960 the last of the breweries closed. Jobs became scarce, and sweatshops sprung up almost overnight. Real estate speculators, taking advantage of the situation, the prejudice and the unemployment, bought up properties and sold or rented them to poor Hispanics and African-Americans who could barely keep up the payments. Then came the abandoned houses, the fires, the riot of 1977 and the third largest fire in New York’s history, destroying four square blocks of Bushwick homes and leaving thousands homeless. In Maryellen Kane’s words, “St. Barbara’s Church stood virtually alone, surrounded by rubble‑strewn fields and burned out buildings. Fear and violent crime now ruled the street. The Sunday after the blackout, a parish priest stood in front of a very small group of worshippers in St. Barbara’s Church and said, ‘God has abandoned you.’ Soon after, the priest too left the parish (Kane 1988, 2).

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Father Edmund Brady followed the pastor who left St. Barbara’s. Though he spoke no Spanish, one of the first things Brady wanted to communicate to the community was that, despite all appearances, God does not abandon God’s people, particularly the poor and oppressed. As Maryellen Kane tells the story, Brady’s language was the church bells. They had been long-neglected, and like the rest of the neighborhood, left in disrepair. So Brady set to work on them, and after weeks of tedious labor, restored them. He rang those bells one Sunday morning to a stunned neighborhood to announce that life, like the bells, could be rejuvenated even in Bushwick. Brady also set to work assembling a pastoral team of two priests and two women pastoral assistants. Each spoke Spanish and, most importantly, wanted to be at St. Barbara’s. When St. Barbara’s new pastoral team learned that Reverend John Heinemeier and pastors from some of the other congregations in the area were meeting to form East Brooklyn Congregations, they decided to investigate. They were well aware of the fact that the rebirth of the church was integrally related to the revitalization of the neighborhood. Broad-based organizing seemed as good a place as any to start. They decided they would, as a pastoral team, participate in the IAF ten-day leadership training. In the training they learned how to do individual meetings and house meetings. They learned the significance of building a strong power base comprised of organized people and organized money. They learned what leadership is, how to identify leaders and develop their skills and the importance of action and the use of non‑violent conflict, confrontation, negotiation and reflection on the action. When they returned to St. Barbara’s, the team decided that their first priority would be to get to know the congregation. They made a conscious decision to use individual meetings to do this, which would also hone the skills they learned in ten-day training. Kane said they had nothing better to use and certainly nothing to lose. The pastoral team began holding hundreds of individual meetings. The stories of suffering, anger and frustration surfaced almost immediately, and at times, seemed almost too much to bear. Sensing there could be no rebirth without grieving, the team made a pastoral decision to set aside an official year of mourning for the parish, which would be

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announced at Sunday Mass. During the year, a systematic campaign of house meetings would be conducted encouraging parishioners to name specifically what was taking away, and also what would restore, their lives and spirits. It was hoped that this year-long campaign would give the pastoral team a clearer picture of who their congregation was, what they were made of, what was killing them and what would need to happen to restore life and hope to people of St. Barbara’s and Bushwick. During the year of mourning the realities to be mourned became the subject of homilies; liturgy was structured around them; and the themes ran through the religious education and sacramental programs. It was as if the congregation was given permission to admit how terrible their situation really was. They faced the evil and named it. Kane says that this experience enabled them to pass through death—the death of a neighborhood, the death of their children to drugs and crime and the death of their dreams. By passing through this death they were beginning to experience liberation from fear and a hope for a more meaningful life (6). At end of the year of mourning, the bells of St. Barbara’s rang again, this time to mark the beginning of rebirth. It was now time for the community to build relationships with one another and identify and expand the congregation’s leadership base. While the pastoral team was already committed to a shared leadership model of ministry, the IAF training reinforced the idea that one of the team’s primary objectives had to be expanding and developing leadership. Moreover, they decided that they would have to be consistent in their relationships with one another and the congregation. The priests on the team, therefore, would have no more power than the women religious. Decisions were to be arrived at through consensus, and as many lay ministries as possible would be encouraged. In my interviews, Maryellen Kane emphasized that developing leadership was so much of a priority that the pastoral team evaluated every action and every organization—from training catechists, to the sodality, to planning Sunday worship, to the choir—on the basis of how it expanded the pool of leaders and developed leadership skills. By the end of the year there were approximately ninety leaders, or “stewards” in the congregation. The stewards’ first task was to set the goal for the parish and define it. The pastoral team used the stewards’

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meetings as opportunities to develop the skills of reflecting, discussing, analyzing, disagreeing and negotiating. In the end, the stewards produced a statement that defined St. Barbara’s as a “Community of Adult Christians.” They described community as: “inclusive, inviting, open, forgiving and compassionate … which works at breaking down walls among people and groups, focusing on what unites rather than on what divides. [It] reaches out to others in a spirit of service, ministry and hospitality.” By Christian, they meant “committed to Jesus and the liberating values of his gospel. . .[working] for peace and justice in building the kingdom of God. . .[and] an active participant in the Eucharistic Community.” And they defined an adult as someone who “assumes responsibility for his or her own intellectual, emotional and spiritual growth. . .works for and promotes the common good before individual interests. . .[and] is accountable for the use of his or her time, talent and treasure” (Kane 1988, 48‑49). Kane says that in hammering out the statement, all ninety stewards were forced to work with one another. This was a “first” in the life of this congregation. In addition, the process that was used to draft the statement not only challenged but changed parish governance and how decision-making would be done. From that point on, decisions would not be handed down from people in “authority.” Throughout this process the pastoral team’s focus on developing reasoning and negotiating skills actually gave the stewards valuable preparation for some of the public battles they would take on. It provided goals and standards to evaluate not only the congregation’s progress, but the larger community’s. Finally, the statement was key for broadening the congregation’s sense of responsibility. When the time came to decide whether they would join EBC, it was their stated commitment to overcome divisions to struggle for justice and to accept responsibility for themselves and the common good that weighed heavily in their positive decision. Like other EBC congregations, St. Barbara’s started out on a so‑called “small” issue, the need for a stoplight at a dangerous intersection where children crossed to get to the playground. Each summer several children were injured or killed. Repeated calls to authorities produced no results. They were told they would have to wait their turn; there was a waiting list for stoplights a mile long. So a team

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from St. Barbara’s did their research: they documented the number of cars that traversed the intersection and recorded the number of accidents and near accidents. They held rallies, got media attention and using all the pressure they could muster, demanded and finally got a meeting with the authorities responsible. Their organizational skills paid off. Shortly after their meeting, a stop light was installed. To the congregation, the stoplight symbolized more than any stoplight in the city of New York. It symbolized overcoming death, powerlessness and despair and birth into new life, power and hope. Again, the pastoral team creatively used the struggle for the stoplight as the subject of homilies; liturgies were built around it; and it was integrated into the catechetical program and other parish activities. The Sunday after the stoplight was installed, the congregation gathered around it, blessed it and celebrated its symbolic and actual significance. The work of the members of the team actively engaged in the stoplight issue was held up before the congregation as a form of ministry to the congregation and to the larger community. Thus ministry, which in the past had been narrowly defined, took on new meaning. The stoplight was the first of hundreds of issues through which congregational leadership and ministry was developed and expanded. Membership in EBC provided opportunities for St. Barbara’s to test their stated commitment to inclusivity. By working on issues with congregations who were racially and ethnically different, their commitment took on new and deeper meaning. Their collaboration spilled over into ecumenical prayer and liturgical celebrations. Who would have ever imagined that St. Barbara’s Hispanic population would join African-American Baptists in a revival at St. Paul’s Church? Their work and prayer together served them well in the face of forces that tried to divide them using race, denomination and even language. Sr. Maryellen Kane captures the deeper significance of organizing, when she writes, “the reign of God had to be given a beginning in Bushwick” (6). Now that we have looked at the impact organizing can have on the congregation both internally and externally, let us turn to the effect it can have on clergy and their understanding of their own ministry. Two pastors I know well from PIA agreed to share their thoughts with me.

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Speaking Truth to Power. . .In City Hall

The Reverend Mary Laney is one of the key leaders in PIA. She is a white 60-year-old Episcopal priest who has served as vicar of St. Gabriel’s church for more than a decade. She was among the second “class” of women ordained in the Episcopal Church. The first “class,” if you recall, were ordained irregularly in 1974 by three retired bishops at the Church of the Advocate in Philadelphia (one of PIA’s founding congregations). To avoid giving anyone excuses to exclude her from priestly ministry, the Reverend Laney decided to do everything “by the books.” With the support of her family, who remained in Philadelphia, she took up temporary residence in New York City to pursue full-time studies for the priesthood at General Theological Seminary. After ordination, Laney was assigned to an affluent suburban parish for three years, but she felt uneasy about this assignment because she sought priesthood primarily to serve the poor. So when the position of vicar of St. Gabriel’s opened in 1989, Laney jumped at the opportunity. From its founding in 1915, St. Gabriel’s was and continues to be an immigrant church. It originally drew its parishioners from German, English, Irish and other European immigrants who settled in the Olney, Feltonville and Logan areas of Philadelphia where they found steady work with the Heinz Company, Sears Roebuck, Exide Battery, the Naval Depot and small area manufacturing companies. While the church was never wealthy, it was never really desperately poor, that is, until the economy of the region began to shift in the late 1960s. Each of the major employers either relocated or closed, forcing employees into early retirement, to move to where the jobs were or to go on unemployment. The story of the neighborhood around St. Gabriel’s is typical of other declining neighborhoods in urban areas. Homes went up for sale. With so little work in the area there were few buyers. Real estate prices dropped. Then the speculators came in, buying up all the houses they could get their hands on and carving up their interiors into one and two room parcels, which they then rented to the new immigrants. Cheap housing lured African-American, African, Caribbean, Asian and Middle Eastern immigrants to the area, but unlike the first wave of immigrants who found ample employment, the new immigrants found virtually nothing. These are the people who now

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make up the eighty families of St. Gabriel’s. St. Gabriel’s boasts that in their congregation alone 52 different languages are spoken. About half of the adult congregation today is employed, and most of them have jobs in center city Philadelphia as teachers, postal workers, office workers, in community agencies and in food or janitorial services in the public school system. The other half is unemployed and on some form of public assistance. The public schools in the area are among the worst in the city. Only 30 percent of Olney High School’s freshman class graduate. Playgrounds and recreation areas are in disrepair. Streets and sidewalks are filthy; trash collection is erratic and police protection is undependable. To the mix, add crime, open drug-dealing and crack houses. The area around St. Gabriel’s is not a pretty place to live or grow up in. Some might find St. Gabriel’s diversity and its poverty impediments, but for Mother (as she is called by her congregation) they are things on which to capitalize. She sees St. Gabriel’s diversity as a treasure that very few parishes have. She says that while other churches are struggling to find ways to become more diverse, St. Gabriel’s has it “naturally.” St. Gabriel’s may “naturally” have diversity, but it takes initiative and creativity to make it work for the parish and not against it. This has been one of Mother Laney’s intentional goals for her ministry. She and her staff seize every opportunity to recognize, educate, and celebrate the diversity of the congregation, ranging from insuring diverse representation on all boards and committees, to liturgical celebrations, to celebrating holidays and traditions. While this has not been easy, the Reverend Laney insists that the diversity of the congregation be given high visibility in parish organization and structure. Another one of Mother Laney’s goals is to integrate life and faith. Birthdays, anniversaries, personal and academic achievements, Christmas blessings and Christmas gifts are all integrated into the liturgy. In addition, St. Gabriel’s boasts of a number of successful outreach programs. It has an after school arts and academic program for children, an adult literacy program, an English as a Second Language program, computer classes, parenting classes and a summer day camp. As with all successful programs, limited space became a problem. So, the Reverend Laney and her staff created new space, by extending the parish’s programs to neighborhood schools and community centers.

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In addition to the more traditional forms of integrating faith and life, for the last seven years, St. Gabriel’s has been deeply involved in organizing in the Logan, Olney and Feltonville areas through PIA. St. Gabriel’s was the base for one of PIA’s pilot community policing projects, which the former police commissioner ended abruptly despite its success. Members of St. Gabriel’s have served on PIA’s community policing team, the education team, the strategy team and the blight team. The Reverend Laney herself has co‑chaired PIA’s strategy team. I have observed Mother Laney in a variety of PIA actions. One of the more memorable was the time she confronted Philadelphia’s district attorney Lynne Abraham to prevent her from addressing a PIA assembly because Ms. Abraham had broken her word to the organization. In a meeting with PIA leaders the district attorney agreed to enter into a partnership with PIA. In exchange for PIA’s help identifying drug dealers in areas around its congregations, police would intensify drug busts and her office would speed up prosecution. Word got out that Abraham agreed to no such thing. When PIA’s phone calls, letters and faxes requesting a meeting to clarify the matter with her were ignored, PIA disinvited her to the assembly where the partnership was to have been announced. PIA also made it clear that were she to come, she would not be permitted to speak for having broken trust with the organization. When Ms. Abraham arrived at the door of First African Presbyterian Church, the Reverend Laney was there to greet her and repeat PIA’s position to her. The district attorney was permitted to join the assembly, but only as an observer. In less than five minutes Ms. Abraham interrupted the meeting demanding to have the floor. The chair of the meeting ruled her out of order and pounded an oversized gavel (which was brought to the meeting in the event that this kind of scenario would develop). When Abraham refused to be silent, Laney came to her pew and gently, but firmly, escorted her out of the church where a crowd of reporters stood waiting and stunned. No one had ever told the district attorney that she was out of order. I also remember the action in which the Reverend Laney presented fiddles to the former Philadelphia police commissioner, the mayor and his chief of staff for “fiddling” while Philadelphia was being overrun by crime. While crime rates in other major cities across the U. S. were dropping, Philadelphia’s was rising. PIA was the first organization to

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call and pressure for the police commissioner’s resignation. Within a year, he was removed. And then there are the countless times the Reverend Laney chaired PIA assemblies of 500 to 1,000 people in which she boldly accused the mayor of breaking faith with the citizens of Philadelphia by constructing a convention center while reneging on his promise to secure land for Nehemiah II and III; raising funds to create an “Avenue of the Arts” while parents in the Logan sinking homes area were forced to restrict their children’s outdoor play because of the high levels of arsenic and lead in the soil; and negotiating with Disney and Casino owners for an entertainment complex and riverboat gambling while refusing to contribute the city’s fair share toward stipends to support workers participating in an intensive training program to become skilled machinists. The Reverend Laney doesn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by people who hold high office and she has no hesitation publicly condemning their actions. One would think that being a priest, and the woman priest who didn’t want to give anyone in the church an excuse to deny her priestly ministry, would make the Reverend Laney a little more reticent. But the opposite seems to be true. Mother told me that she has always tried to speak the truth to authorities and she has done it in difficult situations. But she credits her involvement in PIA with creating opportunities to speak truth to power in places and settings that before were inaccessible to her, for example, in the press, in city hall, at the police headquarters and in the district attorney’s office. She also credits PIA with giving her training and critical feedback to do this more effectively. PIA has given her opportunities to meet with and negotiate with people she would never in her wildest dreams have thought of placing a phone call to. When I asked her why she speaks out so boldly when it could jeopardize everything she has worked for, Laney offered the following explanation. She said that while we know in the abstract that there is inefficiency, excessive bureaucracy, and corruption in government, it is only when we enter into relationship with public officials and begin to negotiate with them as equals on issues of life and death for poor people and their communities, that we experience the depth of personal and systemic evil. Laney said that the principalities and powers referred to in the Scriptures are, for her, no longer things of

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the past or mere abstractions; they are realities in our midst that must be exposed to the light of day, confronted and openly condemned. She believes that many people in high places have sold their souls, “an inch at a time.” Their lavish offices, lies, broken promises and efforts to intimidate and keep you in your place all have to do with an inflated sense of self importance. When presented opportunities to truly serve the public, and even when it is made easy for them to do what is right and just, Laney says, these so-called public servants cling to their power. She feels it is not a matter of not recognizing the good, but rather an inability to choose it because they have become caught up in themselves, their power and the trappings of their office. She believes it is destructive of themselves, others, and society at large. Seeing the idols some government officials have made of wealth and power and their tendency to turn themselves into idols and demand a posture of reverence has fueled the Reverend Laney’s sense of moral outrage. “Were I to be silent in the face of this evil, especially when I have seen it first hand,” Laney says, “I too would be selling my soul an inch at a time. I would be an accomplice in evil, and that goes against everything I became a priest for.” She says that we must expose evil and condemn it wherever it presents itself, not only in our churches, but in the public arena. Leadership in PIA has given her as a priest access, insight, and opportunity to expose and condemn public evil publicly. Were she to shy away from it, she believes she would be unfaithful to her priesthood. Theologically speaking, the Reverend Laney sees PIA as an instrument of the salvific or redemptive process. It provides the poor with opportunities to reclaim their voices, their lives and their dignity. They do this by refusing to accept their neglect by government officials. PIA also creates opportunities for those who hold public office to enter into partnership with the poor to create a more just society. And it offers the church and its ministers opportunities to speak the truth in the public arena and introduce moral values into public discourse and decisions. In Reveille for Radicals Alinsky writes, “Organized religion has too often followed the road of other people’s institutions. It has made adjustments, compromises, and surrenders to a materialistic civilization for the benefit of material security in spite of occasional twinges of conscience and moral protests. The result has been that

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today much of organized religion is materialistically solvent but spiritually bankrupt” (Alinsky 1969, 200). Reverend Laney has found that her involvement in PIA has enriched her spiritually. In working with others to expose the hypocrisy, holding the mayor, the police commissioner and the district attorney to their word, and calling on them to choose life, she has discovered within herself a new sense of personal moral integrity, and it has strengthened her resolve to stay with the struggle for justice. She has also discovered a new freedom. As she says, “I am convinced that there is virtually nothing the powers that be can do to me. After all, being pastor of a poor parish that no one else wants does have its advantages; it affords me opportunities to take risks that others, perhaps, can’t as easily take.” Finally, being in relationship with pastors and laity of other denominations, whose desire and courage to work for justice are as strong as her own, gives her a sense of being part of a larger community of faith.

If the Gospel Is Not Valid in Kingsessing, It Is Not Valid

The second priest highlighted here is also an Episcopal priest, the Reverend Reed Brinkman. Father Brinkman has been rector of St. James Episcopal Church in the Kingsessing area of Southwest Philadelphia for twenty years. He is also one of the founding members of PIA. The Reverend Brinkman is white, in his late 50’s, married and has two children. The crisp straw ivory-colored hat he sports on warm summer days captures his demeanor: refined, reflective and well-spoken—hardly the type of fellow one expects to find ministering in an area where drug trafficking and prostitution are the main industries. But as Father Brinkman says, “If the Gospel is not valid in Kingsessing, if it is only valid on the Main Line, then it is not valid.” Father Brinkman is certainly putting the Gospel to the test. Kingsessing, like the Logan, Olney, Feltonville sections of the city, was an area settled by immigrants who found plenty of steady work at Westinghouse, General Electric, Stetson Hats, Fels Naptha, the Navy Yard and the Philadelphia Bulletin newspaper. But it too experienced rapid decline with the changing face of Philadelphia’s economy, from manufacturing to service, high tech and information-based industries in the early 1970s. Of the companies named, all but two, General Electric

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and Westinghouse, have closed. General Electric and Westinghouse, nonetheless, moved out of the area, downsized their operations and laid off thousands of employees. Philadelphia has seen the largest decline in jobs of any city in the U.S. for the last fifty years. The growth in the affordable housing market in the suburbs, cheap mortgage loans putting home purchasing in reach of middle and lower middle income families, government investment in the highway system, the boom in the automobile industry and the relocation of companies to the suburbs all made it possible for city residents to live and work in the suburbs. And a new, poorer class of immigrants took their place in the city. In Kingsessing they are African-Americans and they come from Panama, Nigeria, Liberia, the Bahamas, Jamaica, Trinidad, St. Vincent and Barbados. Reverend Brinkman estimates that a little less than half of the people in the area who can work, don’t, and those who do work, work mainly in the service industry, finding jobs with McDonalds, Rite-Aid, K-Mart, mini-markets and in food and janitorial services for the Philadelphia airport and city hotels. But these types of jobs pay far from a living wage. What was once a stable, working-class neighborhood, in just two to three decades, became mired in poverty. Drawing on a recent demographic study of the Kingsessing area, the Reverend Brinkman writes, “A mile and one half radius of the church reveals a population who for the most part have great need and little resources to sustain themselves or anything else. The profile is one of an ethnic, diverse and dense population but one that is distressed. The majority of the people are poorly educated, chronically unemployed, and have unstable and untraditional family structures. … The neighborhood is no long[er] ‘home’ to people but just a place that most people are passing through. We, like similar neighborhoods throughout the city, are becoming over-saturated with half-way houses, drug treatment centers and abandoned properties” (Brinkman 2001). As mentioned above, drug-trafficking and prostitution are two industries that are thriving in Kingsessing. So it should be no surprise that the city has seen major growth in the prison industry, the police force and the district attorney’s office. St. James is a lovely, country-looking church, founded in 1760, located on five acres and taking up an entire city block. Surrounded by a wall, it is situated on Woodland Avenue, one of the most traf-

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ficked thoroughfares in Kingsessing. It wouldn’t take much for Father Brinkman and the parishioners of St. James to convince themselves that the world beyond the church wall doesn’t affect the church. The contrast is so stark. Brinkman’s congregation is about 250 communicants. Half of them come from the suburbs and the other half from the neighborhood. Like the Reverend Laney, he relishes his congregation’s diversity. And like Laney, Brinkman’s ministry has never been limited to his congregation. He says that anyone who takes on urban ministry realizes that he or she must also minister to the community. He believes that his membership in PIA has helped him do that more effectively. Following one of the IAF’s principles for organizing, St. James started its organizing efforts working on small, winnable issues. They began by trying to get the city to clean up the trash on Woodland Avenue. They pressured the city for trash cans which would be strategically placed along Woodland Avenue. After months of meetings and phone calls, the city finally came through. But then the big problem was trying to get the sanitation department to regularly pick up the trash that was overflowing the cans onto the sidewalks. Again, it took months of pressure. While they have made progress, the trash situation still requires constant monitoring. Another major problem is the abandoned factories and homes in the area. Father Brinkman says that without the relationship PIA has with the department of Licenses and Inspections (L&I) he doubts that St. James would have seen much progress on this front. Thus far, with the cooperation of L&I 35 houses and factories have been demolished and an additional 40 cleaned and sealed in the area. But there is one particular victory that the Reverend Brinkman is especially proud of, the Fels Naptha factory building. For years it was neglected by the owner and had become home to trash, rats, drug dealers, prostitutes and area children. Repeated letters, phone calls and meetings with the owner produced no results over the years. But that changed when the Fels plant became one of the buildings on PIA’s list for L&I to clean and seal. With L&I, Father Brinkman took the owner to court and won. Not only was the owner forced to clean up the first and second stories, these areas had to be cleaned to the neighbors’ inspection and satisfaction. Reflecting on the experience with the owner since that time, Father Brinkman says that the IAF’s principle that in organizing there can be no permanent enemies or

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permanent friends is “on the money.” The owner of the plant, once an adversary, now works cooperatively with the community. In fact, when he decided to tear down the old building, with plans to build a CVS Pharmacy, Amoco Gas Station, Mini-Mart and laundromat in its place, he came to the community. They consented, but only on the condition that he employ people from the neighborhood and not sell liquor out of the Mini-Mart. In addition to the trash and abandoned building situation, there is also the problem of crime in the neighborhood. St. James was also one of the sites of PIA’s community policing pilot program. The Reverend Brinkman points out that, even with the termination of the project by the former police commissioner, the relationship with the police has improved. He and members of the community still meet regularly with the police, and police patrolling on bikes can be seen from time to time. Despite the fact that he and members of the community continue to identify sites where drugs are sold and prostitutes solicit, stemming them has been extraordinarily difficult. Father Brinkman questions whether much has really changed in the police force even with a new police commissioner. I asked Father Brinkman if PIA has made a difference in his ministry and in his congregation. He was eloquent. Brinkman said that as a Christian and as a priest he is called by the Gospel to love everyone. Yet clearly he finds some people difficult to love, for example, the drug dealers, the prostitutes, the city bureaucrats, those who are very different from himself, those of whom he is fearful and people he doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly want to know. PIA, he believes, is helping him to love these people, to love them more than he would want, and to discover the various ways love is expressed. He believes that PIA is actually helping him to be the Christian he is called to be. The Reverend Brinkman says the Gospel calls us to become one body, brothers and sisters to one another, and responsible to and for one another. Yet the reality is that we are not in relationship with one another. Brinkman says that it is relatively easy to be in relationship with members of one’s congregation, but there are many people and institutions that he knew he should be in relationship with and was not. For him, PIA has been a vehicle for gaining greater access to the community and the organizations in it. Because of PIA, he meets and

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works with other ministers and congregations, city agencies, businesses, banks, the media and also with the people and institutions destroying the quality of life in Kingsessing The Reverend Brinkman believes that PIA helps not only him, but his congregation, be more faithful to the Gospel. By bringing more intentionality to building relationships, PIA enables his congregation to connect to a larger community of faith. It helps his congregation broaden their community of concern and develop greater empathy. Brinkman believes PIA puts faith to the public test. It helps the church stand back from itself, see itself institutionally and witness to the Gospel in more public ways. When the congregation engages in organized action, it tells the community that the church is firmly rooted in the neighborhood and shares its anger, frustration, fears, hopes and dreams. The church is part of it, and it is part of the church. By fighting for public safety, jobs and improvements in the quality of life, the church goes out of itself. It empathizes with those who suffer in the community and expresses its love for them publicly. In a community where broken commitments are the norm, PIA enables the church to keep faith with the community. Father Brinkman believes that PIA is helping build trust among a very diverse people. When the congregation works with others on issues that affect the quality life in Kingsessing, they learn that it may be possible to put aside mistrust for something they commonly believe in. When the members of the congregation and the community participate in a larger PIA action, they see diverse congregations, diverse racial and ethnic groups and different social classes working with one another. They are inspired and challenged to do the same. PIA, Father Brinkman believes, is helping his congregation recreate community. It offers them a glimpse of what the reign of God might look like. Brinkman believes PIA gives him and his congregation a vehicle to effect systemic change, which they had never had before. The church, he says, has been “pretty good” at taking a stand on injustice and condemning what is wrong; tending to the victims and celebrating the good that has been accomplished; but rarely does the church get its hands dirty in the actual process of effecting change. The middle step, the actual process of effecting change, is where most of the risk and uncertainty lie, but it is also where opportunity is greatest for

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creatively shaping society. It is impossible to be in PIA and not be “in the thick” of the process of change. Father Brinkman believes that PIA enables not only him and his congregation to be more than they are, but also city officials, banks, corporations, and other institutions. It offers them options: to carry on business as usual or to do what is right, just and compassionate. He firmly believes that human beings are attracted to the good. PIA offers these officials the support of the community to follow that attraction. In addition, he believes PIA teaches and gives opportunities to sacrifice for one another, as the Gospel calls us to do. While individuals and their institutions join PIA out of self interest, Father Brinkman says it doesn’t take long to learn that staying in PIA requires sacrifice of one’s time and talent for one another. It gives them opportunities to be people for one another. Father Brinkman ended the conversation by saying, “I guess you could say PIA is helping us live in Kingsessing.” That says it all.

One Foot in the University and the Other in PIA

The above are some of the stories from congregations and individuals involved in IAF organizations and their reflections on their experiences. In the pages that follow, I would like to share my own thoughts on what I see taking place as these poor congregations organize for justice. I bring to this discussion more than twenty-five years of educating for justice and critically reflecting on it at Villanova University, approximately ten years teaching service learning courses, and more than twelve years of active participation and leadership in PIA. I am convinced that having one foot firmly planted in the university and the other in PIA has radically challenged and shaped my academic work as well as my understanding of and participation in the concrete struggle to create a more compassionate, just and peaceful social order. Perhaps the place to begin is with the IAF’s stated reasons for choosing to organize primarily through congregations. The IAF claims that religious institutions are one of the few remaining intact institutions in poor areas. There one tends to find people who already are in somewhat of a relationship with one another. Members of the congregation, for the most part, are invested in their families and communities.

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Congregations usually have relationships with other religious and non-religious institutions that are sources of new relationships and also possible sources of funding. I believe, however, that in choosing to organize through congregations, the IAF is acknowledging the fact that organizing itself is a value-laden activity. Moreover, it finds the values in congregations compatible with its own. Congregations, I would argue, find reason to stay in IAF organizations because IAF organizations enable them to “operationalize” their own religious values. In short, the relationship is of mutual interest and benefit. Let me explain. Many inner city churches have been closed or face closing. By choosing to organize through these congregations, the IAF, in effect, supports both the right and necessity for the church’s continued presence in the inner cities, and it enables them to stay there. By virtue of the fact that they have not deserted the poor as other institutions have, these religious institutions themselves become a statement to the poor, to the larger church and to society that the poor indeed matter. Moreover, the presence of these religious institutions expresses to the poor a desire to share not only their suffering, but their struggle for justice. As long as these congregations are there, the biblical promises of justice, love, hope and peace will continue to be preached where they are needed most and also tested most. By organizing congregations to act in the public arena, the IAF intentionally links religious institutions to the public arena. It helps to remind them that they are integral parts of society and challenges them to assume their responsibility for shaping it. This intentional linkage also provides opportunities for congregations to reflect on and clarify the public and political nature of faith and the church, and their responsibility in the public arena. Organizing through congregations can rescue congregations from escaping into abstractionism and generalization. It helps ground congregations in the concrete situations where they find themselves. As congregations organize, they see the battle of good over evil in quite specific and concrete terms. It becomes the struggle for living wages, decent affordable homes, police protection for their neighborhoods and textbooks for their children. They now understand that the struggle is not just a personal or individual matter. IAF congregations have very

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little difficulty grasping the concept of structural and systemic evil and sin because they have faced its reality and called it by its name. As discussed above, biblical scholar, Walter Brueggemann argues that the Hebrew people suffered from “sacred discontent” (Brueggemann 1989, 3-34). They refused to accept the word of the empire as final because they knew better. They brought their shared personal pain to public expression and were noisy about it. Their prophets continued to remind the empire publicly that the suffering of the Hebrew people was unacceptable and could never be the best that could be hoped for. Organizing provides a means for poor congregations to share in that tradition of “sacred discontent.” It offers a way to say “no” to modern-day principalities and powers. While these principalities and powers would prefer to deny, or at least ignore, the existence of the poor, organized congregations refuse to go away. They take their shared personal pain and suffering out of the private realm and bring it to public expression. Like the Hebrew people they refuse to accept it and are noisy about it. When their actions are linked to the biblical tradition, poor congregations begin to see that they are a way of being faithful to that tradition. Their struggle takes on broader significance and their understanding of their religious tradition is deepened. Through organizing, the poor discover their own God-given power. They experience it in their struggle to reclaim their lives and communities that have been taken from them. In doing so, they cooperate with the God of life rather that the forces of death. Poor people know evil; they have suffered from it, and they feel it in their bones. In the process of organizing, they develop the skills to name those evils, expose them, and analyze their roots. By taking a stand against those evils instead of resigning themselves, they limit the power of evil over their own lives and their children’s lives. Also, through organizing, the poor learn to speak the truth to people and in places where it has not been heard. And in speaking the truth, they advance the truth. By speaking it they also invite all who hear it to join them in creating a new social reality. And finally, in speaking the truth and participating in its creation, the poor themselves more fully embrace the truth. As mentioned above, power has come to have rather negative connotations. But without power, people’s organizations cannot effectively address the powerful structures and systems of society. Through IAF

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organizing, congregations acquire a healthier and more biblicallysound understanding of power. They hear with new ears that YHWH is a powerful God who acts in history and calls people to act in their history. The story of the Exodus, the Hebrew people rising up and liberating themselves so that they might live as God intended, takes on new meaning. Moreover, they see the Jesus of the Gospels as far from meek. It was his confrontation with the religious and political authorities of his day and his refusal to keep silent that cost him his life. The Gospel calls Christians to act as Jesus did in society. Thus to be made in the image and likeness of God is understood in terms of exercising one’s power to liberate oneself and others from the forces that deny them what already belongs to them. Organized congregations come to understand their action in the public sector as part of their vocation as people of faith. They begin to recognize the God of the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures as a God who acts not only in the private but the public domain and who calls them to act there as well. Their God is a God who establishes and promises the fulfillment of God’s reign of justice, compassion and peace. They come to see the work of furthering justice in their neighborhoods as holy work; it is their contribution to furthering God’s reign in their midst. Through the process of organizing, congregations are reminded of a truth they knew, but had not grasped fully: there is but one God. Powerful institutions and people may act like gods, but they are not God. They too are subject to God. Poor congregations learn that when they allow the powerful to discard their lives and their children’s lives so easily, and when they allow themselves to be intimidated, the powerful become more than human. They become like gods. Organizing enables congregations to take down the false gods from their pedestals and worship the one true God. By challenging the abuses of power in the public domain, organizations keep God, human beings and human institutions in their respective places. Organized congregations remind themselves and the structures and systems of society of another fundamental truth. They are not ends in themselves; they too must serve God’s purpose. Through intentionally building relationships across denominational, racial, ethnic, economic and political lines, with allies as well

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as adversaries, congregations remind themselves that they are made by the same God, share the same nature and are bound to one another. It is not only a matter of reminding themselves, but practicing what they believe. In doing so, they arrive at a much deeper and more profound understanding of this. By working with such diverse people and institutions, through so many trying circumstances, they come to know another truth. That which binds human beings is much more powerful that than which separates them. Through organizing, congregations come to understand better St. Paul’s injunction to “bear with one another.” As Reverend Brinkman says, while they may be drawn to the organization out of self-interest, in the process of organizing, they learn to sacrifice for one another. This sacrifice is not charity. They do not take up collections of money, food or clothing for one another; they do not do one another favors. Rather they become accountable both to and for one another. They are accountable for dues to keep the organization going. They are accountable for building relationships inside and outside their own congregations, for surfacing new leaders, and for expanding the organization. They are accountable to participate and assume leadership roles in organizational meetings and actions and to do the work to which they committed themselves. Love of neighbor, for these congregations, is much more demanding and much more complex. I am convinced that in the process of organizing to reclaim their own lives and the lives of their communities, the political and the religious become one. José Comblin, the Latin American liberation theologian, argues that when the poor speak in voices that have been silenced and use the eyes, hands and feet that have been paralyzed, the political and religious are not separate, but one reality (Comblin 1993, 462-482). In his words, “faith, hope, and charity and political action are one reality in the human person who is really and concretely born into new life. It is a matter of the very existence of the people: the Holy Spirit is involved here” (463). It is no exaggeration to say that through organizing, the poor are reborn; they find new life. I agree with Comblin when he says that when the poor come together and organize, they experience a form of resurrection, a rising from the dead (463). The Scriptures are clear that the Holy Spirit acts in the world through the poor. God continues to liberate today through

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inspiring the poor and marginalized, who in union with one another, gain consciousness, initiative, energy and strength to speak and act in their own name. Thus, the fundamental question for educators and educational institutions committed to furthering justice must be, where is the Spirit at work today in our society liberating from oppression and restoring life? From where I stand, it appears that the Spirit is most definitely at work in these congregations. And there is one thing of which I am certain, wherever the Spirit is, there must we also be, individually, collectively and institutionally.

The University Keeping Faith

When I began this project, I was interested primarily in laying the groundwork for Christian and, particularly Catholic religious and theological educators, who needed a sound theological and ecclesiological basis to educate for structural and systemic change. If they were going to argue the need to act in the public and political arenas, I reasoned, they would need to know that a compelling case could be made from their own religious tradition. I had hoped my book would help them do their work with a little more confidence. This seemed to me a rather straightforward task and a service to the field. As I was writing I was also teaching social ethics courses that focused on poverty in the Third World and in the United States. I found myself growing increasingly dissatisfied with my own educational efforts. It didn’t seem sufficient to expose students to social problems, Catholic social teaching and the theology that spoke to these issues. Moreover, I wasn’t convinced that just because students now knew more about injustice and had a more solid grounding in their own religious tradition that they actually became engaged in the struggle for justice. So with a good friend, Fr. Ray Jackson O.S.A., we launched service learning at Villanova University. That seemed to work for a time because the students, in addition to studying the problems, were now doing things in the community, such as tutoring, taking coffee, blankets and sandwiches to the homeless, repairing habitat houses and doing similar work overseas. But even that was unsatisfying; the volunteer work did not “fit” the structural analysis we were doing in the classroom. The turning point for me came with the assassination of the UCA Jesuits. It became so

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clear that the reason the Jesuits were murdered was not because they and the UCA were doing charity or service. As Jon Sobrino writes, “No one is thrown in prison or persecuted simply for having practiced works of mercy. Not even Jesus would have been persecuted and put to death, had his mercy been mere mercy. . .” (Sobrino 1994, 24). They were doing what the Catholic Church and Catholic educational institutions ought to be doing: standing in solidarity with the poor and marginalized and working collaboratively with them to put an end to the causes of their suffering. The UCA Jesuits personally, professionally and institutionally made a preferential option for the poor, and in so doing they found it necessary to shift location and relationship. They chose to come geographically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually closer to, not only the poor and marginalized, but the poor with spirit, and be in a relationship of solidarity with them. This changed the way they thought, the way they taught, the way they did research and the way they conceived the university and its mission. In a word, they were converted by their experience and their work took on new meaning and urgency. They became such a powerful force for justice in El Salvador that the institutional powers tried to put an end to them and the university. But like Archbishop Romero, they too believed in resurrection. They were convinced that even were the Salvadoran military to kill them, their work as a university and as academics dedicated to justice would live on. The UCA, I believe, is an inspiration, a model and a challenge to all educators and Catholic and Christian academic institutions, which because of the Gospel mandate, are charged with the responsibility of shaping a global society that is more compassionate, just and peaceful. It is rather easy to point to popular organizations, some of whom take their inspiration from the Gospel and work collaboratively with the church for structural and system change in the poorer nations of the world. And it is also easy, even in the face of the experience of the UCA, to dismiss this as specific or particular to the Third World. But I was certain that the poor with spirit was not a “third world phenomenon.” This led me to research the IAF and ultimately to participate actively for the last twelve years in PIA. What I want to show here, by taking the example of IAF organizations, is that the

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poor with spirit are not a third world phenomenon; they are alive and well in the United States. In addition, the church is indeed working in solidarity and in collaboration with them. Where this relationship is embraced, integrated and reflected on, the pastoral, sacramental, liturgical and communal life of the congregations and their ministers are enriched and deepened. One wonders whether this could have happened without the relationship to the broad-based organization. As pointed out above, the organizing itself seems to be more effective. It is not merely a matter of effective strategy and tactics. Much more is at stake and being fought for. As Comblin says, when the poor find voice, the political action and the religious action become one. As I researched these organizations, became an active member of PIA, and witnessed their courage, faith, the changes they brought about and the changes that were brought about in them, Sobrino’s point about not only keeping new company, but keeping their company in new ways began to make more sense. As discussed in chapter 2, when he reflects on the experience of journalists, congress people, bishops and groups that visited El Salvador during the civil war, Sobrino argues that their response to what they heard and witnessed was of a qualitatively different kind (Sobrino 1994, 145-151). They did not respond with works of mercy. They did not send collections of food, money or clothes or send others to tutor and repair houses. Instead they allowed themselves to become enlisted personally and professionally, and also tried to engage their respective institutions in the struggle to bring an end to the war. Sobrino writes that because the church stood with the poor and was persecuted, the truth that was there all along became more true and took on greater urgency and commitment. There is no denying the fact that the murder of the Jesuits did hasten an end to the war. Sobrino also says that what the visitors to El Salvador received was of a different quality than what they gave. They received new eyes to see themselves and their country more clearly for who and what they were. They understood the relationship of both to the misery and suffering in El Salvador, and made connections in ways that would have never been possible apart from their experience. They rediscovered their faith, the depth of their commitments, that is, what they truly believed and wanted to live their lives for. Their professions took on new meaning, purpose

6 ~ Leavens for Society, the Church & the University 173

and possibilities. They found new energy, vitality and an endurance they never knew they had. And most of all they found themselves in new and good company, much richer than they experienced before. This is indeed the Gospel promise. So it stands to reason that if the Gospel call is addressed not only to individuals and the church, but to Christian and Catholic academic institutions as well; if they too must make a preferential option for the poor, and if that preferential option requires more than charity; if keeping company with the poor, particularly the poor with spirit, is not only a third world phenomenon and holds the promise of generating opportunities for genuine solidarity and transformation, then it seems the time has come not only for those who educate for justice but our academic institutions to take risks that pale in comparison to the risks taken by Romero and the UCA martyrs, risks demanded by the Gospel. But in the end, it is all not risk. In Ronald Marstin’s words, “companionship with the poor is not a rampart we are called to storm: it is a grace to which we are invited to open ourselves” (Marstin 1979, 131).

References

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Coe, George Albert. 1969. A Social Theory of Religious Education. New York: Arno Press and the New York Times. Coleman, John A. 1982. An American Strategic Theology. New York: Paulist Press. —-. 1989. The Two Pedagogies: Discipleship and Citizenship. In Education for Citizenship and Discipleship, ed. Mary C. Boys, 56-61. New York: Pilgrim Press. Comblin, José. 1993. The Holy Spirit. In Mysterium Liberationis: Fundamental Concepts of Liberation Theology, eds. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J. and Jon Sobrino, S.J., 462-82. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Cone, James H. 1991. Martin & Malcolm & America: A Dream or a Nightmare. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis. Curran, Charles E. 1985. Directions in Catholic Social Ethics. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Davies, J. D. 1976. Christians, Politics and Violent Revolution. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Davis, Charles. 1980. Theology and Political Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. The Democratic Promise: Saul Alinsky and His Legacy. 1999. Produced by Media Process Educational Films & Chicago Video Project. 56.40 min. Videocassette. Dennis, Marie, Renny Golden, and Scott Wright. 2000. Oscar Romero: Reflections on His Life and Writings. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Desrochers, John. 1977. Methods of Societal Analysis. Dasarahalli, Bangalore, India: St. Paul Press. Döering, Bernard, ed. 1994. The Philosopher and the Provocateur. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Dorr, Donal. 1991. The Social Justice Agenda: Justice, Ecology, Power and the Church. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 1992. Option for the Poor: A Hundred Years of Catholic Social Teaching. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Ehrenreich, Barbara. 2001. Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America. New York: Henry Holt and Company. El Salvador: Portraits in a Revolution. 1992. Produced and directed by Elizabeth Morgan and Laura Jackson. 56 min. PBS Documentary. Videocassette. Ellacuría, Ignacio. 1984. Los pobres, ‘lugar teologico’en America Latina.’ In Conversation de la Iglesia al Reino de Dios. 163. Madrid: Sal Terrae. Translated and quoted by Kevin F. Burke, S.J. 1997. Ignacio Ellacuría: The Love That Produces Hope. Paper presented at 42 annual meeting of the College Theology Society. —-. 1990. The Task of a Christian University. In Companions of Jesus: The Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador, eds. Jon Sobrino, Ignacio Ellacuría and Others, 147-51. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books.

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—-. 1991a. Is a Different Kind of University Possible? In Towards a Society That Serves Its People: The Intellectual Contribution of El Salvador’s Murdered Jesuits, eds. John Hassett and Hugh Lacey, 177-207. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press. —-. 1991b. Liberation Theology and Socio-historical Change in Latin America. In Towards a Society That Serves Its People: The Intellectual Contribution of El Salvador’s Murdered Jesuits, eds. John Hassett and Hugh Lacey, 19-43. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press. —-. 1991c. The True Social Place of the Church. In Towards a Society that Serves its People: The Intellectual Contribution of El Salvador’s Murdered Jesuits, eds. John Hassett and Hugh Lacey, 283-92. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press. —-. 1991d. The University, Human Rights, and The Poor Majority. In Towards A Society That Serves Its People: The Intellectual Contribution of El Salvador’s Murdered Jesuits, eds. John Hassett and Hugh Lacey, 208-19. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press. —-. 1991e. Utopia and Prophecy in Latin America. In Towards A Society That Serves Its People: The Intellectual Contribution of El Salvador’s Murdered Jesuits, eds. John Hassett and Hugh Lacey, 44-88. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press. —-. 1993. The Crucified People. In Mysterium Liberationis: Fundamental Concepts of Liberation Theology, eds. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J. and Jon Sobrino, S.J., 580-603. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Engel, Lawrence J. 1998. The Influence of Saul Alinsky on the Campaign for Human Development. Theological Studies 59 (4): 636-61. Etzioni, Amitai. 1964. Modern Organizations. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice‑Hall. Eyes on the Prize pt. 1. 1989. Produced and directed by Judith Vecchione. 60 min. PBS Video. Videocassette. Freedman, Samuel G. 1993. Upon this Rock: The Miracles of a Black Church. New York: Harper Collins Publishers. Freire, Paulo. 1972. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Herder & Herder. Galbraith, John Kenneth. 1983. The Anatomy of Power. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Golden, Renny. 1991.The Hour of the Poor, The Hour of Women: Salvadoran Women Speak. New York: Crossroad. Goulet, Denis. 1973. The Cruel Choice: A New Concept in the Theory of Development. New York: Atheneum. Greider, William.1992. Who Will Tell The People: The Betrayal of American Democracy. New York: Simon & Shuster. Gudorf, Christine E. 1993. Admonishing Sinners: Owning Structural Sin. In Rethinking the Spiritual Works of Mercy, ed. Francis A. Eigo, O.S.A., 1-29. Villanova, Pa: Villanova University Press.

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Gutierrez, Gustavo. 1973. A Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 1983. The Power of the Poor in History. Maryknoll, N.Y., Orbis Books. —-. 1990. The Truth Shall Make You Free: Confrontations. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Harper, F. Nile. 1969. Social Power and the Limits of Church Education. Religious Education 64 (5): 390-8. Hennelly, Alfred T. 1977. Theological Method: The Southern Exposure. Theological Studies 38 (4): 709-35. Henriot, Peter J., S.J. 1982. The Structural Dimension of the Justice Challenge. Washington, D.C.: The Center of Concern. Holland, Joe and Peter Henriot, S.J. 1980. Social Analysis: Linking Faith and Justice. Washington, D.C.: Center of Concern. Horwitt, Sanford D. 1989. Let Them Call Me Rebel. New York: Knopf. Industrial Areas Foundation. 1979. Organizing for Family and Congregation. New York: Industrial Areas Foundation. Instituto de Estudios Centroamericanos and El Rescate. 1990. The Jesuit Assassinations: The Writings of Ellacuría, Martín-Baró and Segundo Montes, with a Chronology of the Investigation. Kansas City, Mo.: Sheed & Ward. Kane, Maryellen. 1988. The Influence of Saul Alinsky on Catholic Social Praxis in East Brooklyn. Master’s thesis, Boston College. Kennedy, William B. 1979. A Radical Challenge to Inherited Educational Patterns. Religious Education 74 (5): 491-5. Komonchak, Joseph A. 1981. Clergy, Laity, and the World. Jurist 41: 42247. Levine, Hillel. 1980. On the Debanalization of Evil. In Sociology and Human Destiny, ed. Gregory Baum, 1-26. New York: Seabury Press. Marstin, Ronald. 1979. Beyond Our Tribal Gods: The Maturing of Faith. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. McBrien, Richard. 1987. Caesar’s Coin. New York: Collier Macmillan. Moreno, Juan Ramón, S.J. 1990. Evangelization in the Contemporary World. In Companions of Jesus, eds. Jon Sobrino, Ignacio Ellacuría and others, 98-123. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. O’Brien, David J. 1994. From the Heart of the American Church: Catholic Higher Education and American Culture. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Palmer, Parker. 1985. The Company of Strangers: Christians and the Renewal of America’s Public Life. New York: Crossroad Publishing. Pfeffer, Jeffrey. 1981. Power in Organizations. London: Pitman Publishing. Philadelphia Interfaith Action. 1998. An Informational Booklet: Philadelphia Interfaith Action, an Affiliate of the Industrial Areas Foundation. Philadelphia. Romero, Oscar. 1998a. The Violence of Love. Translated by James R. Brockman. Farmington, Pa.: Plough Publishing House.

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—-. 1998b. Voice of the Voiceless: The Four Pastoral Letters and Other Statements. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Sobrino, Jon. 1990a. Archbishop Romero: Memories and Reflections. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 1990b. The University’s Christian Inspiration. In Companions of Jesus: The Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador, eds. Jon Sobrino, Ignacio Ellacuría and others, 152-73. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 1991. The Cost of Speaking the Truth: The Martyrs of Central America, El Salvador. The Journal for Peace and Justice Studies 3 (2): 1-11. —-. 1993. Communion, Conflict, and Ecclesial Solidarity. In Mysterium Liberationis: Fundamental Concepts of Liberation Theology, eds. Ignacio Ellacuría, S.J. and Jon Sobrino, S.J., 615-36. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 1994. The Principle of Mercy: Taking the Crucified People From the Cross. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. —-. 2003. Witnesses to the Kingdom: The Martyrs of El Salvador and the Crucified Peoples. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Synod of Bishops, Second General Assembly. 1971. Justice in the World. In The Gospel of Peace and Justice, 1976, ed. Joseph Gremillion, 513-29. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. United States Catholic Conference. 2003. Faithful Citizenship: A Catholic Call to Political Responsibility. Home page on-line. Available from http://www. usccb.org/faithfulcitizenship/bishopStatement.html; Internet; accessed 3 September 2004. Weber, Joseph. 1980. Christ’s Victory Over the Powers. In Above Every Name: The Lordship of Christ and Social Systems, ed. Thomas E. Clarke, 66-82. Ramsey, N.J.: Paulist Press. Welch, Sharon D. 1985. Communities of Resistance and Solidarity: A Feminist Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books. Whitfield, Teresa. 1995. Paying the Price: Ignacio Ellacuría and the Murdered Jesuits of El Salvador. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Wilmore, Gayraud S. 1962. The Secular Relevance of the Church. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Wink, Walter. 1984. Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. —-. 1986. Unmasking the Powers: The Invisible Forces that Determine Human Existence. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. —-.1992. Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Press.

Index Charity, 12, 26, 52-53, 59, 79, 83, 104-106, 117-119, 121, 147, 174, 176, 178 Chicago Area Project, 126-127 Church, 7-8, 12, 14-16, 22, 33-34, 37, 46-47, 52-55, 57-65, 67-91, 93-94, 97, 104, 114, 123, 128129, 136, 142-145, 147-149, 151-155, 157-159, 161-169, 171, 173, 175-183 Civil Rights Movement, 61-62, 109-111 Clarke, Thomas E., 179, 183 Coleman, John A., 180 Comblin, Jose, 174, 180 Back of the Yards, 127-129 Back of the Yards Neighborhood Cone, James H., 180 Conflict, 14, 26-27, 32, 58, 65, 75, Council, 128-129 80, 89-91, 131-133, 140, 146, Beirne, S.J., Charles, 10, 122, 179 155, 183 Boff, Clodovis, 39-40, 43-44, 179 Confrontation, 14, 27, 58, 133, 140, Boff, Leonardo, 39, 42, 62, 179 146, 155, 172 Boyte, Harry C., 179 Brinkman, Reverend Reed, 10, 164 CIO, 127-128 Controversy, 26, 67, 146 Brockman, James R., 179, 182 Brooklyn, 149-150, 152, 154-155, Crow, Jim, 48 Crucified people, 13, 36, 55, 74, 95182 97, 181, 183 Brownsville, 149, 152 Brueggemann, Walter, 44, 171, 179 Cuomo, Governor Mario, 153 Curran, Charles E., 180 Burgess, 125-127 Burke, 10, 35-36, 73, 96, 179-180 Bushwick, 8, 147, 149, 154-156, Davies, J.D., 26, 180 Davis Square Park, 128 159 Davis, Charles, 76, 180 Democracy, 130, 133, 136, 181 Capitalism, 130 Catholic Social Teaching, 42, 65, Desrochers, John, 19, 180 Dorr, Donal, 180 175, 179-180 Catholic Social Tradition, 11, 65-67 East Brooklyn, 149-150, 152, 155, Catholic Youth Organization, 128 182 CELAM, 34, 48, 69, 78, 179 EBC, 149-153, 155, 157-158 Chambers, Edward, 134 Action, 9, 16, 20, 27-28, 31-32, 39, 41, 44-45, 48, 54, 60, 63-64, 73-78, 80, 87, 93, 104-108, 110, 112-114, 116-117, 120-121, 124, 129, 131, 139-140, 143, 145, 155-156, 162, 168-169, 173-174, 177, 182 Adversaries, 139-140, 146, 173 Alinsky, Saul, 8, 124-125, 134, 149, 179-182 Allies, 61-62, 128, 131, 135, 138140, 145, 173 Assmann, Hugo, 30, 179

Egan, Monsignor Jack, 129 Ehrenreich, Barbara, 25, 57, 180 Portraits in a Revolution, 109, 180 Ellacuria, S.J., Ignacio, 10, 13, 35, 72, 102, 180-181, 183 Episcopal Church of the Advocate, 142 Etzioni, Amitai, 19, 181 Eyes on the Prize, 109

Institute for Juvenile Research, 126 Jackson, 175, 180 Jose Simeon Canas University, 13 UCA, 8, 10, 13-16, 35, 37, 64, 93104, 106-107, 109, 114, 122-123, 154, 175-176, 178

Kane, Maryellen, 10, 149, 154-156, 158, 182 False charity, 117-118, 121 King, Jr., Martin Luther, 18, 23, 61, Feet of the crucified people, 13, 36, 109-111 74, 97 Kingsessing, 8, 164-166, 168-170, Field III, Marshall, 129 179 Freire, Paulo, 114-115, 117, 181 Koch, Mayor Ed, 153 Friction, 140 Laney, Reverend Mary, 10, 159 Golden, Renny, 39, 180-181 Leaders, 10, 16, 32, 35, 49-51, 53, 61, Goulet, Denis, 24, 181 98, 132, 134-135, 138-139, 141, Grande, S.J., Rutilio, 79 150, 155, 157, 159, 161, 174 Gudorf, Christine E., 181 Lewis, Catherine, 127 Gutierrez, Gustavo, 30, 40, 48, 56, Lewis, John L., 127-128 182 Liberation, 7, 27, 29-33, 37, 39-40, 44-47, 64, 69, 73, 76, 78, 83, 93, Heinemeier, Reverend John, 149, 98-99, 101, 109, 112-113, 119155 121, 156, 174, 179-183 Henriot, S.J., Peter, 17, 182 House meeting, 141-143, 145 Manhattan Grocers, 151 Housing, 57, 66, 81, 97, 100, 116, Maritain, Jacques, 129, 134 149-150, 152, 160, 165 Marstin, Ronald, 9, 12, 107, 111, Hutchins, Robert M., 134 178, 182 Martin-Baro, S.J. Ignacio, 102 Idolatry, 41, 46, 81 McNamee, Reverend John, 124 Idols, 41, 44, 46, 74, 82, 96, 132, Medellin, 34-35, 48, 54, 68-70, 163 72, 78 Illinois State Penitentiary, 126 Meegan, Joe, 128 Individual meeting, 138 Metz, Allie Jo, 142 Industrial Areas Foundation, 13, 15, Meyer, Cardinal Albert, 129 124-125, 127, 129, 134, 151, Montes, S.J., Segundo, 102 182 Moreno, S.J., Juan Ramon, 64, 182 IAF, 8, 10, 13, 15-16, 124-125, 129, Mothers of the Disappeared, 39 134-141, 144-147, 149-150, 155-156, 166-167, 170-172, National Conference of Catholic 174, 176 Charities, 129

Nehemiah Housing, 150 Neighborhood Transformation Initiative, 125, 142 NTI, 125, 142, 147 O’Brien, David J., 182 O’Grady, Monsignor John, 129 Organizations, 10, 13, 15, 53, 61, 63, 71, 78, 80, 83-85, 87-88, 103, 123-125, 127-129, 131, 133-140, 145-148, 168, 170, 172-174, 176177, 181-182 Organize, 16, 19, 59, 66, 78, 83-84, 116, 124, 131, 134, 137-138, 141, 144, 170-171, 174 Organizing, 8, 10, 13, 16, 84, 117, 125, 127-129, 131, 133-135, 137-138, 140-141, 145-148, 150, 153-155, 159, 161, 166-167, 170174, 177, 182

117-120, 125, 127, 129-133, 135-137, 139-140, 143-147, 151, 155-156, 158-159, 162-163, 169, 172-173, 179-183 Preferential Option for the Poor, 11, 14-15, 34-35, 67-69, 90, 94, 105106, 123, 176, 178 Principle of mercy, 12, 37, 52, 55, 147, 183 Problem vs. issue***** Puebla, 11, 67-68 Queens Citizens Organization, 150

Redemption, 42-43, 57-58, 88-89 Reinvestment Fund, 145 Relationships, 11, 14, 17-19, 27, 40, 44, 51, 59-61, 66, 105, 107, 109, 112, 117, 122, 127, 134-135, 137-140, 147, 156, 168, 170, 173-174 Palmer, Parker, 58, 182 Robins***** Park, Robert Ezra, 125 Romero, Archbishop Oscar, 14, Penta, Reverend Leo, 149 45, 91 People’s organizations, 123, 129, 133, Royal consciousness, 44-46 135, 172 Russell Square Community ComPhiladelphia Area Accelerated Manumittee, 127 facturing Education***** PhAME, 125 Sacrament of salvation, 7, 64, 68, Philadelphia Interfaith Action, 16, 72, 79, 147 124, 182 Salvation, 7, 30, 33, 37, 39-40, 42-44, PIA, 8-10, 124-125, 137, 141-145, 46-47, 52, 63-64, 67-68, 72-74, 159, 161-164, 166-170, 17679, 88, 147, 179 177 Samaritan, 38, 74, 82, 86 Poor with spirit, 8, 15-16, 78-79, 82, Self interest, 131, 170, 174 105, 107-111, 123-125, 127, 129, Service, 1, 3, 8-9, 11-14, 26, 71131, 133, 135, 137, 139, 141, 143, 72, 78, 80, 86, 88, 99-100, 102, 145, 147, 154, 176, 178 104-106, 114-118, 124, 130, 137, Popular organizations, 85, 87-88, 147, 151-152, 157, 165, 170, 103, 176 175-176 Power, 7-8, 13-14, 24, 26-27, 31, 40, Service learning, 9, 105, 115, 170, 44-47, 49, 57-58, 60-63, 65, 70175 71, 73, 76, 78-79, 81, 86, 94-95, Shaw, Clifford, 126 97, 101, 103-104, 107, 112-113, Sheil, Bishop Bernard J., 128

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Shipler, David K., 57 Wink, Walter, 43, 45, 48-49, 51, Sin, 7, 22, 33, 36-37, 40, 42, 45, 47183 51, 55-56, 64, 68, 70, 73, 75, 77, Works of mercy, 12, 37, 52-53, 55, 81, 83, 86-87, 94, 147, 171, 181 176-177, 181 Sobrino, S.J., Jon, 12, 180-181, 183 Social location, 10, 13, 24, 35, 74, 77, 80-81, 96 Solidarity, 1, 3, 11, 13-16, 30, 34, 37-38, 40, 45, 55, 67, 69, 71, 7879, 109, 112-113, 120-121, 147, 176-178, 183 Splanchnizomai, 38 St. Barbara’s, 10, 149, 154-158 St. Gabriel’s, 159-161 St. James Episcopal Church, 164 Stritch, Cardinal Samuel, 129 Structural sin, 22, 40, 86, 181 Synod of Bishops, 76, 183 Systemic sin, 22 Ten day training, 150, 155 Tension, 139-140, 146 The Woodlawn Organization, 129 TWO, 5, 9, 20, 22, 26, 32, 47, 62, 64, 93, 97, 99, 106-107, 109, 116, 121, 125, 128-129, 134135, 149, 151, 155, 159-160, 164-166, 180 Touhy, 126 U.S. Committee for the Care of European Children, 129 United States Catholic Conference, 41-42, 183 Villanova University, 9, 149, 170, 175, 181 Weber, Joseph, 183 Welch, Sharon D., 183 Whitfield, Teresa, 101, 103, 183 Wilmore, Gayraud S., 183