Red Mass
[Readings: Phil 4: 4-9; John 13: 1-9, 12-15]
My first extended visit to Los Angeles was back in 2002. I was a young Jesuit in formation, and was sent to LA to work with the Jesuit Refugee Service, which staffed chaplaincies in immigration detention centers in LA (for children) and San Pedro (for adults). I spent my days talking with those in detention, listening to their stories. They were mostly stories of pain and loss, as they described the trek from Central America to the border, and beyond—and then getting caught by border patrol or police. I heard stories of those who had lived in the US for years but who awaited deportation, leaving their US born children here.
At San Pedro, we would celebrate Mass at one of those aluminum picnic tables in the common area, TV blaring in the background. I would walk the exercise yard, with its high concrete wall, the smell of the salty ocean air so tantalizingly close. On Wednesdays, I went to juvenile hall and would have dinner with the children in detention, separated from their parents. They tried to form their own kind of family, older kids taking care of younger ones.
Those experiences marked me. When I began my theology studies as Jesuit in Boston, I focused my thesis on Catholic social teaching and immigration. When I was serving at Georgetown after ordination, I started a program bringing students to the Arizona—Mexico border where the Kino Border Initiative was founded. As a college professor and now president, I have committed myself to advocating for students who are undocumented, who are Dreamers, or whose families are refugees.
This history impacts how I preach, teach, and pray as a Jesuit priest. But I also see it through another lens: that of a lawyer. Before joining the Jesuits, I practiced law for a couple of years. Jesuit educated at Georgetown, I went to law school because I wanted to put my faith into action. I wanted to use the resources of the law to advocate for the marginalized and make this world more just, gentle, and humane. During my time in LA and on the Arizona border, I met many devoted lawyers who were advocating for the migrants. To be honest, some days, I wondered if I should reactivate my law license. Tempting, but I discerned that I could best serve them as a priest and educator.
Whether as lawyer, judge, public servant or priest, we are here tonight because we want to help people in need. We seek God’s help and the support of one another to rise to the summons of the gospel to build God’s reign of justice, peace, and love. We rely on our many talents and connections to achieve that noble purpose. But with Pope Francis’ help, let me offer one particular counsel this evening: draw close to those you wish to help.
In his apostolic exhortation, Evangelii Gaudium (“The Joy of the Gospel,” 2013), Pope Francis urged us to “run the risk of a face-to-face encounter with others, with their physical presence which challenges us, with their pain and their pleas, with their joy that infects us in our close and continuous interaction” (88). Francis continued, “I prefer a Church which is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a Church which is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security” (49).
This really is the lesson of John’s Last Supper, of Jesus washing the dirty and smelly feet of his friends. We too need to be willing to get mixed up in the gritty complexity—the beauty and brokenness—of another’s life. This is hard and sometimes scary, but it’s real, and God is found in the real.
We need this closeness so that we do not simply become bureaucrats in a legal system that anesthetizes us from the sometimes painful reality of human suffering. We need this closeness so that our advocacy does not become unrooted in generalities that never touch our heart or impact our lives. We need this closeness so that our humanity is not lost in our lawyering. In other words, we need this closeness to stay close to Jesus, who teaches how to be human and how to get close to people. Jesus awaits us in the poor, vulnerable, and voiceless. Those who needs us also have something to teach us or to reveal to us: about our shared humanity, about God’s many faces, and about the things that matter most in life.
The migrant and others who are marginalized make a claim on us. Closeness is just the beginning. Our closeness empowers and impels us not just to help this person (which is important) but to work for change that make systems and societies more just for everyone. In other words, to make God’s kingdom more present.
Martin Luther King’s provocative insight on the parable of the Good Samaritan has always challenged me. He said,
“I think the Good Samaritan is a great individual. but I don’t want to be a Good Samaritan … I am tired of picking up people along the Jericho Road. I am tired of seeing people battered and bruised and bloody, injured and jumped on, along the Jericho Roads of life. This road is dangerous. I don’t want to pick up anyone else, along this Jericho Road; I want to fix… the Jericho Road. I want to pave the Jericho Road, add street lights to the Jericho Road; make the Jericho Road safe (for passage) by everybody….”
The gospel demands that we carry our wash basins and towels, and care for the people God sends our way. The gospel demands that we help people left by the wayside of the roads we travel. They are salvific for us, if we let them.
But with King, we know that there is more to do. Just as Jesus left that last supper and continued his mission to serve his Father’s reign of justice, peace and love, so must we—each in our own way. There are lots of Jericho Roads that need fixing! In our labors, we may become a bit bruised, dirty, and hurting, but surely those will be marks of a faith and a vocation in law and public life that is well lived.