Franciscan at Home

Last year was one of the most difficult years of my life. It was my first year as a theology teacher, and even though I had been well prepared through my secondary education program and ministry experience, I was not prepared for the constant criticism and judgment I would receive from my coworkers. These comments filled my mind with self-doubt, anxiety, and fear. 

One month into teaching, I decided to be honest with my students about how I was feeling. I was not at my best that day, and I told my class, “I’m sorry if I’m not giving you my full attention and energy today. I’ve been experiencing a lot of anxiety recently, and I think it might be getting the best of me today. It has nothing to do with you; it’s just internal.” Immediately after class, one of my students approached me with tears in her eyes. Let’s just call her “Christina.” She said, “Thank you for sharing your feelings with us. I have severe anxiety and depression, so hearing you talk about your struggles makes me feel like I’m not alone.” 

We talked about how she has been attending therapy and about her struggle with having a relationship with God. I learned that Christina grew up in a Christian home, but cried every time she attended a church service. From then on, I began praying for Christina daily. The following week, Christina asked if I could sit with her and her friends during break. This quickly led to me sitting with Christina at break and lunch regularly, where we’d have conversations about mental health, our love of Crumbl cookies, and what it looks like to know Jesus Christ. Those moments didn’t seem like much at the time, but I wholeheartedly believe that God was working in them. 

Those who have children and those who teach children have firsthand experience of the child’s need to do his own work. The very young child expresses this need quite bluntly: “I do it!” As the child matures, the expression becomes more nuanced and polite: “May I try?” In what appears to be a regression, the adolescent expresses the same need, though not with the same charm: “Why don’t you trust me?” I would argue that the child’s desire to “do for self” stems not from unruliness but rather from an intrinsic need impressed upon his nature by God himself.

The Need Is in Our Nature

In the command to Adam to “subdue the earth,” God impressed upon the human soul both the dignity and the need for work. Reflecting on this passage from Genesis, St. John Paul II writes:

From the beginning . . . [man] is called to work. Work is one of the characteristics that distinguish man from the rest of creatures, whose activity for sustaining their lives cannot be called work. . . . work bears a particular mark of man and of humanity, the mark of a person operating within a community of persons. And this mark decides its interior characteristics; in a sense it constitutes its very nature.[1]

In this same section the Holy Father explains that “work” refers to “any activity by man, whether manual or intellectual.” Just as the person has a need to diligently build his environment, he has a similar need to intellectually build his knowledge.

The Holy Father’s insight that work is a constitutive need of our nature should cause us to pause and wrestle a moment with its meaning. Most certainly, the comment should not be taken to its extreme, suggesting that someone lacking the capacity for manual or intellectual work is somehow not fully human. Yet at the same time, the statement lends itself to a consideration of how personal work is in some fashion so integral to the human person that to deny him the opportunity is to violate his God-given nature.

The Child’s Need for Independent Work

During her many years of being with children, observing how they live, learn, and develop, Dr. Maria Montessori came to see that the child possesses the same intrinsic need for work as do adults. In fact, this need may be even more critical for the developing child. She writes:

The reaction of the children may be described as a “burst of independence” of all unnecessary assistance that suppresses their activity and prevents them from demonstrating their own capacities. . . . These children seem to be precocious in their intellectual development and they demonstrate that while working harder than other children they do so without tiring themselves. These children reveal to us the most vital need of their development, saying: “Help me to do it alone!”[2]

Think of the work that a baby chicken must do to peck its way out of its shell. Any attempt to help the tiny creature—to do for it what it must do for itself—results in the chick’s premature death. A similar phenomenon happens to the child when adults routinely overstep and do the work that the child can and must do for himself: he experiences a kind of psychic death. Some children become unnaturally timid, overly dependent, or abnormally compliant. Other children become rebellious against authority. In both extremes, the child’s interior freedom has failed to develop properly. “The child’s desire to work represents a vital instinct since he cannot organize his personality without working.”[3]

Recently, a local parish invited me to speak on a panel on vocations for middle and high schoolers. At most of these events, the questions usually include, “What is your day like?” “How often do you see your family?” and “What do you do for fun?” At this parish, the organizers left out a box for anonymous questions and didn’t screen them beforehand. Almost every question began with, “Why can’t I . . .” or “Why doesn’t the Church let me . . .” One of the monks on the panel leaned over and asked me, “Isn’t this supposed to be a vocations panel? Why are we even here?”

This experience opened my eyes to a reality: children and teenagers must know and love Jesus intimately as a person before anything we do to promote vocations will bear fruit. This intimacy is at the heart of all vocations, because at baptism God gives each person a share in his divine life, calling the Christian to a life of holiness. It’s within the context of a healthy family life that children first experience this love of God as well as the virtues and dispositions that serve as a remote preparation for their particular vocations.[1]

The two great commandments are to love the Lord with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength and to love your neighbor as yourself (see Mt 22:36–40). Catholic leaders are called to create and ensconce Catholic culture by striving to fulfill these two great commandments—and to guide the ministries that they lead to do the same. In my role as a high school vice president of faith and mission, I work alongside our principal and president to ensure that our school is a catalyst in the Eucharistic Revival and that the comprehensive operations of our school community serve these two commandments.

The first commandment calls Catholic leaders to prioritize facilitating first-generation encounters with Christ. To fulfill the second, we must foster a culture of evangelization in which we love our neighbor as ourselves and testify to Jesus’ kingship. Living out these commandments as Catholic leaders is especially exciting in this three-year sequence of Eucharistic Revival being guided by the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. The USCCB is calling on leaders to create personal encounters with Jesus, reinvigorate devotion, deepen formation, and engage in missionary sending. What follows are reflections on how we are answering this call in our school community. I hope that it can serve as inspiration for other Catholic leaders during this time of Eucharistic Revival.

As the students cleared out of my classroom at the end of the day, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the peeling painter’s tape framing a poster in the front of the class of Christ washing the feet of his apostles. It hadn’t been a bad day, but it hadn’t been a good day, either. My colleague—a good friend who accompanies me, sharing concerns and joys about teaching and life—entered the room. Neither of us said anything until I asked, “What am I doing when I come into the classroom?” This question was born out of frustration, but it was sincere. And it had been on my mind for weeks. He offered some words of encouragement. We talked for quite a while. But nothing satisfied my question.

As children, many of us learned the “Alphabet Song.” It is a universally known jingle that helps small children learn the ABCs of the English language. Other cultures use a different tune but the purpose is the same. At the start, a child merely repeats the sounds sung to him. In due time, he gradually learns that the sounds have corresponding symbols. (During this developmental stage, children in a Montessori environment trace sandpaper letters, providing a heightened sensorial experience that strengthens the sound-symbol relationship in the child’s mind.) Once the child understands the sound-symbol relationship, he is capable of arranging the alphabet letters to form words, then sentences, and eventually entire paragraphs. One need not be a trained linguist to recognize a kind of pedagogy in this method of language acquisition. If we were to draw an analogy to children’s catechesis, we would find that there, too, is a kind of pedagogy for the acquisition of religious language—or there should be.

The 2020 Directory for Catechesis exhorts catechists to ensure that our “linguistic form” be appropriate for the persons receiving catechesis.[1] Where children are concerned, there is more to this task than merely paraphrasing doctrine. Children’s catechesis requires a unique pedagogy of language. First, there is a particular religious alphabet—fundamental doctrines—which serves as building blocks for the child’s faith. Second, there is a particular scope and sequence to doctrine—one that follows the child’s natural spiritual and intellectual development. Finally, the particular expression of doctrine should evoke a sense of wonder that sparks continuous investigation and meditation.

Notes

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The Rosary is arguably the most widely prayed, most enduring devotion in Catholic history. Many have spoken about the power and beauty of the Rosary. Pope St. Pius X said, “Amidst all prayers, the Rosary is the most beautiful, the richest in graces, and the one that most pleases the Most Holy Virgin.”[1] October, the month of the Rosary, is the perfect time to introduce this beloved prayer to children and to encourage families to pray it together. The following are some recommendations for handing on this treasure of the Church.

1. Remind Your Learners That Mary Is Our Mother

Motherhood is associated with a gentle, approachable strength. Many children feel most comfortable going to their mothers first when they are distressed or in trouble. When Jesus commends his mother to St. John at the Cross (Jn 19:26–27) he is, by extension, offering her as mother to the whole Church. And indeed, she is—for the Church is the Body of Christ and Mary is his mother. As our mother, the Blessed Virgin Mary wishes to encourage us, to protect us, to nurture us, and to teach us by always pointing us to her Son. Jesus is a good Son who loves and listens to his mother, so we can be certain that he hears whatever questions, worries, and problems we place at her feet. As Pope Leo XIII wrote, “How unerringly right, then, are Christian souls when they turn to Mary for help as though impelled by an instinct of nature, confidently sharing with her their future hopes and past achievements, their sorrows and joys, commending themselves like children to the care of a bountiful mother.”[2]

St. Thomas Aquinas explained the imagination as “a storehouse of forms received through the senses” that are later called to mind.[1] St. Augustine considered it as a form of “spiritual vision,” distinct from our corporal and intellectual senses.[2] St. Theresa of Ávila described it as one of the most important powers of the soul.[3] Each of these Doctors of the Church spent ample time writing on the power of our imagination and its relationship to the life of faith. They understood that our imagination is part of our physical and spiritual nature. As such, it can affect our bodies and souls for good or for ill. Like all human faculties, our imagination must be trained and developed in order to be healthy, lest it become too weak or disordered—incapable of helping us enter into the reality of this life and the life to come. As catechists, we ought to consider how to form our imagination, and the imagination of those we teach, in the service of our call to holiness.

Jesus, as catechist par excellence, appealed to the imagination of his followers, painting elaborate scenarios. Most of his parables ask the listener to imagine a particular family, place, or circumstance that was common to life. We see him tell stories of disobedient sons (Mt 21:28–32), fiercely stubborn widows (Lk 18:1–8), harvesting wheat (Mt 13:24–30), and herding sheep (Lk 15:1–7). Some parables stretched the limits of the mind’s eye, appealing to circumstances less relatable but still within the grasp of a healthy imagination. Christ spoke of finding treasure (Mt 13:44–46), generous landowners (Mt 20:1–16), and extraordinarily compassionate fathers (Lk 15:11–32). Stories communicate truth and appeal to our imagination in ways that often transcend mere statements. The great southern Catholic author Flannery O’Connor once wrote, “a story is a way to say something that can’t be said any other way . . . You tell a story because a statement would be inadequate.”[4]

Forming a Healthy Imagination

The imagination is above all an integrative power. It reassembles the information that we take in through our senses for the purpose of calling to mind an object or experience in its absence or imagining something new and not yet experienced. I have never seen a purple dog, but I can imagine one. Unlike our external senses that can only perceive the object when it’s acting upon our sense organs, the imagination produces the sense of the object even when these objects are absent. For example, I can imagine a sunset and have its impression affect me without actually seeing it with my eyes.

Forming a healthy imagination requires having as much good and true sensory data as possible. This means that our experience of the natural world is critical, as it serves as the primary foundation of our imagination. As Sr. Thomas More Stepnowski, OP, explains, “the imagination assists in forming an ‘interior landscape’ of the spiritual life which helps us navigate through the dark valleys to the restorative green pastures.” She continues, “For Catholics, the imagination is not an escape to a fantasy world. The imagination aids us in seeing the real world by integrating the natural world and the supernatural world, the visible and invisible.”[5]

As we know, the term “catechesis” derives from the Greek word katechein, which means “to echo.” Our work as catechists is to announce the Good News of Jesus Christ—to hand on to others what we have received, what we have heard, seen, and touched (1 Jn 1:1). For this reason, it might seem counterintuitive to write an article on the specific pedagogical need for silence during one’s catechetical instruction. However, the conundrum gives way when we understand the role of silence in fostering an authentic dialogue of salvation between God and the person receiving catechesis.[1] First, a personal story.

I have been a catechist for over 30 years and have taught “children” from three to 93  years of age. In my glory days as a junior high religion teacher, I had the reputation of having such a rigorous religion curriculum that my former eighth-grade students never took notes in religion class their entire freshman year of high school and still got all A’s. Many students would lovingly tease, “Sister, your quizzes are like tests; your tests are like exams; and your exams are like dissertations.” Yes, we were rigorous in our study of Catholic doctrine, but it took me many years (and a doctoral degree) to realize that I had failed to teach my students the one thing necessary: how to listen to God’s silent voice. More egregious, I had failed to let God speak.

An Education in the Faith

The various catechetical directories have consistently referred to the work of catechesis in educational terms. The 1971 Directory spoke of catechesis as “catechetical education” and the formation of the child’s heart as an “interior education.”[2] The 1997 Directory asked catechists to envision catechesis as a “school of faith” and to recognize that it serves “the simple objective of education in the faith.”[3] The 2020 Directory likewise recognizes that catechesis draws its inspiration from the “great educational work of God.”[4] We instinctively know that an education in the faith differs substantially from an education in other subjects.[5] Yet, for years, catechists have adopted a pedagogical approach that mirrors their counterpart teachers of math or science.

To be sure, the math teacher’s cycle of instruction, guided practice, student evaluation, and remedial instruction as needed has proven successful for many students seeking to master algebra. In catechesis, however, our aim is not to have students master knowledge but to have a knowledge of the Master. This is no clever play on words. The 2020 Directory exhorts catechists to “evangelize by educating and educate by evangelizing.”[6] This means that we must include in our unique educational pedagogy a way for the child to encounter the Lord—a way for her to hear God’s voice. We must provide a way for the child to contemplate—not master—God’s truth, beauty, and goodness.