While Francis of Assisi is the patron saint of ecology, other saints had lives that were wedded to the natural world, St. Kateri Tekakwitha being one of them. As an Algonquin–Mohawk born in New York State, Kateri, known as the “Lily of the Mohawks,” would have lived in accordance with the rhythms of the seasons. She faced unimaginable hardships in her life but was always anchored by her love for God. In 2012, Pope Benedict XVI canonized her and said this at her Mass: “Kateri impresses us by the action of grace in her life in spite of the  absence of external help and by the courage of her vocation. In her, faith and culture enrich each other!” 

Agreed. In this issue of St. Anthony Messenger, we offer a look at the Kateri Tekakwitha Conservation Center and the work they do on behalf of their namesake. We think she’d be proud. We’re certainly in awe. 

St. Kateri: Pray for us! 

Many Ukrainian students and their families have fled war and trauma. St. Nicholas Cathedral School in Chicago greets these newcomers with open arms and hearts. 

The Catholic students rise to their feet in their school gym in Chicago. Clad in blue sweaters or jumpers, the 200 boys and girls face their principal, microphone in hand. “Glory be to Jesus Christ,” Anna Cirilli exclaims. “Glory be forever,” the students respond. 

The next call-and-response is in Ukrainian. “Slava Ukraini” (“Glory to Ukraine!”), Cirilli thunders. “Heroiam slava!” (“Glory to the heroes!”), the students loudly reply. 

For 70 of the students, their fathers and older siblings are half a world away fighting the Russians. Or they work a job in Ukraine that keeps their society functioning. Last March, barely a week or so after Russia invaded Ukraine, St. Nicholas Cathedral School (administered by the Ukrainian Catholic Eparchy of Chicago) began enrolling students who had fled their battered nation. 

However young and innocent they are, their lives have been terribly upended—and close to ending. They had hunkered down underground in subway stations or parking garages to avoid the bombs. Or they made perilous journeys past shattered buildings and bomb craters. They passed through multiple nations, waiting anxiously for days at some borders, before finally making it to the United States. 

They fled with their mothers and siblings. Carrying what they could hold, they unceremoniously left behind their possessions, their relatives, and any semblance of a normal childhood. Dmytro, 13, was the first to arrive at the school. Coming straight from the airport, he and his mother each lugged a single suitcase. Aghast at their dilemma, school staff hurried to a nearby Ukrainian bakery and purchased a hearty breakfast for him and his new classmates. 

St. Nicholas was a most appropriate destination for the refugees. Nearly four of five students have roots in Ukraine. Nearly one in five are Ukrainian natives. Some staff speak Ukrainian, as do many parents and some students. The parish school is located in Ukrainian Village, one of Chicago’s 77 neighborhoods and a longtime landing spot for Ukrainian immigrants. 

Its spires rising over the neighborhood’s attractive, tree-lined streets, the magnificent St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Cathedral is modeled after the famous St. Sophia in Kyiv. The children may have left Ukraine, but they are more at home here on the North Side of Chicago, besides Ukraine, probably than anywhere else in the world. 

They left behind terror and horror, destruction and death. Their lives are fraught with worry, homesickness, and the numbing sense of dislocation experienced by refugees, particularly those vacating war zones. 

Many are eager to return to Ukraine. Yet emblematic of the success of the Herculean effort by St. Nicholas teachers, students, and parents to help the newcomers feel at home, the new students commonly express gratitude toward their teachers and classmates and even gratification with their forced relocation. 

“I like everything here. It’s different, but I like it,” Varvara, a tall, soft-spoken, demure seventh-grade girl, says through an interpreter. “I want to stay here. I really love the United States,” she adds. 

‘A Calming Feeling’

The phone rings repeatedly early this morning at the St. Nicholas school office, located up the steps just off the front door. The office belongs to Phyllis Muryn-Zaparaniuk, the school’s busy and vigilant administrative assistant. Lovingly watching her every move is the Blessed Mother: on the wall, high above her desk, is an eye-catching icon of Mary and Child. 

Chatty and amiable, Muryn-Zaparaniuk converses with some callers in Ukrainian and others in English. Like others at the school, she is at home in two cultures. Decades ago, her parents attended the school, and her grandparents lived in Ukraine. The summers of her younger days were spent in Ukraine, where she improved her language skills and her knowledge of Ukrainians and their culture. 

“I’m sure we’d welcome helping any nationality. But these are people of our own ethnicity,” she says. 

Her office is a vortex of responsibility and remedial action, the stock-in-trade of overseeing grade school students. A stout middle-school boy with a flat-top haircut shuffles in. He conveys an air both of modest pride and baffled uncertainty. The oversized box of World’s Finest Chocolate on the office’s desk is the source of his mood. Back in his hometown in Ukraine, students do not sell chocolate to help defray the cost of education, but at Catholic schools in Chicago students do precisely that. 

“He sold his first box,” Muryn-Zaparaniuk explains after he transacts his business and returns to class. 

Selling chocolate is hardly the only cultural gap the new students must cross. So many people, places, and things in America are achingly strange and unfamiliar. Things their US classmates know and cherish often completely escape the Ukrainians. That lack of cultural familiarity can easily impede academic progress. Students do not have to keep up in class so much as catch up by leaps and bounds. 

“My biggest problem is history class. I don’t know American history,” says Varvara, the quiet seventh-grader. “I am kind of tired all the time. There are so many things I don’t know.” 

Something else makes St. Nicholas far different than school in Ukraine. “There are no Catholic grade or high schools there,” says Muryn-Zaparaniuk. 

Religion, of course, is the bedrock of this school. The Hail Mary and Our Father, in Ukrainian and English, are prayed over the intercom at the start of each school day. Prayers are said before lunch. This school day, a Friday, began with Mass. Students sang hymns, prayed for peace, and listened attentively as the priest urged them to keep God at the center of their lives. 

St. Nicholas School is part of St. Nicholas Cathedral, the seat of the St. Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Eparchy. The Ukrainian Catholic Church is in an Eastern Catholic Church in full communion with the Holy See. 

Some of the new students are Catholic. Others are Orthodox. Other Ukrainian refugee parents enrolled their children in public schools in Chicago. Those who chose St. Nicholas were fully aware of the religious component to the school. 

“For the parents to give their children a Catholic education tells you what their faith means to them,” says Muryn-Zaparaniuk. “The kids serve as altar servers. The girls have joined the junior sodality. They know their prayers.” 

Learning and talking about their faith and practicing it during the school day is a balm. “It’s a calming feeling to be in church and pray,” says Cirilli. “I think their participation is very heartfelt. It offers an opportunity for reflection.” 

For students who months ago were alarmed at the prospect of being overrun by enemy soldiers or attacked with shells, faith is less a crutch than a blossoming of their essential identity. 

“The Russian airplanes flew over our homes on bombing missions,” says eighth-grader Oksana through an interpreter. Now, instead of the menacing drone of airplanes, the soothing tone of prayer regularly fills their air. “I never prayed at school,” she says. “Something inside of me likes it. I am developing my spirit.” 

Varvara is no less spiritual. “I pray a lot for my family and friends,” she says quietly. “Prayer is very important to me.” 

‘Our Angels’ 

Within days of the Russian invasion in February 2022, hordes of Ukrainians streamed toward its borders. More than 8 million, mostly women and children, have left their nation. Last April, the US government launched Uniting for Ukraine, an expedited channel for refugees from Ukraine. First, they need a US sponsor, and then they receive temporary protected status to stay in the United States for two years. More than 150,000 Ukrainians have come to the United States. 

With nearly 50,000 people of Ukrainian descent, one of the largest concentrations in the United States, Chicago was the first choice for many. The neighborhood lives up to its name in many respects. It’s dotted with long-standing, iconic Ukrainian institutions such as the Ukrainian National Museum, the Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art, and a host of Ukrainian banks, youth groups, restaurants, and the like. The language is overheard on street corners and in shops. Homes and cars display Ukrainian flags, and trees are wrapped in blue and yellow ribbons. 

One steady, unchanging feature is St. Nicholas Cathedral, completed in 1915. Its 13 domes stretch 112 feet into the sky—representing Christ and his Twelve Apostles. The school was opened in 1936. 

The refugees have reinforced the Ukrainian identity of the school and the entire neighborhood. Many found housing nearby. They squeezed in with a relative, a friend of a relative or friend, or simply with a sympathetic family, Ukrainian and non-Ukrainian alike. 

Many left not out of a vague fear of danger but because the war was rapidly closing in on them. One mother, from Kyiv, huddled with her children in their basement for a month before leaving for Romania. 

“I cannot find the words to express what it’s like when planes shake the ground and your children are praying for it to be over,” she wrote. “Saving your kids from the war—it’s because the Lord sent us angels on earth. They gave my son the opportunity to study in a less stressful environment and learn English. . . . I am waiting for my work permit. I would like to pay back or thank these people who are our angels.” 

It Took a Village

St. Nicholas customarily welcomed several new families each year from Ukraine. Now it had to accommodate several dozen. 

The school ramped up its services. If war in Ukraine was a full-fledged catastrophe touching every aspect of society, then St. Nicholas in Chicago needed to serve as a sufficiently resourced counterweight, a tidal wave of assistance and goods dedicated to peace of heart. It diligently leveraged the goodwill of the neighborhood, random strangers, local institutions, and church groups. It took a Ukrainian Village—a city, in fact—to raise the children above fear and want. 

Days after the invasion, Cardinal Blase Cupich of Chicago visited St. Nicholas to offer his support and prayers. Catholic schools in Chicago also rallied behind the newcomers. Students from three schools attended a prayer service at the school. One of the schools was from the city’s distant South Side—St. Nicholas of Tolentine. 

“We’ve been talking to our students about what is going on and praying for Ukraine every day,” Carolyn Majorowski, the assistant principal, told the Chicago Catholic newspaper. “They’re St. Nicholas too, and we wanted to support them.” 

Schools stepped up in other ways. One raised funds through an out-of-uniform day. Another held a successful gift card drive. 

The broader community responded to the school’s Amazon Wish List. Chicagoans, like Americans nationwide, were deeply moved by the suffering of Ukrainians, and the school was adept at drawing media attention. Its solicitation of support generated a vast array of school supplies, gift cards, and monetary donations. A clothing drive was similarly successful. Impressive piles of clothing from families and stores quickly mounted in a corner of the gym. 

Tuition is $7,000 annually at St. Nicholas. Nearly all the new families could afford to pay little, if anything at all. The 70 new students meant the school had to cover nearly half a million in unpaid tuition. Donors stepped up here too. One anonymous benefactor forked over $50,000. 

Also crucial to the school’s viability was the Big Shoulders Fund, a nonprofit dedicated to needy Catholic schools in the Archdiocese of Chicago. It created a special fund to help cover the added operating expenses. 

Day after day, various groups and people have shown up at the school’s doors or phoned the school to offer support. The pediatric Care-A-Van, run by Humboldt Park Health, provided free shots and checkups and came prepared with Ukrainian-speaking volunteers to check the children’s vaccine records. The city’s Fresh Hubs program, which donates produce in underserved areas, assisted St. Nicholas families. 

Accustomed to volunteers, St. Nicholas attracted a new cohort inspired to act by the sad plight of the uprooted families. Some were summoned by the memory of other wars or deep ties to Ukraine. Marta Kozbur, an art teacher from the suburbs who attended St. Nicholas School, volunteered at a summer camp the school held for the new students. When her mother was 7, she fled Ukraine while World War II raged. Kozbur wanted the children to know that they could hang on to their ethnic identity. 

“It’s good for the kids to see that it’s not the end of the world,” she told the Chicago Tribune. “You’re not going to forget your language and culture. They need to see that it’s not OK—but it’s going to be OK.” 

Another vital volunteer has been Dasha Diachenko, a public relations professional from Ukraine who relocated to Chicago. Diachenko, who does PR for the school and serves as an interpreter, knows what the students experienced: She spent 10 days in a bomb shelter. “It’s so scary. Nobody knows what war is really like until you are in it,” she says. 

Nor can anyone quite understand the challenge of taking on the 70 new students. The unfilled needs of the families seem unending. St. Nicholas staff, however, soldier on. “That’s the silver lining to all we do. We know we are helping,” says Cirilli. 

Overcoming Trauma

The families left the war, but the war did not leave them. When a tornado siren shrilled throughout the neighborhood, the children shrieked, not sure what was happening. Early on, even the loud school bells startled the newcomers. “You saw the kids do this,” explains Muryn-Zaparaniuk, crossing her arms across her chest. 

This is not a warts-free fairy tale. War exacts a toll, especially on the young and innocent. The new students cried. They flashed anger. They even fought. 

The students’ distress was reflected in art class. They inevitably drew pictures of bombs and destroyed buildings. They also only halfheartedly tried to be good students. “There’s been some resistance to learning English,” says Cirilli. “They feel if they learn English, it means they will be here for a while.” 

The school provided counselors to help the children deal with the lingering trauma. They came on a regular basis. Cirilli patiently met with parents dismayed at their children’s uncharacteristic outbursts. 

“They do act out. The parents are distressed. ‘Why is my child doing this? They didn’t do this in Ukraine,’” recounts Cirilli. “I’d say: ‘Well, let’s talk about it. We love them. You love them.’ We try to keep encouraging a dialogue.” 

The school’s religious character has been a definite asset in mitigating unwanted behavior. “We tie it back to the teachings of Christ. That helps smooth out the resistance to the experience,” says Cirilli. “To love one another is what Jesus taught. That is what we are trying to do here.” 

Counselors are needed today only occasionally. The artwork has become decidedly less grim. The longtime students at St. Nicholas have stuck by their new classmates, and their friendship and support have paid dividends. “You don’t see separate groups. You see them together, laughing and talking,” says Muryn-Zaparaniuk. 

Deanna Wruskyj-Hoefle, a teacher with a first-grader at the school, concurs. “Last year we saw more breakdowns. They’d cry. They miss their friends, their fathers, their home,” she says. She’s witnessed the effort by longtime students to make life easier for the newcomers. “I had an American-born student answer a question in Ukrainian. I said, ‘You don’t have to do that.’ He said he wanted to. That was so sweet.” 

One of those students who tries hard to help is Sophia, an energetic seventh-grader. Today she’s hanging out with a quiet boy from Ukraine. “I have a lot of new friends,” she says with preternatural self-assurance. “My sister came here from Ukraine. She told me how hard it was for her.” 

A Protected Place

Today seven members of the esteemed Lyric Opera Orchestra gather in the gym to play a free concert for the students. The gym is festooned with homemade paper banners: “Say No to War,” “Hands off Ukraine,” and “Pray for Ukraine.” 

The whole school is here. The students sit with their grade. It’s impossible to tell who is American and who came from Ukraine. 

The several dozen children in the school choir begin the festivities with a Ukrainian patriotic song popular long ago. “It was when we were fighting for our freedom 100 years ago. You see, history repeats itself,” the middle-aged choir director explains to all. 

The Lyric Opera musicians sit and play on the edges of the center jump circle on the gym basketball court. Several talk briefly to the student body. “Do any of you play the clarinet?” the clarinetist asks. No one raises their hand. But the French horn player knows a surefire way to connect with them. He blasts the distinctive notes from the familiar Star Wars foghorn-like signature tune. Nearly every student grins or reacts viscerally. 

Near the end of the event the professional musicians play the Ukrainian national anthem. Unsurprisingly, it’s a worthy rendition, superbly played. What is noteworthy is the full and hearty participation of the children. They rise, place their hands on their hearts, and sing the anthem with spirit and gusto. 

The students quietly amble back to their classrooms, passing beneath icons and images of Jesus, Mary, and the saints, silent but eternally watchful.

Praying the Way of the Cross is a familiar Lenten practice for many, but a closer look at this popular tradition reveals surprising connections to Franciscan spirituality. 

“Why did Jesus have to die?” the pastor proposed after a tirade about the fallenness and brokenness of the human race. Those at the youth conference hung in the silence he manufactured. The pastor bent down, picked up a mirror, and turned it toward the audience, “You are why Jesus had to die.” He slowly turned the mirror toward every corner of the crowd, then pointed at the crucifix suspended behind him. “Our sin—your sin—is why Jesus had to die.” 

Adults sat uncomfortably in the audience, as if knowing this shame-based message could not possibly be healthy for the formative teenagers who were entrusted to their care. And yet, was this not core Christian doctrine? Who could refute the pastor’s conclusion, however harsh his delivery? 

Franciscans, as we will explore, have long had a different approach to the cross, one that comes into focus during the Lenten season. Their perspective and influence is most evident in the weekly liturgical practice of the Stations of the Cross, which the Franciscans played a vital historical role in establishing. 

On the surface, the liturgy of the Stations—where we pray and meditate upon 14 scenes in Jesus’ route to Calvary—might not seem to align with the optimism that animates Franciscanism. The Stations mention nothing of the Resurrection and conclude with the barbaric crucifixion of an innocent man, with those who praised him on Palm Sunday now willfully joining a violent mob. Yet its history has the power to enrich our Lenten practice today and our own approaches to the cross. 

The Centrality of the Incarnation

When St. Francis and St. Clare prayed before the cross in San Damiano, they were struck less by human sin and more by the humility and poverty of God, which became cornerstones of their spirituality. This God who created the universe and inhabited our world through the Incarnation was now to be experienced anywhere and everywhere: in nature, friends, strangers, stories, art, holy places, Scripture, and anything else that causes our souls to be stirred by beauty—yes, even the “other.” The Incarnation declared once and for all that the human experience in this world was sacred, for God created the world and became a human being. 

All of this laid the foundation for the great Franciscan philosopher St. Bonaventure (1221–1274) to formulate an intricate metaphysics that he called “fountain fullness.” At the core of reality, Bonaventure theorized, was self-diffusive love and goodness perpetually flowing from the Trinity, like a fountain, into creation. Flowing from all eternity, this metaphysics has led some Franciscans to conclude that this fountain has deluged in two incarnations: creation (the creative action of the Word in the universe) and Jesus of Nazareth (the Word becoming flesh). This cosmic nature of the Word is detailed in the prologue of John’s Gospel and the Apostle Paul’s hymn in Colossians 1. 

Today, Ilia Delio, OSF, brilliantly bridges Franciscan metaphysics with evolution when she writes: “For if sin is the reason for the Incarnation, as the Church maintains, is it possible that 14 billion years of evolving life are totally unrelated to the mystery of Christ?” 

All this might sound heady or esoteric, but the Franciscan interpretation of the Incarnation would have a direct impact on shaping the Stations of the Cross. 

Elevating Humanity

During the Middle Ages, Jesus was routinely depicted as a king on a throne or a victorious knight. Victory, not unlike today, was an idol. The birth of the Franciscan movement began to shift the focus back toward the humanity of Christ. In the cradle and the cross, St. Francis and St. Clare encountered a God whose core motives for the Incarnation were humility and poverty. 

Franciscan Bernardino Caimi followed this same trajectory in the High Middle Ages when he erected shrines called the Jerusalem Transportata on Mt. Varallo outside Milan. These were markers for prayer designed to transport people’s hearts and minds to Jerusalem as they relived Jesus’ life and passion, an encounter with Jesus’ humility and humanity at a time when the Church grasped for power. 

Father Jim Sabak, OFM, a historian and professor whose current assignment is at the Diocese of Raleigh in North Carolina, was sure to point out in his interview with St. Anthony Messenger that Bernardino was not the first to develop a practice like this. The Franciscans can be credited with popularizing the Stations of the Cross, he says, but not inventing the practice. The first on record was a fourth-century woman named Egeria, who journeyed from Gaul to Jerusalem and kept a quasi-diary of the spots she visited in the Holy Land. This eventually developed into a popular route in Jerusalem where Christian pilgrims relived Jesus’ excruciating path to Calvary. This, we might say, was the original Way of the Cross, though these pilgrimages became less common in the Middle Ages as Christian occupation of Jerusalem faltered during the Crusades. Hence, Bernardino’s Jerusalem Transportata. Why not bring Jerusalem to Milan? 

Milan, at the time of Bernardino, was riddled by war and under the thumb of a Church that, as in the age of Francis and Clare, was focused on keeping its power. “Sometimes that power came through keeping people down,” Father Sabak analyzes. “The Church was kind of saying to people, ‘You’re a bunch of sinners, and you need us to make sure you don’t go to hell.’ So, again, there’s a bad anthropology and, therefore, a real need to experience the humanity of Christ, which still was not focused on enough. 

“I think that, for Bernardino, the cross was a response of compassion to his situation and to the people whom the friars were ministering to in Milan. He was essentially saying, ‘You don’t suffer in vain; you don’t suffer alone; here is the Messiah, the redeemer, who suffers with you; do not forget about that.’ That, unfortunately, would get twisted into, ‘You know why he suffers? Because of sin!’ [This is] a notion that goes back to the 11th and 12th centuries. Representations of Jesus’ passion to the cross unfortunately often emphasized that we were responsible for that suffering in a bad way.” 

Grace Awaits

Shame-driven and grace-driven interpretations of the Incarnation continue to collide today. The focus of early Franciscans on the humanity of Christ helped them to experience the Word in the world: in their own humanity, in the humanity of others, and in creation itself. While the Church waged a holy war on Islam, Francis sought a meeting with Sultan Malik al-Kamil in Egypt and is said to have spent several days in prayer and fellowship with him. While lepers were treated as social outcasts, Francis grew to see the dignity and rich humanity of lepers in whom his humble Christ embodied; those who were once “bitter” to him became “sweet.” 

The Christology of the early Franciscans produced a positive anthropology and ecology. After all, if God created the world and became human through the Incarnation, then that meant everyone and everything had inherent dignity and could be an avenue of experiential grace. 

“Francis was responding to that idea of how this victorious Christ was being manipulated for earthly victory,” Father Sabak explains. “The whole idea for the Crusades was that this risen Christ—this victorious king of all creation—wants us to kill the infidel. Francis brings us back to: Who was this human being? What did he experience? How can we connect ourselves to that? That’s what was transformational about Francis’ way of approaching God.” 

Philosopher Peter Rollins once wrote a parable about a tribe of Christ followers who flee Jerusalem the day after Jesus is crucified. The members of the tribe dedicate their lives to following in the footsteps of Jesus without any idea that he had risen. Centuries later, Christian missionaries stumble upon the tribe and share with them the good news of the Resurrection. A celebration unfolds, but the chief of the tribe, with a heavy heart, wanders from the party where he is eventually confronted by one of the missionaries. As Rollins writes, this is what the chief shares with the missionary: “For over 300 years, we have followed the ways taught to us by Christ. We followed his ways faithfully, even though it cost us deeply, and we remained resolute despite the fear that death defeated him.” Holy Saturday, Rollins writes, is where our faith is forged. 

The brilliance of this parable is that it stirs our imaginations to consider the humanity of Jesus without jumping to the supernatural miracle of Resurrection or our own cultural obsession with victory. Would we follow Jesus even if there was no promise of victory? 

The Stations, like the parable, are a full-on confrontation with darkness and the traumas of life. Spiritual bypassing—suppressing suffering and adopting trite explanations for suffering—is not an option when the liturgy of Stations is taken seriously. We are challenged to live our story from the “middle,” trusting that, even amid descent and unknowing, we are still moving. Awed by the raw humanity of Christ, we confront our own humanity and the sacred humanity of others in the process. 

Movement through Fear

A special connection to Jesus’ passion, which began with Francis’ conversion before the San Damiano cross and culminated in his receiving of the stigmata at the end of his life, continued to evolve for the Franciscans. In 1342, the pope placed Franciscans in charge of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (where Jesus was crucified) and the Via Crucis (the Way of the Cross) in Jerusalem. At the turn of the 18th century, St. Leonard of Port Maurice, an Italian friar, began promoting the Stations of the Cross and erected them at nearly 600 sites across Italy. This popularity led the pope to propagate the prayer practice as 14 official stations in 1731. The Stations of the Cross could be established at any holy site as long as they were blessed by a Franciscan. 

“St. Leonard was ministering and writing in the aftermath of the Reformation and the breakdown of Christianity,” Father Sabak explains. “So, for him, to try to reunify Christianity was to remember this man, Jesus, who died, who was more important than the conflicting ideas between the Catholics and reformers who were dividing the Church. It was to remember who was at the source. It wasn’t the pope. It wasn’t kings or princes. It wasn’t doctrines or dogmas. It was Christ, this Christ who suffers and dies. In praying the Stations, he was saying to focus on the one who holds us together, even in death. It isn’t to be prayed, ‘I’m responsible for Jesus’ death, I’m responsible for Jesus’ death, forgive me, forgive me.’ Rather, it was to be prayed so that you knew the anchor and root of our faith.” 

Though the Franciscans had their own rite for the Way of the Cross, the ritual today is more connected to St. Alphonsus Liguori (1696–1787), an oblate of St. Francis de Sales, whose way of praying further popularized the Way of the Cross. After Vatican II (1962–1965) and the revision of the Roman Ritual, the Joint Commission of Catholic Bishops’ Conferences published the Book of Blessings, which permitted laypeople to bless and pray the Way of the Cross themselves. 

This is a fitting “conclusion” to the history of the Stations of the Cross and the threads of Franciscan involvement throughout the centuries, for that was the point of the ritual all along: for anyone, anywhere to embark on a holy pilgrimage; for anyone, anywhere to walk in the footsteps of Jesus. The point is not to masochistically remove Jesus from heaven and place him back on the cross, but rather to identify with the fullness of his humanity in his darkest hours and mirror him in how we move through our own suffering. 

“What does it mean to be a believer who stands before the pain, hurt, terror, and anger of the world?” Father Sabak asks. “Jesus faces all that pain and hopelessness yet is unafraid and moves forward. How do we face our fears and not be afraid? Because we trust that God knows what God is doing with us, just as Jesus did.” 

Movement is our offering—our prayer—in the Stations of the Cross and in life. Whereas shame and despair can be paralyzing, the Way of the Cross stirs us to move authentically through our own suffering, even if it feels sometimes as if we are spiraling further into chaos. Our faith is what animates this movement, for we can trust a Christ who did not come to explain suffering, but rather entered more fully into its very depths as a human being. Even if we are not physically moving through the Stations, as has been the ancient practice, our hearts and minds are invited to move through gazing, considering, contemplating, and imitating the cross, as St. Clare once wrote to Agnes of Prague. In another letter to Agnes, Clare suggests to “place your mind before the mirror of eternity.” 

In the Way of the Cross, we are invited into this same dynamic, as the mirror reflects back to us who we are to become: more like this radically humble God, just as God became like us. The mirror, as we find, holds us.  

_{Photography by Sara Culler} 

Former UK Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once said: “If you want anything said, ask a man. If you want anything done, ask a woman.” That quip could aptly describe Hungarian-born Mária Telkes, PhD (1900–1995), a trailblazing biophysicist who overcame misogyny within her scientific community to pioneer solar energy. Just in time for Earth Day, American Experience pays homage to this environmental trailblazer in the thoughtful documentary The Sun Queen. 

Born to a Jewish family in Budapest, Telkes showed an affinity for science at an early age, graduating with a BA in chemistry in 1920 and a PhD in 1924. She fell in love with the United States when she visited and never left, eventually working in the division of solar energy at MIT. During World War II, the US government would engage Telkes in creating a desalination device to turn salt water into drinking water, but jealousy from colleagues would delay its completion. 

Undeterred, Telkes shifted her post-war efforts to harnessing solar energy. She understood that fossil fuels are not an infinite resource, but clean energy likely is. In 1948, Telkes partnered with architect Eleanor Raymond to create the Dover Sun House in Massachusetts, the world’s first solar-heated home. Hailed as a breakthrough in modern science and a template for using clean energy, Telkes was praised the world over for this innovation. But members of the scientific community never fully backed her efforts. Nevertheless, she persisted. 

Telkes, who could be obsessive to the point of manic in her pursuits, created the first solar oven and registered over 20 patents in her lifetime. She died at 94 while visiting her native Budapest. In the ensuing decades, sadly, her name outside of scientific circles would be largely forgotten. Until now. 

Credit to the filmmakers for presenting a three-dimensional portrait of a brilliant and complicated woman decades ahead of her time. Telkes, the film asserts, was aggressive. She knew she was right in her solar pursuits and could be a difficult force to weather (no pun intended). The film also maintains that Telkes exhibited qualities that are praised in men but discouraged in women: assertiveness, confidence, and deep intelligence. But with a bullish Eastern European bravado, she never lost sight of humanity’s potential to embrace innovative technologies. 

We know now that Telkes was prescient: According to a report from 2015, oil will be depleted in 51 years, coal in 114 years, and natural gas in 53. The global demand for fossil fuels, scientists warn us, will eventually make the planet uninhabitable. The answer to this crisis, Telkes knew, was overhead. 

What would this bold scientist say of our lethargy in harnessing clean energy today? Michelle Addington, an engineer interviewed in the film, said it best: “She would be shocked that we are still not fully embracing the most powerful thermal force that we have in the universe.”

Following years of military dictatorships, Argentina’s new democratic government prepares to put the ringleaders of the various military juntas and their civil collaborators on trial for crimes against humanity that were committed between 1976 and 1983. 

Julio César Strassera (Ricardo Darín), a lawyer, husband, and father, is chosen as the special prosecutor. Not only is he reluctant, but so is the judiciary that does not want to prosecute the criminals. Only Luis Moreno Ocampo (Peter Lanzani), whose family has ties to the military, is willing to assist. At first, Strassera declines his help but eventually takes him on. It is Ocampo who suggests hiring junior lawyers to support them when seasoned lawyers decline. Strassera is grateful for his family’s support, especially that of his wife, Silvia (Alejandra Flechner), and young son. 

The team has a huge task ahead of them. Since crimes were committed throughout the country, each charge must be researched and supported by evidence. Strassera and the team receive death threats, but they continue. On the first day of trial, there is a bomb threat that nearly ends the proceedings before they begin. Strassera convinces the judges, who will decide the fate of the accused criminals, to continue. Witnesses offering heartbreaking testimony are recorded for posterity, and parts are broadcast around the world. 

Based on actual events, Argentina, 1985 was directed and cowritten by Santiago Mitre. It received a commendation award from SIGNIS, the Catholic jury, at the Venice Film Festival last summer, and is nominated for an Oscar in the Foreign Language category. 

For such a serious subject, the sense of family pervades it, from that of Strassera, to the family formed by the legal team, to the greater community of Argentina and the world. I was frequently reminded of the long-running television drama Law & Order because of the characters and how it runs like a police procedural—only the stakes are much greater. Argentina, 1985 is streaming on Amazon. 

Not yet rated, R • Violence, kidnapping, murder, sex abuse, language, abuse of political power. 

Mirando Al Cielo 

On a rainy night in 1931, a man attempts to assassinate Rafael Picazo (Luis Xavier), the mayor of Sahuayo, a small town southwest of Mexico City. When the parish priest is called to hear his confession, Rafael threatens him and then has a change of heart. He begins to tell the story of his role in the martyrdom of his own godson, 14-year-old José Sánchez del Río (Julián Fidalgo), during the Cristero War (1926–1929). 

The Cristeros were a Catholic army that rebelled against the Mexican government’s anticlerical policies that limited the work and influence of the Catholic Church. José, the youngest boy in the family, wants to join his two older brothers who have gone to join the Cristeros, but his parents (Marco Orozco and Estela Cano) refuse permission at first. The devout teenager, who longs for heaven, begs to join the rebels. General Morfín (Darío Rocas) allows José to come along as a flag bearer. In early 1928, José is captured and ordered to renounce Jesus Christ. The boy’s resounding cry of “¡Viva Cristo Rey!” assures his martyrdom. 

The story of St. José, canonized by Pope Francis in 2016, was told in an almost epic scale among many characters in the 2012 film No Greater Glory. This film is a more intimate look at the young saint at home and his brief stint in the Cristero War. His uncomplicated spirituality stands out against the very complex background of violent tensions between the Catholic Church and the government in Mexico. Directed and written by Antonio Peláez, the story is engaging, and the film has high production value. Mirando al Cielo is in Spanish with English subtitles. 

Not yet rated. • Violence, torture, peril. 

Consecration

Grace (Jena Malone) is a young ophthalmologist who goes to a monastery on the Isle of Skye to find out the truth behind her brother’s suicide. He had been a priest and is accused of killing another priest and then himself. Father Romero (Danny Huston) is sent by the Vatican to reconsecrate the monastery. Neither Grace nor the very weird Mother Superior (Janet Suzman) believes her brother has done either act, so Grace tries to discover the truth. 

In what is possibly the weirdest horror film about spooky nuns and priests—and despite the motif of transparency and clear vision along with a nod toward showing some kind of spirituality—this is a muddled attempt with no saving grace to tell a story about demonic action at a convent. The one unique aspect to the film is that it takes place mostly during the day, with lots of light, rather than in dark graveyards. Directed and cowritten by Christopher Smith, the script never matches the promise of the cinematography. 

Not yet rated, R • Suicide, peril, violence.

“The poetry of earth is never dead,” John Keats wrote. These quotes from Pope Francis illuminate that truth.

Since his inaugural Mass, Pope Francis has frequently reminded a global audience that care for creation is among his highest priorities. In June 2015, he released his long-awaited encyclical on the environment, “Laudato Si’” (“Praise Be to You”), addressing it to “every person living on this planet.” Named after a canticle by St. Francis of Assisi, the encyclical pairs religious insights with scientific facts to spotlight the gravity of the environmental crisis.

As a world leader with a background in science who heads a 2,000-year-old Church, the pope is uniquely qualified to articulate a compelling vision and mission for the future. The writings, homilies, prayers, talks, and even tweets of Pope Francis gather his most important and inspiring words about our shared responsibility to protect, nurture, and care for “our common home.”

Our planet is in peril, the pope is telling us, along with the well-being of the poor who depend on the earth’s natural resources. He chastises world leaders and challenges ordinary people, reminding us that our foolish actions and careless decisions are placing lives at risk. He decries our current assaults on the natural environment and warns of the consequences of climate change.

Still, Pope Francis’ message is always ultimately one of hope and optimism. In his environmental communications over the years, Pope Francis’ words reveal that he believes we can move toward a new kind of conversion—a higher level of consciousness, action, and advocacy that will spark “a bold cultural revolution.”

The following reflections are from Pope Francis’ encyclical. May his words challenge us to be good stewards of our planet!

The New Testament does not only tell us of the earthly Jesus and his tangible and loving relationship with the world. It also shows him risen and glorious, present throughout creation by his universal Lordship: “For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross” (Col 1:19-20). This leads us to direct our gaze to the end of time, when the Son will deliver all things to the Father, so that “God may be everything to everyone” (1 Cor 15:28). Thus, the creatures of this world no longer appear to us under merely natural guise because the risen One is mysteriously holding them to himself and directing them towards fullness as their end. The very flowers of the field and the birds which his human eyes contemplated and admired are now imbued with his radiant presence.

St. Francis’ response to the world around him was so much more than intellectual appreciation or economic calculus, for to him each and every creature was a sister united to him by bonds of affection. That is why he felt called to care for all that exists. His disciple Saint Bonaventure tells us that, “from a reflection on the primary source of all things, filled with even more abundant piety, he would call creatures, no matter how small, by the name of ‘brother’ or ‘sister.’” Such a conviction cannot be written off as naive romanticism, for it affects the choices which determine our behavior. If we approach nature and the environment without this openness to awe and wonder, if we no longer speak the language of fraternity and beauty in our relationship with the world, our attitude will be that of masters, consumers, ruthless exploiters, unable to set limits on their immediate needs.

Oceans not only contain the bulk of our planet’s water supply, but also most of the immense variety of living creatures, many of them still unknown to us and threatened for various reasons. What is more, marine life in rivers, lakes, seas, and oceans, which feeds a great part of the world’s population, is affected by uncontrolled fishing, leading to a drastic depletion of certain species. Selective forms of fishing which discard much of what they collect continue unabated. Particularly threatened are marine organisms which we tend to overlook, like some forms of plankton; they represent a significant element in the ocean food chain, and species used for our food ultimately depend on them.

When we can see God reflected in all that exists, our hearts are moved to praise the Lord for all his creatures and to worship him in union with them. This sentiment finds magnificent expression in the hymn of St. Francis of Assisi:

Praised be you, my Lord, through Brother Wind,
and through the air, cloudy and serene, and every kind of weather
through whom you give sustenance to your creatures.

The Lord was able to invite others to be attentive to the beauty that there is in the world because he himself was in constant touch with nature, lending it an attention full of fondness and wonder. As he made his way throughout the land, he often stopped to contemplate the beauty sown by his Father and invited his disciples to perceive a divine message in things: “Lift up your eyes and see how the fields are already white for harvest” (Jn 4:35). “The kingdom of God is like a grain of mustard seed which a man took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all seeds, but once it has grown, it is the greatest of plants” (Mt 13:31-32).

The Psalms frequently exhort us to praise God the Creator, “who spread out the earth on the waters, for his steadfast love endures forever” (Ps 136:6). They also invite other creatures to join us in this praise: “Praise him, sun and moon, praise him, all you shining stars! Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens! Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he commanded and they were created” (Ps 148:3-5). We do not only exist by God’s mighty power; we also live with him and beside him. This is why we adore him.

We are not God. The earth was here before us and it has been given to us. This allows us to respond to the charge that Judeo-Christian thinking, on the basis of the Genesis account which grants man “dominion” over the earth (Gen 1:28), has encouraged the unbridled exploitation of nature by painting him as domineering and destructive. This is not a correct interpretation of the Bible as understood by the Church. Although it is true that we Christians have at times incorrectly interpreted the Scriptures, nowadays we must forcefully reject the notion that our being created in God’s image and given dominion over the earth justifies absolute domination.

Jesus took up the biblical faith in God the Creator, emphasizing a fundamental truth: God is Father (Mt 11:25). In talking with his disciples, Jesus would invite them to recognize the paternal relationship God has with all his creatures. With moving tenderness he would remind them that each one of them is important in God’s eyes: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God” (Lk 12:6). “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them” (Mt 6:26).

The entire material universe speaks of God’s love, his boundless affection for us. Soil, water, mountains: everything is, as it were, a caress of God. The history of our friendship with God is always linked to particular places which take on an intensely personal meaning; we all remember places, and revisiting those memories does us much good. Anyone who has grown up in the hills or used to sit by the spring to drink, or played outdoors in the neighborhood square; going back to these places is a chance to recover something of their true selves.

The urgent challenge to protect our common home includes a concern to bring the whole human family together to seek a sustainable and integral development, for we know that things can change. The Creator does not abandon us; he never forsakes his loving plan or repents of having created us. Humanity still has the ability to work together in building our common home. Here I want to recognize, encourage and thank all those striving in countless ways to guarantee the protection of the home which we share.