Category: Teresa

(By Teresa)

I hope that this addendum will clarify and expand the ideas I presented in my previous blogpost.  My essential thesis in the former post was we are not born knowing racial categories–these have been dictated to us by historical circumstance and cultural convention–and so we can challenge these categorizations, especially with regards to how we, as individuals, see other people.  Yet, how can this shift play out in the context of individual identity, as well as wider society in which race (as we have defined it) continues to have serious consequences? 

We are all people.  For me, this affirmation means that everyone possesses inherent dignity and value, irrespective of any other characteristics, whether chosen personally or imposed by others.  Unfortunately, in daily life we lose sight of our common bonds and we often view others as mere shells, rather than fully human beings who, like us, hold dreams and fears, joys and worries.  It takes energy and time to detach momentarily from our own plans and concerns–our own self– and instead consider everyone around us as a unique person of unknowable depth.

Because we forget, overlook, or purposefully ignore others’ humanity, we contribute to pain, injustice, and discrimination.  This fundamental blindness to one another underlays society’s problems.  Although curing this blindness is almost certainly a utopian impossibility,  I firmly believe that we can train ourselves to consciously recognize others as people, and not just moving points that traverse our daily life (an idea further developed in my post Social Change, not Dehumanization.)   I suggested, in “Beyond Black and White,” that we avoid defining others through race-related adjectives, which reduce those we see to a racial identity with which they may or may not themselves identify.  If we instead think “person,” “human,” “friend,” or “brother/sister,”  we mentally affirm an essential affinity between us and others, even if the other is a stranger on the street.

“Wait!” you say. “Won’t pretending race doesn’t exist just allow people with lighter skin to remain in willful ignorance about our country’s historical and ongoing mistreatment of groups of people with darker skin?”

I acknowledge the concern, and I will get to structural injustices below.  However, my message is not to simply pretend race doesn’t exist, but to remind us that it exists only to the extent that we have allowed society to define it. Our DNA may determine our skin tone, but the association of skin color with a particular “race” is a social convention that our culture has created.  Therefore, little by little, we can undermine these arbitrary separations that lead to prejudice and discrimination.  We do not have to accept oppressive discursive structures that lead us to divide ourselves into disparate groups through language.  Racial terms, such as “black” and “white,” as we employ them today, are neither self-evident nor genetically determined; rather they are themselves a product of our country’s history of slavery, segregation, and on-going marginalization.

“Wait!” you may protest again.  “If no one is supposed to identify as ‘black’ (or other races), aren’t you just enacting another form of oppression by denying marginalized groups ownership of their culture?”

This is a more difficult objection, for I neither have nor want the authority to dictate how anyone sees him/herself.  But maintaining a critical eye when we view the terms we use to define society will not erase people, or their cultures, if we truly seek inclusion and solidarity.  We should continue to celebrate cultural heritages, as well as the varieties of cultural expression in our country today.  Anyone who feels that a racial term (“black,” “white,” or otherwise) strongly defines their experience should continue to self-identify as such; this is their decision.  I do hope, if our society grows more equitable and we see one another as family, that racial terms will slowly become more neutral and eventually fade away, but such a transition will take time and can only occur in conjunction with authentic gains toward equality.

My immediate concern, however, arises when we begin to define others.  How can we see one another more as people, and less as categories, racial or otherwise?  Is mentally thinking “brother/sister” or “friend” when we see others a simplistic measure with no concrete results, mere wishful thinking?

Identifying one another as a friend or brother/sister is much more than a naïve fantasy because the words we use, either in our own heads or when communicating with others, shape how we view the world.  Consider the choice of words to refer to those who are in our country without the proper documentation: are they “illegals,” “undocumented  immigrants,” “dreamers,” perhaps even “refugees”? Each term emphasizes a different characteristic with the purpose of rousing a particular attitude toward those in question.  This attitude, though itself intangible, will translate to subsequent support for or opposition to concrete policies that directly affect people.  People.  In the end, these people in our country are, most fundamentally, people–people like us.  Whether we try to solve immigration or another controversial issue, remembering that all involved are people (our human family!) can help us find common ground.  Such an approach leads to real, useful change that affirms the dignity of all, and especially the dignity of the most marginalized.

Psychological research has demonstrated that our brains automatically register and respond to different physical characteristics, particularly those associated with race; as a result we may unwittingly display a negative or prejudiced reaction to certain people without even being aware that we are doing so.  Conversely, if we train our brains to immediately recognize those we see as friends, we can counteract destructive social messages that we may have inadvertently absorbed.  After all, will anyone discriminate against me or you if they view us as sisters and brothers?  Simply smiling can overcome implicit race-related biases.  At the individual level, therefore, changing our language can be very powerful.  As psychologist David Amodio notes, ” We might be able to reduce automatic prejudice just by convincing people that they are all on the same team” (51).

Naïve colorblindness?  Not at all.  Rather, we cultivate an active and conscientious inclusive attitude toward one another.

For anyone who is skeptical, I challenge you to spend a week purposefully viewing everyone you see with goodwill and openness, as beloved family members, with no other preconceived notions.  I am confident that you will gain an increased sense of interconnection and solidarity with one another.  This sense of solidarity forms an indispensable foundation for actions toward equality.  That is, we cultivate an inclusive attitude through our words and simultaneously ensure that our actions follow suit.  After training your mind to identify everyone as a “friend,” take Harvard’s implicit bias tests and see how you perform; our linguistic worldview will affect how we treat one another.

Of course, we cannot stand outside of society, nor change conventional language through sheer will-power or good intentions. Race (as we have defined it) has very real, concrete consequences for many people on a daily basis.  These people may not have the luxury of deciding whether or not to consider themselves “black” (or other racial categories) because society labels and treats them as such regardless.

Our response to racism and social inequality necessarily includes ongoing, concerted efforts to correct structural problems, such as the justice system and poverty.  My hope is that anyone reading this is also involved in programs and movements that aim to achieve concrete results and make visible gains toward equality.  Changing our language must complement, not substitute or replace, this essential activism.  Yet perhaps, I would suggest, these structural problems cannot be fully remedied until we stop inadvertently perpetuating categories that separate “us” and “them.”

We will continue to contend with racial categorizations as long as our society groups us racially and disproportionately marginalizes members of particular races.  Yet, we as individuals form our society, and we can slowly transform it.  Take for example Daryl Davis, who has befriended hundreds of people in the KKK, many of whom subsequently left the organization.  (A documentary about him–trailer here–is available on Netflix.)

I can imagine that someday, in the future, we will not accept racial categories as self-evident, but as the social and historical constructs they are.  To reach this point, we have to begin somewhere; our language is a necessary point of departure.  Our speech is action, and we can shape the way we think about and act toward one another through our own words, as well as the media we choose to consume.

We all share a common humanity, and I firmly believe that this shared identity is greater than the differences we have created and perpetuated in our societies. Intentionally perceiving and portraying one another as human beings, rather than data points of a racial (or other) category, is one of many necessary steps if we hope to create just and equitable systems.

Works Cited

Amodio, David. “The Egalitarian Brain.” Are We Born Racist? New Insights from Neuroscience and Positive Psychology. Ed. Jan Marsh et. al. Boston: Beacon Press, 2010.  45-52.

The cover image is the Hands in Solidarity, Hands of Freedom mural in Chicago.

A few musings that I probably do not have the authority to make… and yet, perhaps I can offer a minuscule contribution to a collaborative, inclusive worldview.  

(By Teresa)

My five-year-old daughter does not know what “black” or “white” means. At least, not with respect to race. When describing a new friend at school, Jansamal sometimes says, “She has brown hair, blue eyes, and skin like mine.” Or, “She has brown hair and dark skin.”  She perceives skin color, but for her it is just one of many physical characteristics.

A year ago, after our third daughter was born, Jansamal (then four years old) commented, “I think Aqmaral is going to be brown.”  We had been discussing that in two years, Aqmaral (the baby), would be like Quralai (our then-two-year-old); Quralai would be like Jansamal, and Jansamal would be six.  To Jansamal’s interjection, we responded, “Brown?  You mean have brown hair?” “No, brown, you know, like Amari and Aaron.”  Amari and Aaron were two of Jansamal’s neighborhood friends.  “Oh,” we said, “Well, why do you have red hair and blue eyes?” Jansamal knows that her hair is the same color as her daddy’s, and her eyes are the same color as mine.  We reasoned, “You have hair and eyes like ours, and so does Aqmaral.  She will probably have skin similar to ours too.”  Jansamal accepted our explanation, but she has remained ignorant of race as a taxonomical concept.

Some will note that our daughter’s innocence is only possible due to white privilege.  After all, she has not heard racial epithets directed at her, nor has she been treated negatively as a result of her skin color.  The term “white privilege” is problematic, however; it implies that to approximate equality, we must strip privileges from certain groups, rather than restoring basic rights to the under-privileged.   Characteristics often cited as “white privilege”—being able to assume that law enforcement is on one’s side; regularly seeing oneself reflected in media icons and popular culture; and going about one’s life without wondering if negative interactions are a result of one’s race—should be common expectations for all, and not privileges for anyone.

Terms like “black” and “white” shift meanings over time, and we do not need to keep invoking race as if it indicated a fundamental difference between people.  I am reminded of the Lorax’s “unless” (when you’re a parent, all your literary allusions begin to come from children’s books): we will continue to view the world, and our country, as a conglomerate of various races unless…  we stop.  Unless we change our current discourse.  Unless we realize that, even though our brains will automatically note physical differences between people, we do not have to associate these characteristics with discrete categories.  Unless, in our minds we identify others not through the lens of race-related adjectives, but with inclusive terms such as “human”, “person,” or even “brother/sister.”

(I have written more extensively on this idea in my previous post “Social Change, not Dehumanization: Using Language and Emotion Productively in Our Conflicted World.”)

On an individual level, this shift is achievable with sufficient practice and intentionality. On a societal scale, race is not so easy to overcome; our racial construction of the world is tied to cultural identities, continuing inequalities, and past oppressions.  I am not suggesting that we cease to celebrate our ties to particular heritages, nor that we overlook correlations between social injustice and racial groups as we have defined them in the twentieth century.  Nevertheless, I believe that we can purposefully cultivate an inclusive sense of community as we strive to create a more equitable world.  If we deliberately choose to share and consume constructive media that affirms the dignity of all, we can slowly rise above the divisions we have created.  We will undoubtedly continue to disagree on certain points of policy, but we can promote discourse that recognizes each human being’s inherent worth.

At some point in the near future, my daughter will be handed the fruit of racial knowledge, and she will eat of it.  Her peers, her teachers, and society as a whole will inform her that she is naked, and that her nakedness is white.  Unless… perhaps for her children, if we start now, we can create a society in which we no longer interpret arbitrary characteristics as definitive indicators that separate us.  We can recognize as illusory the “clearly”-delineated groups to which we thought we belonged, and instead see one another first and foremost as fellow human beings.

By Teresa

On November 20, 2016, Catholics celebrated the close of the recent Jubilee Year of Mercy.  Based on the Jewish tradition of jubilee years in which debts were forgiven, prisoners freed, and fields left fallow (see Leviticus 25), this past year has sought to make manifest God’s love and mercy in our suffering world.  As Pope Francis declared, “The Church… is called to offer more evident signs of God’s presence and closeness… [This year] is the favorable time to heal wounds, a time not to be weary of meeting all those who are waiting to see and to touch with their hands the signs of the closeness of God, a time to offer everyone, everyone, the way of forgiveness and reconciliation.”

In the United States, this year has concluded with the Cubs’ win in the World Series—an act of mercy, perhaps, for all but Cleveland fans—followed by Donald Trump’s win in the presidential election.  This divisive latter event, an antithesis of mercy in the eyes of many, has deeply shaken my sense of community.  I reserve the rest of my thoughts about the election and the president-elect for an addendum below, as my purpose here is to discuss mercy, not politics.  Suffice it to say, with the breaches between us laid bare in a way I have not perceived during previous political disagreements, I have felt tempted to withdraw, to retreat from the mirage of human solidarity.  Yet, mercy impels us to reach out to others and to allow others to reach out to us.

What is mercy?  First, there is the mercy that God shows humanity through Jesus’ sacrifice and death; this mercy continues to enter and shape our lives every day.  For those interested in Divine Mercy, I highly recommend 33 Days to Merciful Love and Daily Reflections on Divine Mercy.  These works, based respectively on the writings of St. Therese of the Little Flower and St. Faustina, offer daily reflections on how God reaches out to us in daily life.  But here I would like to discuss the mercy that we, as humans, show one another (and ourselves).  Human mercy is connected to, but not dependent on, belief in a divine being.

Traditionally, merciful actions have been categorized as a series of corporal and spiritual works.  The seven corporal works of mercy are: feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, sheltering the homeless, visiting the sick, ransoming the captive, and burying the dead.  The seven spiritual works are: instructing the ignorant, counseling the doubtful, admonishing sinners, bearing wrongs patiently, forgiving offenses, comforting the sorrowful, and praying for the living and the dead.  We can loosely place most merciful acts within these categories, but the concrete actions of mercy take many different forms because mercy is a mindset, not a to-do list.

In this context, mercy is perhaps best defined as a kindness toward another, without expecting anything in return.  In essence, mercy is love.  Mercy is also responding to others’ love toward us, even when we are tired, annoyed, or hurting.

In all of its manifestations, mercy directs our desires toward others.  Rather than prioritizing ourselves, our pride, or our own interests, we instead share, serve, and humbly receive what others offer us.  Most of all, we strive to see others in themselves, and not just in how they relate to us.  Psychologists have demonstrated that we tend to discriminate against outsiders while favoring those whom we perceive as being in the same group with us.  Mercy brings all humanity into this close group of friends and allies.

Mercy also encourages us to think in terms of abundance, rather than scarcity.  When my brother and I walked the Camino de Santiago, a medieval pilgrimage route across northern Spain, I felt friendly toward the other pilgrims, but also anxious.  It was June, and the popular pilgrimage attracted enough walkers that pilgrim hostels could fill up; we might have to walk further than planned, or miss out on staying at particularly unique hostels housed in old church belfries or Romanesque chapels.  If other pilgrims passed us, I feared that they would take beds that we wanted.  These uncharitable feelings bothered me, yet I could not let go of my concerns.  Finally, toward the end of the pilgrimage, I resolved to greet each pilgrim as an individual fully loved by God, and for whom God had special plans.  All were my brothers and sisters, and I needed to genuinely treat them as such in my thoughts.  From that moment on, I didn’t worry about how many pilgrims might be ahead of us, or planning to stay where we wanted; I wished everyone well, and trusted that we would all end up where we needed to be.

Of course, whole-hearted sharing and trust in abundance is not easy when, in practice, resources do seem very limited.  (I speak from the perspective of someone on the job market, in which I compete with hundreds of applicants for each tenure-track job.)  Our desires are not always realized, especially in the way we prefer. Yet I believe that if we genuinely orient our desires around others, not ourselves, ourselves, we will find that we have that which is sufficient.

In this way, mercy heals the rifts between us.  We view others as our family, members of ‘our’ group.  Mercy will not necessarily reconcile differences, but it will build bridges over the chasms that separate us.

Mercy also reveals our vulnerabilities.  The spiritual works of mercy in particular demonstrate our own weakness.  When we perform a corporal work of mercy—feeding the hungry, or visiting the imprisoned, for example—in most cases we ourselves are not literally in need of the same mercy.  We are in a position to be charitable toward others.  In contrast, most of the spiritual works of mercy (instructing the ignorant, counseling the doubtful, admonishing sinners, bearing wrongs patiently, forgiving offenses, comforting the sorrowful, and praying for others) remind us of our own need for mercy.  If we are honest with ourselves, when we bear wrongs patiently, forgive, and counsel, we realize that we are equally in need of these merciful acts from others.  We need comforting, admonishing, and instructing; we need prayers and forgiveness.

Recognizing our imperfections before God may not be particularly difficult—it is not hard to accept second place when you are competing against an invincible opponent–but to admit our shortcomings before other imperfect humans, and receive their mercy, requires much more humility.  Receiving mercy also brings joy, however, once we realize we need it.

How can we show mercy in the face of serious wrong-doing and injustice?  Mercy obliges us to recognize perpetrators as brothers and sisters whom we should love even as they are held accountable for their deeds.  We can imagine Adam and Eve’s consternation when they realized one son had killed the other, yet God spared the murderer’s life (see Genesis 4 for the story of Cain and Abel).  After the crucifixion, we can imagine Mary holding Jesus’s lifeless body, mourning his death, perhaps wrestling with the temptation to curse those who unjustly tortured and murdered her beloved son.  Yet she was asked to show mercy to his persecutors, in imitation of her Son who pleaded “forgive them” (Luke 23:34).   In our own time, the Amish famously forgave the man who shot ten children, killing five.  We, like Jesus and Mary, like the Amish, are compelled to let go of bitterness and anger.

Mercy reminds us that in difficult situations, we exercise forgiveness and love as acts of obedience or will, independent of personal ‘feeling.’  “Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart,” writes Corrie ten Boom, who forgave a prison guard from the concentration camp where she had been imprisoned. We can train ourselves, even when we don’t feel merciful, to act and think mercifully.  After all, from a religious perspective, God’s mercy pours over us all.  Recognizing that we are all in need, we should give and receive mercy liberally.  As we act more intentionally, we can internalize a merciful mindset.

In a more present-day example, Immaculée Ilibagiza writes about forgiving those who killed her family during the Rwandan genocide.  When visiting a prison, she personally forgave the man responsible for her mother’s and brother’s deaths.  At a later date, Immaculée visited her former village and encountered one of her mother’s old friends, Mushaha, now shunned by the villagers because she and her husband contributed to some of the killing.  Old and sick, Mushaha mourned her own two children, who had died of cholera in the aftermath of the genocide.  To her also Immaculée showed mercy, rather than vengeance.

Mercy does not erase nor deny the suffering and tragedy occurring in this world, but it mitigates the despair, anger, and sorrow that pursue us.  Mercy also encourages us to continue building up the world, regardless of the many events and actions that simultaneously pull it apart.  Our broken world is a brokenness we all share; mercy allows us to endure it together.

It is important to note that mercy is not relativism, passivity, or fatalism.  Not everyone is equally right, and we must protest and use all the activism available to us to address unjust situations.  We can—and must—condemn the Rwandan genocide, for example.  But, as Immaculée has shown by example, we must avoid condemning our fellow human brothers and sisters; they may deserve punishment, but they undoubtedly need mercy.  In all situations, most of which are much more nuanced and debatable than the Rwandan genocide, we must remember first and foremost that we are dealing with people, individual human beings like ourselves.

In the end, mercy is openness to others:  to trusting, to helping, to listening, to reconciling, and to opening ourselves to others’ mercy and forgiveness toward us.  Mercy is a continual reaching out, a continual willingness to start anew.

Of course, I do not really attribute the Cubs’ triumph to divine mercy (unless my grandmother, who had a successful career as a secretary, slipped the World Series onto God’s to-do list), but their long-awaited success shows how an act of ‘mercy’ leads to shared joy and unity between people.  In the context of a sporting event, these feelings are fleeting and superficial, but in our own lives we can nurture genuine, abiding joy and unity in our relationships with others, even with strangers.  This past election and its political consequences are an opportunity for us, on all points of the political spectrum, to show and receive mercy.  And mercy leads us to look beyond differing opinions to instead embrace one another and rejoice in our common humanity.

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Addendum

(For anyone who would like to know my thoughts on the election; these are the thoughts and feelings that led to my previous reflections on mercy):

Why am I so shaken by this presidential election?  Not because Clinton lost, even though I did vote for her.  Not because I consider conservative policies to be inherently flawed—I might have voted Republican had they offered a candidate whom I could support.  My unease does not even stem primarily from Trump’s victory.  I can think of at least two scenarios by which I would not be particularly upset about the election (though perhaps still concerned about the next four years):  Trump wins a small portion of the vote (25-30%), with the rest divided equally between the other three candidates.  Or, most people choose not to vote, and Trump wins with extremely low voter turn-out.

In both of these scenarios, as a country we are still rejecting the hateful overtones of Trump’s campaign.  We are not actively overlooking the veiled allusions to, or at least complicity with, armed uprising should the ‘rigged’ election not go his way.  We are standing against his blatant disregard for facts and evidence.  We are not endorsing for president a man who might base policy on fabricated information, a man who might endanger our democratic institutions, a man who might blame our country’s difficulties on religious or ethnic scapegoats.  In fact, however, nearly half of voters chose precisely this candidate.  As a result, I have found it difficult to take communion at church, participate in public events, and interact with others in the tasks of daily living, when I know that some of them must have voted for a person who seems to betray values that I thought most of us held dear, regardless of political preference.

The sadness and anger that I have struggled to let go, therefore, come from knowing that many, many people implicitly sanctioned Trump’s campaign style and rhetoric by voting for him, even though they opposed such rhetoric and were motivated by other reasons.  In effect, as a nation, we declared that our motivation for voting—desire for a conservative Supreme Court / frustration with current politics / dislike of Clinton / gun rights / or x reason for supporting Trump—was more important than standing united against incendiary, hateful speech.  I am sympathetic only to voters who chose Trump because they are genuinely struggling to support their families.

I cannot even be hopeful about prospects for the pro-life movement, a part of the Republican platform that I actively embrace.  I fear that any gains made against abortion will only inspire backlash, for legislative or judicial action alone will not counter our society’s tendency to see an unborn child first and foremost as part of a woman’s body, rather than as an individual human being.  Any measures limiting abortion must be accompanied by compassionate programs to assist women in difficult situations, as well as genuine recognition of unborn babies as human life worthy of protection.  A pro-life mindset is not so much about abortion itself; it is first and foremost about defending life—all life.

All life, of course, includes people with whom I strongly disagree.  “I want justice, but I’ll settle for some mercy,” sings Kris Kristofferson in his song “Pilgrim’s Progress.”  I may still feel anxious and ill thinking about the election and what, in my mind, it represented, but I will continue to reach out to others.  May they continue to reach out to me, and may I be receptive to the mercy they offer.  In the end, hope does not come from policy or righteousness, but from our mercy toward one another.

By Teresa

This post is a reflection on how we often inadvertently dehumanize others as we seek to portray our world through language, especially when discussing divisive issues.  Instead of contributing to this dehumanization, however, we can conscientiously use language and emotion as a recourse against violence.  Except in perhaps the most extreme situations (if at all), I do not believe that we can act or speak violently toward others whom we truly view as fully human, individuals of intrinsic value similar to ourselves.

Language is important because it shapes who we are; the language we use slowly influences the person we are becoming.  Negative or aggressive language changes our personality over time.  Consider, for example, the man who impersonated a slave owner for a historical program called Follow the North Star at the Conner Prairie open-air museum in Indianapolis. The yelling and insults he utilized in that role began to undermine his previously gentle, caring demeanor, even when he was not at work.

Continued exposure to, or use of, insulting and biased language leads us to view others as either allies or opponents, without seeing them as full human beings.  This type of engagement, of course, dehumanizes others and reduces them to a viewpoint or policy with which we either agree or disagree.  It seems we often bemoan how in the world today we frequently talk past one another, without listening in good faith to differing viewpoints.   I believe this lack of communication occurs because we focus on others as representing opinions, rather than as people.  When we effectively forget or ignore that we are dealing with other humans inherently equal to ourselves, we become most concerned with our own viewpoint triumphing.  Others “deserve” to be insulted because their worldview is in some way deficient.

Considerate language, on the other hand, enables us to maintain a fundamental respect for others.  We can identify the underlying concerns that motivate different viewpoints and work together for acceptable solutions.  I am aware that in many cases, adequately addressing and reconciling all underlying concerns is impossible.  However, even in situations when we cannot morally accept another person’s belief or action, we can still value their intrinsic worth as a fellow human being.  We can see them first and foremost as a person.

The dehumanizing effects of insulting language may seem obvious, but what about the other words we use to portray our world?  I would argue that categories we use to group people–nationality, race, creed, gender, political affiliation, economic status, profession, etc–are similarly dehumanizing because they reduce individual humans to particular characteristics that mark the group to which they belong.  I refer to the ‘group’ most immediately being referenced in any specific context; as people, of course, we occupy an infinite number of shifting affiliations.

Categories, unlike insults, cannot just be avoided, for they are linguistic tools that allow us to make sense of our surroundings.  Indeed, categories can be useful means to research and map the world, and they allow us to identify–and hopefully remedy–disparate privileges and rights between groups.  At the individual level, our affiliation in certain groups may give us a sense of belonging and/or notably mark our identity.   Categories, therefore, are not necessarily negative, and we may choose to embrace group monikers as essential elements of ourselves.

At the same time, categories dehumanize when we use them carelessly, passively, without actively remembering that no category fully encompasses the individuals of whom that category is composed. A corollary of this point is that we cannot assume we know something about an individual based only on our knowledge of their membership in a group. Most groups are so vast, with such diversity, that even baseline statements have occasional exceptions. Definitions, such as income designations, that we apply to mark off groups may be momentarily useful in particular contexts, but the information they convey is superficial and ephemeral.  We do not really know what any individual person believes, thinks, feels, or does solely because they, whether through self-identification or imposed definition, fall into any given category.

So, how do we ensure that we don’t dehumanize others as we read about and describe our world?

I suggest cultivating attitudes toward others founded on embracing our shared humanity. We can remind ourselves frequently that members of ‘x’ group are complex, individual people, whose views, actions, and histories may or may not align with those typically associated with the group. Even when we use categories, as we often must, we can be aware of their limitations; we must conscientiously negate their power to eclipse individuals. With these periodic mental checks, we acquire an underlying awareness of the human beings who populate our world, and we nurture our ability to recognize others as equally human. This attitude will ensure that our default mode of interaction is respectful and loving.

Most of all, I think a humanistic perspective can best be achieved by actively wishing good on those with whom we disagree. This can be difficult, especially if we consider people whom we truly believe to be doing harm in the world, such as influential politicians whose policies we despise, perpetrators of violent crime, or the leaders and members of ISIS. However, we immediately humanize our opponents if we authentically desire their well-being. Everything we would like in our own lives–joy, peace, love, self-realization, meaningful relationships, generic “good things”–we can desire for others. Not in a self-congratulatory, condescending, patronizing, or conditioned way (“You are very wrong/blind/self-deluded, but because I am enlightened and a better person, I will still wish you well.  I hope you come to a better understanding of the issue”), but with genuine desire for the person’s well-being (“You are a human being, just like me, and you have your own convictions, aspirations, trials, and joys, just as I do.  I think your beliefs on ‘x’ are fundamentally flawed, and I will do what I can to promote my own ideas, which I believe to be better for society.  Regardless, even if you never agree with me, I sincerely hope life treats you well, and I wish you happiness”).

This is not to wish for the success of policies, viewpoints, or actions that we oppose, but to desire another’s good at an inner, fundamental level.  This practice can also lead to humility as we remember that, for someone in the world, we also represent a person with detestable ideas or actions on whom it is nearly impossible to wish well-being.

With an awareness of others’ inherent worth as human beings–which one might characterize as a true, unconditional love of neighbor–we can then strive for our actions and speech to correspond appropriately.  We might reflect on the messages we communicate as we speak, write, and share media.  We can choose carefully what we read, and how we portray others.  The more we expose ourselves to or utilize dehumanizing language, the more likely we are to act accordingly, perhaps even with violence toward those with whom we disagree.  The less likely we are to work together constructively to seek and implement actual solutions that improve society.   Conversely, if we view people as fellow human beings and not merely as members of an ‘other’ category, we can respond to conflict and disagreement with compassion.

My argument may raise ethical concerns; members of under-privileged or oppressed groups have historically, perhaps personally, been denied the compassion, equality, and inherent humanity for which I am advocating. Am I asking them to extend these same attitudes and ideals to all, including those who have historically or individually perpetrated injustices? Ultimately, I am. I believe that the only true way to minimize injustice in the world is to embrace the idea that everyone, even one’s opponents, are equal human beings. Otherwise, we are perpetuating dehumanizing viewpoints and language that will lead to further violence or oppression.

Lest my perspective appear too naive, as a passive “turn the other cheek” or a simplistic “two wrongs don’t make a right,” let me hasten to say that everyone should feel compelled to actively fight for justice in our social structures, laws, and relationships. Humanizing people who commit injustices does not displace advocacy to improve the world. I am not arguing for complacency, nor am I suggesting that all opinions are equally valid.  Rather, I emphasize that all people are equally people regardless of their beliefs, however harmful or deplorable when practiced.  We can demand justice even while recognizing the essential humanity within all involved.

An emphasis on others’ humanity also leads us to respond to injustice and suffering with sadness, rather than anger. Much has been made of anger as a catalyst for change, but I would suggest that sadness is a more effective emotion. We can use anger appropriately, especially if we keep it impersonally focused on injustices themselves. Too often, however, our anger at a situation spills over and becomes directed at individuals associated with that situation. Sadness, on the other hand, can mobilize us to action without inciting us to lash out at others. It leads us to demand more of ourselves as we ask,”What can I do to help?” “How can I alleviate this suffering or promote societal change?” “How might I be inadvertently contributing to this or other injustices?”

Sadness propels us to self-reflection, collaborative action, and compassionate service. Whereas anger often leads us to blame or impose change on others, sadness places responsibility on our own shoulders. It compels us to alleviate our fellow human beings’ suffering.

I am reminded of the story of a mother who, angered that her children had left the door open, slammed it closed.  Only later did she realize that she had crushed a toad who had been sitting in the doorway. The mother’s anger seemed justified, for her children had not obeyed her specific instructions to close the door, but as a result the toad lost its life. This story does not contain the seriousness of many real-life issues and situations, yet it demonstrates that anger used to redress valid, authentic grievances may inadvertently do harm.  In his article about literature’s ability to teach compassion, Gary Saul Morson reflects that “nothing makes us less capable of empathy than consciousness of victimhood. Self-conscious victimhood leads to cruelty that calls itself righteousness and thereby generates more victims.” If our cause leads us to stereotype and belittle others, than we too are perpetrating injustices. We must address societal wrongs passionately, visibly, and effectively, but let us do so in a way that recalls that every individual involved is a human being.

Although we think of violence as the terrible events we see on the news, most violence occurs quietly in our everyday lives. It does not even take the form of explicit insults or aggression. Rather, we sow the seeds of violence within ourselves whenever we assume knowledge of a person and then judge accordingly; whenever we dismiss a group of people as ‘flawed’ or ‘deficient’ in some way because they view the world differently; and whenever we, fueled by righteous indignation at how we or others have been wrongs, reduce others to opponents or enemies. Let us, instead, create a foundation for communication, cooperation, and genuine change by actively seeing and portraying the humanity of everyone even as we fight the injustices around us.

By Teresa

The following thoughts are personal, devotional reflections that arose during prayer and meditation. Perhaps they may be useful to others; I share my reflections for this purpose, and to promote the chaplet as a powerful tool to strengthen us in our spiritual journey.  

When Mary appeared in Kibeho, Rwanda, she urged her devotees to pray the Chaplet of her Seven Sorrows.¹  One prays an Our Father and seven Hail Marys while reflecting on each sorrow in turn. But why pray this chaplet when we already have the rosary and many other devotions? The chaplet cultivates devotion to Mary who leads us to her Son, and, when recited as part of a consistent prayer regime, it helps us develop spiritual discipline. Yet this chaplet offers further spiritual fruit: meditating on Mary’s sorrows allows us to engage the suffering, often inexplicable and meaningless, that affects us and others throughout the world.

The sorrowful mysteries of the traditional rosary deal with Jesus’ suffering and death, but Jesus’ pain may not speak to us in the same way as Mary’s. Although Jesus suffered greatly as man, He was also fully divine and, on that level, cognizant of why His crucifixion was happening; as the paschal lamb sent to die on our behalf, Jesus suffered meaningfully, for a redemptive purpose. His sacrifice—which He chose to accept—was God’s will. The suffering that people experience hardly seems to be God’s will, but rather the consequence of a fallen world. Nor is it our choice. Some suffering may teach us virtue (patience, for example), or lead us to new relationships, but truly tragic events defy explanation. We depend on Jesus’ purposeful suffering to redeem us, but it can be difficult to see His pain as analogous to our own.

Mary, in contrast, suffered without understanding, as we do.²  Though immaculate by God’s grace, Mary was human, as we are. She watched her Son undergo torture and death for no apparent reason other than human cruelty. She must have prayed for God to help and wondered what His plan could be. Furthermore, her pain was not redemptive, at least not in the same way that Jesus’ suffering was necessary to expiate sin.³ Mary, too, endured seemingly meaningless heartbreak, and her sorrows offer us an opportunity to reflect on our own suffering.

Through Mary, we can access the other suffering of the crucifixion—the human suffering that isn’t necessarily redemptive or purposeful, but simply is. Mary leads us to trust God even in apparent meaninglessness or terrible tragedy. If inspiration and hope can emerge from the Rwandan genocide, we too can be assured that God accompanies us through our pain even when we do not perceive Him. As we and Mary share in one another’s sorrows, her example strengthens our own faithfulness, assuring us that even in suffering our confidence in God is well-placed.

In suffering with Mary, and inviting her to accompany us in our own suffering, we can also cultivate true compassion in the sense of suffering together. Whether this be forgoing purchases to give more to those in need, forgoing leisure time to care for others, sacrificing time and space to foster children or house refugees—in short, performing the corporal works of mercy to clothe the naked, feed the hungry, visit the imprisoned, bury the dead, shelter the homeless, give drink to the thirsty, and ransom the captive, even (especially) when doing so causes us inconvenience or discomfort. Suffering together does not give meaning to tragedy or pain, but it introduces hope and solace into our shared human journey.

Following are Mary’s seven sorrows, with initial reflections:

One: The Prophesy: When Mary and Joseph presented Jesus at the temple, a devout man named Simeon prophesied, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed / so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2:34-35). Here, Simeon predicts Jesus’ death and Mary’s consequent mourning. This first sorrow reminds us that all birth, even that of God incarnate comes marked with death.  We cannot escape suffering in life.

Two: Flight to Egypt: To protect baby Jesus from being killed by Herod, Mary and Joseph fled to Egypt (Matthew 2:13-14).  This second sorrow urges us to trust God even when we do not understand. Throughout the world, refugees flee violence, hunger, and poverty, while those who stay behind face death. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus likewise had to flee their homeland.  Why did God not just work miraculously so that Herod could not find the Holy Family, or, better yet, miraculously protect the Holy Innocents, the male children whom Herod did kill? God does not always intercede as we would like, even for His own Son who had to suffer even as a little baby.

Three: Losing Jesus in Jerusalem: After celebrating the Passover in Jerusalem, Jesus stayed behind without His parents’ knowing (Luke 2:43-45). One can imagine Mary’s anxiety as she searched three days for her Son; she must have prayed to find Jesus, but God did not answer her prayers immediately. Likewise, we must persevere through suffering when it is not quickly resolved.  On a spiritual level, this sorrow can reflect our own search for God, who so easily slips away in a moment of inattention. Through Mary’s example, we can cultivate faith that God knows what He’s doing, and we will find Him if we keep looking.

Four: Meeting Jesus on the road to the cross: Tradition attests that as Jesus stumbled and carried His cross, Mary approached her Son, witnessing His anguish. She was helpless, except to pray, but again her prayers went unanswered.  This sorrow, which is also the fourth station of the cross, forces us to face the pain in our fallen world. We cannot perceive why, but we weep alongside Mary.

Five: Jesus’ death: (Matthew 27:50; Mark 15:37; Luke 23:46; John 19:30). Here, Mary’s worst fears are realized. They had escaped Herod, and had found Jesus in the temple after He was lost, but now He has died. Mary must have wondered why God allowed His Son’s death. In this sorrow, seemingly irreparable, hope for healing all but disappears. When God does not fulfill our prayers as we would like, we must adapt to His plan.

Six: Holding Jesus’ body: Mary embraces Jesus’ body, a body battered, scourged, and pierced. No mother wants to hold her dead child, yet in this sorrow we confront the concreteness of the Incarnation. Mary’s tears over her Son’s torn, lifeless body evoke the horrific suffering and death of this world. We, too, are Mary’s children whom she embraces in our anguish and death. Although we cannot explain why tragedy and cruelty occur, we can trust our holy mother to console us even as we lament the suffering that pervades our world.

Seven: Placing Jesus in the tomb: (Matthew 27:57–61, Mark 15:42–47, Luke 23:50–56, John 19:38–42) Jesus’ body is placed in the tomb, which is closed and sealed. The crucifixion seems so final—no miraculous salvation has occurred—and we can enter Mary’s sorrow as God appears to recede from our sight. We just don’t understand why God allows terrible events to occur, or why our prayers seem to go unheard. We mourn with Mary even as we trust that God will reemerge and that, one day, our understanding might be made full.

The chaplet ends here. We know that Mary’s sorrow ultimately turns to joy; she has to wait another three days, but she again finds her Son. Yet often in this life, we do not get to see the resurrection. Tragedy is simply tragedy, without higher meaning. The Chaplet of Mary’s Seven Sorrows allows us to face this unanswered suffering even as it orients us toward faith and hope. As we reflect on Mary’s sorrows and unite our own suffering to hers, the chaplet binds us together with others and compels us to alleviate others’ pain whenever possible as we journey through this life.

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¹ For more on this apparition, I recommend Immaculée Ilibagiza’s Our Lady of Kibeho.
² Some portrayals, such as that in María de Jesús de Ágreda’s Mystical City of God, show Mary to be fully aware of Jesus’ redemptive sacrifice and coming resurrection. The fact that Mary pondered God’s mysteries in her heart (Luke 2:19, 51), however, suggests that she, too, was discovering God’s plan only as it unfolded.
³ Even if we consider Mary to be Co-redemptrix, she fulfilled this role primarily by her whole-hearted consent to God when the angel Gabriel announced that she would bear Jesus. She suffered with her Son throughout his passion and crucifixion, but any redemptive value that her suffering contained would be completely dependent on Jesus’ sacrifice.