Happy Feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola

To life!

Today is July 31. For most of you reading this, that’s just another summer Wednesday. But for every Jesuit around the world, and many of those who they work with or serve, this is basically the Fourth of July, or maybe Christmas (but without Santa and gifts). Because on this day, in 1556, St. Ignatius, the spiritual founder of the Jesuits, died.

And so everywhere around the world today, Jesuits will be gathered having big feasts. In some places they’ll have cooked it themselves (always my favorite); in others their staffs will put on the dog, as it were—steak and lobster, baked potatoes, delicious desserts, the best booze, and maybe cigars afterwards. (That part always baffled me.)

At Loyola Marymount where I used to live they might have 70 or 80 Jesuits from all over the city and elsewhere in their backyard, their laughter and some low-key music floating out over the nearby cliffs while the sun slowly sets over the Pacific.

Beforehand there will have been a Mass for the whole community. Often the superior would preside. He might offer some thoughtful words, or someone else in the house would. There was always something a little thrilling about that, I realize now. I always looked forward to hearing what the homilist would have to say on St. Ignatius Day, what fresh insight they might offer into this somewhat mysterious man that had come to mean so much to me, or our somewhat mysterious life. Maybe it’s like a State of the Union moment, in the sense that it was a chance to step back and take a beat, bring our lives as Jesuits into conversation with the world in which we found ourselves.  

At least for me, there really were so few moments in the year where I had that same level of receptivity, hunger even to hear something new or more about this life that we led, and maybe also an openness to just taking delight in our life, the companionship that we shared.

My life is pretty different at this point, to say the least. But sitting here this afternoon as I think of my friends just across Central Park or just “down the street” in Chelsea, or I think of the chapel at the Loyola Marymount community, which was such a beautiful, simple space, one that naturally made you feel like you were in the presence of God; or I think of my Jesuit friends in Australia sipping Sevenhill wine and probably eating lamb, or in a hundred other places; or I think of the many women and men that I’ve gotten to know and work with in the Jesuits over the decades, I find myself filled with gratitude. I hope they all have a very happy feast, that they’re fed well and filled with delight.

And to those of  you for whom Ignatius or the Jesuits are special, I wish you the very happiest of days as well.*  

*And to those of you who have no idea who that is, There’s this book called the Autobiography of St. Ignatius of Loyola, which in fact is not an autobiography but the recollections of Father Luis Gonzalez de Camara, a Spanish Jesuit who had basically been dragooned by the PR team of the Society of Jesus to try and get Ignatius to finally tell his story, so that they could use it to recruit men (and probably money), and also to help further the cause of his sainthood after he died.

It’s a fantastic and often hilarious 70ish pages. On the one hand, you have the present-day story of an old man who absolutely does not want to sit down and tell his life story—no doubt in part because he knows what the PR team is doing and he wants no part of it—and the young guy who absolutely admires him and has to deal with the fact that he’s kind of a crotchedy dude.

And on the other, you have Ignatius’ own story, which is by turns vastly redacted by those PR guys—there is no mention of past relationships, though Ignatius was very clearly into the idea of being a courtly knight and lived that life until he was 30; and truly bonkers at others. He has visions of a shimmering snake that may or may not be the devil; he refuses to wear shoes or take care of himself; at one point he would scream all night because he was worried about whether he hadn’t made a good confession. (The monks he lived with were not fans.)

Also he changes his name at one point—his actual name is Iñigo—and he never explains it.

It’s wild and weird and yet also somehow kind of inspiring? Check it out.