listening

Finding Our Way

sverma15 Community, Dialogue, Dignity, Mission and Ministry, Mission Monday, Relationships
Vincent reflects on corruption of the former queen’s court

In today’s turbulent world of polarizing opinions, how often do we find ourselves residing in echo chambers surrounded by those who think like us? This dynamic offers little opportunity to truly listen to and dialogue with others. What would it take to build bridges to greater understanding across the many divides that separate us today? And, how might a seventeenth-century French priest help us find our way?

As Margaret John Kelly writes, “Vincent de Paul changed history because he was a creative reconciler.”[1] In fact, because he “was able to successfully harness competing interests and make them work together in concrete ways for the service of the poor,” you are reading this reflection today in a university that bears his name and continues to be infused by his spirit.[2]

While Vincent lived more than four hundred years ago, parallels between his time and ours abound. During his lifetime, Vincent witnessed much national and international strife. He lived through the Thirty Years’ War and the civil war known as the Fronde. He also weathered numerous ecclesiastical controversies. Not unlike today, at that time, territorial rights were often the cause of much bloody conflict, and peace was more of a distant dream than a reality.

Seventeenth-century France was also beset by the overwhelming problem of “resettling refugees who were fleeing economic or political oppression, insufficient healthcare for the poor, a high level of unemployment, inadequate housing, and, of course, an astounding rate of malnutrition.”[3]

Like so many others, Vincent could have chosen to ignore the challenges of his age in favor of accepting the status quo, but he refused to accept the brokenness he saw around him. Instead, he committed his life to finding solutions to what may have seemed to be intractable problems. He used his keen imagination and a spirit of inventiveness to build what his heart longed to see: a more just world.

How did he do this? In addition to asking why such complex problems existed, Vincent would call upon the goodwill and wisdom of those around him to address them. Part of Vincent’s genius was that he knew he couldn’t engage these issues alone. He valued relationships and relied upon them to help reveal manifest sides of an issue, which he would have been unable to identify alone. Such a process involved gathering with others, including those with whom he disagreed, and painstakingly listening to diverse opinions with respect and dignity. It also required Vincent’s openness to being wrong. This method allowed Vincent to become more informed and, with others, to identify or create new possibilities.

Vincent’s North Star was always his faith in a loving God who calls for us to recognize and uphold the dignity of the other. Such a belief grounded all Vincent’s actions. Others around him, like Archbishop of Cambrai François de Fénelon, chose to “berat[e] the rich from the pulpit.”[4] But Vincent always insisted on the dignity of all, including royalty and the aristocracy. Rather than “otherizing” those with whom he may have disagreed, Vincent chose to steadfastly uphold the goodness of the human person. He would appeal to that goodness to serve the needs of the most marginalized. Indeed, Vincent’s ability to build bridges with the wealthy allowed him to “capitaliz[e] on their generosity” to serve the poor.[5] Through such networking and creative reconciliation efforts, he established myriad social development ministries, many of which exist to this day.

Today, when the challenges of our time feel overwhelming and risk obscuring the humanity of the other, Vincent’s voice still rings clear, inviting us to work for just and creative reconciliation against division.

Reflection Question:

As Margaret John Kelly notes, “The challenges of our day could lead us to despair or indifference; but we remember that our religious/political/social/economic environment is not unlike the one in which Vincent lived.”[6] These similar circumstances inspired Vincent’s quest for justice and creative reconciliation.

In what ways do you find yourself experiencing this call?

Reflection by: Siobhan O’Donoghue, PhD, Director of Faculty and Staff Engagement, Division of Mission and Ministry

[1] Margaret John Kelly, D.C., “Saint Vincent de Paul: A Creative Reconciler,” Vincentian Heritage Journal 12:1 (1991): 2. Available online at: https://via.library.depaul.edu/vhj/vol12/iss1/6.

[2] Untitled abstract to Kelly, ibid.

[3] Kelly, 4–5.

[4] Ibid., 12.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid., 14.

Leading by Listening

sverma15 Dialogue, Mission and Ministry, Mission Monday , , , ,

Carter Webb: I pride myself on being this great listener, but whenever I meet somebody new, I find I’m doing all the talking.

Sarah Hardwicke: Maybe you’re not a great listener.

Carter Webb: Hmm?

Sarah Hardwicke: Maybe you’re not such a great listener.

Carter Webb: No that’s not it, I’m a great listener.

 

“In the Land of Women” script by Jon Kasdan

 

In “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” Martin Luther King, Jr. famously and compellingly makes the case for nonviolent direct action against injustice to an audience that claims to be sympathetic to the goals of his movement but worried about the discomfort and tension his methods may create. King argues that the purpose of nonviolent direct action is to force attention to an issue that a community seeks to ignore. King further argues that “constructive nonviolent tension” is not something to be feared but is actually “necessary for growth.”1

I have been struck recently in sessions learning from Grace School of Applied Diplomacy Practitioner in Residence Rafael Tyszblat by the emphasis placed on deep listening. This includes paying attention to emotions. Tyszblat is insistent that conflict will necessarily involve emotions and that attempting to suppress or ignore those emotions is not helpful. Listening to those expressions of emotion by others and paying close attention to our own emotions is essential to constructive engagement amid conflict. Those emotions, while they may contribute to tension, if fully engaged rather than suppressed or ignored can teach us a great deal. Tyszblat argues that we are afraid of emotions because of fears they can lead to violence or other great harms, but in fact most often that escalation proceeds from suppressing or ignoring emotions, not from acknowledging and engaging them. Listening is not always easy but may be most important at times when it is most difficult.

A commitment to listening to and hearing others is central to the Vincentian worldview to which we are committed at DePaul. Vincent included meekness or gentleness as one of the primary virtues necessary to those who lived out the Mission.  Vincent’s understanding suggests that honoring the dignity of all leads as much to listening to others as preaching to them, to serving others as much as directing them. We have seen attempts to live out this commitment in recent times through processes of listening and gaining wisdom such as the crafting of the revised Mission statement,2 the Synodal process in the Catholic Church,3 and Designing DePaul.4

Many people feel that they are not truly seen or heard. Our initial response to a reminder about the importance of listening may be “Yes, people should definitely do a better job of listening to me.” People who have been marginalized or ignored in the past may hear calls for them to listen as calls to continue that marginalization. The primary responsibility for fostering a culture of listening must be on those who have power and privilege in any space.

We may see a call directed towards leaders, and think, “Yes, they really need to do better.” That is likely valid, yet everyone in the University community has some kind of privilege, certainly compared to the population of the world. Of course, some enjoy much more than others. The Prophet Muhammad in a famous tradition taught that “Every one of you is a shepherd and is responsible for their flock.”5 We all have spaces where we are in charge, where we are responsible, as a teacher in the classroom or perhaps supervising a student worker. Let us continue to search for ways that we can lead by listening in those spaces, by doing our best to truly hear the experiences, the concerns, and the wisdom of others.

Questions for Reflection:

  • What are essential tools or techniques to being a better listener? What can get in the way of listening to others or make it difficult for us?
  • In our political life, many people express a feeling that their concerns and wishes are not listened to, yet many people also rarely participate in opportunities like public meetings or voting. Sometimes at DePaul there can also be a lot of processes meant to foster listening, but people do not always find participating in them possible or worthwhile. Why do you think that is? What are barriers to meaningful participation? Are there times when lack of participation reflects satisfaction, comfort, or trust in decision makers? Are there creative ways to “listen” to people outside of formal processes in which they may be reluctant to engage?

Reflection by: Abdul-Malik Ryan

———————————————————————————————————————–

1 https://www.csuchico.edu/iege/_assets/documents/susi-letter-from-birmingham-jail.pdf

2 https://resources.depaul.edu/newsline/sections/campus-and-community/Pages/Mission-Statement-review-process-moves-forward.aspx

3 https://resources.depaul.edu/newsline/sections/campus-and-community/Pages/Synodal-gatherings.aspx

4 https://www.designing.depaul.edu/

5 https://www.abuaminaelias.com/dailyhadithonline/2011/07/03/shepherd-flock/

 

Courage Between Silence and Speech

afraser5 Mission Monday , , ,

“Many’s the man lost much just because he missed a perfect opportunity to say nothing.”

From An Cailín Ciúin/The Quiet Girl, based on the novella Foster by Claire Keegan

My personal relationship with silence is complicated. For many years in what was otherwise a happy childhood, I dealt with an overwhelming shyness. I have many memories of desperately wanting to speak but being unable to, whether I was speaking to individuals or groups, even if those people were familiar. This affected my academics, my extracurricular activities and participation, and my relationships with others.

The person I was then could never imagine that I would go on to several careers (law, preaching, and teaching) that would all require frequent public speaking and encounters with new people. I was able to overcome a paralyzing shyness by facing those fears directly and ultimately by having a profound love for my faith, for teaching, and for people. The process of learning to speak has given me two important gifts: the ability to speak up when it is beneficial, but also the ability to choose silence. Choosing to be silent is much different than being unable or afraid to speak, or not being allowed to speak. There is a power in chosen silence.

Many of us are invested in our ability to speak because it provides us with our sense of worth. Being able to speak on demand and having the answers can make us feel special. Indeed, I consider these profound gifts. But I’ve also had to learn to be secure enough to choose silence. To admit when I don’t have the answers. A famous story about the early Muslim scholar Imam Malik b. Anas (711–795 CE) describes a man who journeyed for six months to reach Imam Malik so he could ask about a pressing matter on behalf of his people. The great Imam responded to his question (or in some narrations, to his many questions), “I don’t know.” The man asked him, “What shall I tell my people?” The response came, “Tell them that Imam Malik said, ‘I don’t know.’”[1]

When we have wisdom to share or a perspective to contribute, we should do so. That is a precious gift to our community and to our world. We should not, like my younger self, remain silent out of fear. But perhaps we should not speak out of fear either. We should not speak out of insecurity or the need to say something. Perhaps we can recognize the power of chosen silence. One of the insights of Blessed Frédéric Ozanam was that those who want good for the marginalized must sometimes take a break from lecturing and listen instead: “The knowledge of social well-being and reform is to be learned, not from books, nor from the public platform, but in climbing the stairs to the poor man’s garret, sitting by his bedside, feeling the same cold that pierces him, sharing the secret of his lonely heart and troubled mind.”[2]

The benefits that flow from chosen silence are many. There is a humility in silence, especially in the face of questions. The theologian Ruben Rosario Rodriguez recently visited DePaul and spoke about how the humility to admit what we don’t know or even cannot know can be a key entry point to gaining the trust of those who are a bit cynical about arrogant claims to have all the answers.[3] The humility of chosen silence allows us to listen. To listen to others, to colleagues, to students, to those who have experiences different from our own. To listen to the internal voice of one’s heart. To listen to the signs of creation or to the divine call of Providence.

We often fill silence with noise. Perhaps we do so out of anxiety, but this only leads us to be more anxious and unsettled than ever before. I think of people in the time of Vincent writing a letter and then waiting days, weeks, or longer for a response. We may think we would go out of our minds, but perhaps such a conversation by correspondence would be all the richer for consisting of well-chosen words surrounded by much silence, by much listening and contemplation. Perhaps even when times or our roles may seem to call for (re)action, we can benefit from taking a pause to listen and to reflect, and in a little time, we can find a better way together.

Reflection Questions:

  1. In your own role at DePaul, what are times when you can benefit from silence? What are times that you need the courage to speak?
  2. What are the benefits of silence that you have found in your own professional or personal experience? What is the history of your own relationship with silence?

Reflection by: Abdul-Malik Ryan, Assistant Director Religious Diversity and Pastoral Care and Muslim Chaplain.

[1] Jāmi’ Bayān al-‘Ilm 2/838 as quoted in Abu Amina Elias, “Malik on Knowledge: When to Say I Do Not Know,” at: https://www.abuaminaelias.com/dailyhadithonline/2021/08/06/malik-i-do-not-know/.

[2] Attributed to Ozanam in His Correspondence by Right Reverend Monsignor Louis Baunard. See, Raymond L. Sickinger, Antoine Frédéric Ozanam (Notre Dame Press, 2017), p. 235.

[3] His recent book is Theological Fragments: Confessing What We Know and Cannot Know About an Infinite God (Westminster John Knox Press, 2023), 262 pp.

Listening to East St. Louis

bcicirel Seeds of Mission, Social Justice, Spirituality , , , ,

Catrien Egbert is a student at DePaul University who just returned from a December Vincentian Service Immersion Trip. We close the 2014 blog year with her reflection.

blog pic 3

It has been two weeks, three days, and two hours since I returned home from my week-long service immersion trip to East St. Louis, Illinois, and if I’m being honest I am no closer to being able to put my experience down into words than I was a week ago when I first opened this document and began this reflection.

How do I explain? It begins on December 2nd when I found myself – along with nine others – driving through Illinois and Missouri en route to an unknown city. We knew little about East St. Louis besides the fact that it was formerly an industrial area of middle-class wealth plagued by the loss of industry, jobs, and company investment – now with great poverty and crime.

hubbard blog pic 1

When we arrived at the Hubbard House, we were split into three groups based on daily service locations – a domestic abuse shelter, a soup kitchen/thrift store/afterschool center, and at a Catholic K-8 school (my service location).

Though we were only at our sites for a few days, the welcoming nature of the East St. Louis community and the openness of those involved in our service locations gave our group a sense of purpose and belonging almost immediately. The opportunity to form relationships – both with those we were serving, and with each other – was heightened by the immersive nature of the trip. On the first morning of the trip we were strangers but by that evening we were housemates, cooking together, working out shower schedules, sharing hopes and fears for the upcoming week, and realizing the need for solidarity.

blog pic 2 CROP

Through the week that followed, I felt like I became an honorary member of the community, set apart by privilege but working my best to understand and aid those I met in whatever way I was needed. Even little things – setting up one of the school’s bulletin boards, or grading multiplication tests – played a role in allowing me to do what must be done. Through acts small and large I learned, and every day changed my worldview a little more. Reentry into my “old life” has been a challenge, but in my reacclimation I’ve become aware of just how differently I see things.

I am aware that everything I do now has become a conscious act.

So often before, I’d gone through my life half-asleep, living but not realizing, acting but not experiencing. I noticed it the first time I put on makeup after my week of simplicity – as I combed black mascara through my eyelashes. I was aware driving on the familiar streets of my hometown. I was aware opening Christmas presents. I regard actions I do now with intention.

I saw things so narrowly before, focusing mostly on myself. Now, I feel as though my intentions are different: I’m concerned about helping others and exploring injustices. It’s impossible to change the world with every act, but it is possible to make decisions that better my life and the lives of those around me.

Something that has helped me stay present and intentional comes from an important Vincentian lesson I learned on my trip: the ability to listen.

listen

Before, I never realized how often I don’t really hear what others say. In conversations, I’d let my mind slip to what I thought, or what I was going to say next. In East St. Louis, I became aware of what it really meant to talk to someone. I regarded conversations with intention; I slowed down my thoughts and actions and worked on genuinely considering what others had to say.

In the context of my DePaul team, communal service called for nightly reflections and debriefings and gave me the benefit of perspectives not my own. When I had questions, I’d pose them to my group, and through discussion we came to conclusions by the sharing ideas. The opportunity to have 9 sounding boards made me realize how wonderful the diversity of human thought is. Being without our cell phones for the week helped us to pay attention to each other – not just in reflections, but on a regular basis. “How are you feeling, mentally and physically?” became an inside code, a spoken permission to share thoughts and dreams.

In the context of my service with people in East St. Louis, listening helped me to understand complex themes surrounding areas in need. Poverty, homelessness, abuse, race, socioeconomic class, and corruption are incredibly difficult concepts to grasp. It’s work to see them, but to seek understanding of the systems and community these issues affect is even harder, especially when understanding meant confronting my own ingrained beliefs. What made comprehension possible was listening to experiences.

For me, it involved teaching a second grader – all bright eyes and loving hugs – how to jump rope, and learning from the gym teacher afterwards that she lives with her grandma and 14 other children while her single mother is undergoing rehab. Through my service I was confronted with harsh, disparaging realities – but also pure, uplifting examples of love and family. I found it was important to hear both.

By listening, I allow myself the opportunity to step outside my worldview and consider seeing things through the eyes of someone else. I learned that there is a difference between being a helper and being a “tourist,” and if I am not allowing myself the opportunity to listen and comprehend I can’t truly take anything in. It’s hard to help if I’m seeing things the way I’m used to, by basing what should be done by what I think should be done, by judging based on what I know – which, admittedly, can be very little. As a human being, I am both burdened and blessed by the enormity of experience. Suffering, loss, joy, and triumph are not transferable: there is no way for me to understand what another is enduring. The only way to gain some sense is to listen.

The trip to East St. Louis continues to impact me. I’m constantly testing to see if I remember – what did the houses look like? How did it feel driving through the city streets? What were the names of the children in the classes I worked with? Their names have become a mantra to me, a reminder to try to always have my eyes open, to always be aware of those around me, to always act with purpose and intention, to always challenge inequality and prejudice, to always listen to the stories of others, and to always ask myself the omnipotent Vincentian question: What must be done?

 

 

First three photos courtesy of Catrien. Last photo from http://plusbits.mx/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/Doctor-Who-Listen.jpg