Where have all the prophets gone?

by Gail Rajala Hayden

French theologian and social critic Jacques Ellul

“Having accepted the God of Jesus Christ, I affirm he is our only recourse in the face of Technique.”

The above words were spoken by a French theologian and social critic named Jacques Ellul, who died in 1994 at the age of 82. I would think, given the nature of his discourse, death must have come as a relief.

The word “Technique,” as Ellul is thought to have construed its use, serves to define the “powers and principalities” that govern all of us in our human efforts to live out our lives, be it in a cell, a monastery, a village, the global earth, or if you will, the proverbial chasm between Heaven and Hell. This chasm between Heaven and Hell has been around for such a long time it makes me tired. It is the granddaddy of all wildernesses and it is forever, always cropping up wherever good guys gather to reflect.

Ellul’s struggle, set in the time he lived, was to take Karl Marx’ s discourse on social existence and compare it and contrast it with the teachings of his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. No small task … Must have been a little controversial. Do ya think? These days, in some circles, even the word “Lord” is politically charged. A friend of mine thinks it sounds too much like landlord, and because the word landlord throughout history, (i.e. the British landlords in Ireland during the potato famine) was associated with monstrous abuses of power, she elects to use it less and less in her spiritual vocabulary. Such is her context, not mine, but I take it into consideration as I struggle to find my words.

My context, this article, places me in a wilderness. To walk through this wilderness, begin at the gymnasium doors of the Church of St. Stephen School at 22nd and Clinton. Once upon a time it bustled with activity every Sunday morning at 9 a.m. You’ll find it quiet now. Traverse east from there, past the vulnerable Peace House (which is threatened by developers and is my spiritual home). Reach the outer boundary in the ballroom of Park House at 21st and Park. If you are lucky enough to happen by at 9 on Sunday, these days, you’ll be glad you did. It’s quite active inside. This very route getting here was recently followed by a band of bold and merry pilgrims, although I noticed some wept. They sought a new place to worship. I was part of that processional. I came to join them after being gone for a couple of years. I needed to support them in my own way.

First, I had to learn what was going on. They had been asked to conform to the age-old requirements of the Mass. Language is powerful. For example, some people see bread as bread. Respectfully, I know of others, who upon eating it once it has been consecrated by an ordained priest, now consider it flesh. This is very important to them. It is an important part of how they identify themselves, and it is the very important way they believe the Christ whose cross they choose to carry, asked to be identified. This is but one item on a shelf filled with beautiful, time-honored holy relics. I write metaphorically, as I struggle to compose passages that might serve as further walkways to connect me back and forth to bands of friends pulling apart. An archbishop I hold in very high regard, a wise man who has often inspired me, Archbishop Harry Flynn, wrote February 29, 2008, in a letter to the St. Stephen parishioners and community members, that the 9 a.m. worship service must be discontinued on Sundays so that on the “Lord’ s Day” any liturgical service, described as the Mass and sacraments, at St. Stephen would be celebrated in accord with the General Instruction of the Roman Missal (GIRM). Thus a new Diaspora was born.
The writer Robert Ellsberg in his book “All Saints” wrote that the French theologian Jacques Ellul [see opening quote] was considered one of the great Christian prophets of the 20th century. He described him as “truly a voice crying in the wilderness.” Robert Ellsberg would know of such cries, for it was his very own earthly father, Daniel Ellsberg, who altered the course of history when he released the Pentagon Papers three decades ago. Right now, I cock my ear to listen for the voice of another wilderness wanderer, Archbishop Harry Flynn. I hear him. At least I think I do. I imagine hearing him cry, “Work with me!” Work with me, too. Does anybody else hear it that way? Could we allow that he seeks not to oppress, but perhaps to sustain?

He writes in his own words that the incomparable programs and ministries that the parishioners and community member s… “the friend’s of St. Stephen” have created, dedicated decades to, indeed some of them, their lives, will not be altered. The schedule and format on Sunday, however, will.

Many of these friends are my friends too. They are like angels whose feathers are ruffling more than is comfortable. I ache for them. I feel their anguish. I want to line up shoulder to shoulder with them. I also agree with a new friend of mine, a priest, that this is not a good time for polarization. He was ordained during a tempestuous year in the heart of Vatican II. Priests, nuns, and many of the faithful left the Church. It was hard on him. Polarization, as he says, is grim.