The Jesuit Pope

The first Jesuit Pope is gone.

Like my father, I was taught by Jesuits. At Loyola High School in Montreal, Jesuit priests were not just teachers to generations of Roman Catholic boys – they were giants, men who reshaped our lives, pushing us towards changing society, and not merely being part of it.

The Society of Jesus, as it is called, is different than any other Catholic religious order. Within the Church, Jesuits have for centuries relentlessly advocated for education, research and scientific truth. Within our poor Irish Catholic family, my father became the first doctor – and I the first lawyer.

The Jebs, as my father called them, were the ones who taught us about the labour movement, about emancipation of the poor, about pushing always for government to become a force of good in the lives of all people – whether Catholic or not.

Francis became the first Jesuit Pope, improbably, twelve years ago. For those of us who had been taught by Jesuits, his ascension in Rome was a shock and a promise. The Church, we hoped, would finally embrace modernity and progress: the ordination of women, the open acceptance of LGBTQ Catholics, the abandonment of doctrinaire policies that had driven millions away from the Church.

He changed some things, but was often foiled by traditionalist forces within the Church. But always, Francis displayed the Jesuitical commitment to positive change and moving forward, and a Church that was not just a retrograde, antediluvian institution mired in the past.

He was a teacher before he became a Pope, lecturing on philosophy and psychology at high schools and universities. He loved the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, CS Lewis, and TS Eliot. And he was unwavering in his commitment to teaching throughout his life.

How proud we were of him! He practiced what he preached, always. Staying at a hotel during the papal enclave that elected him, and paying his own bill. Moving around the Vatican in an old Ford. And – most of all – being the voice of the world’s poor, always urging world leaders to improve the circumstances of the ones who lived with hunger and powerlessness.

To be taught by Jesuits – at Loyola in Montreal, at St. Mary’s in Halifax, at Campion College in Regina, Fordham in New York City, Georgetown in Washington, Gonzaga in Washington State (where I was offered a spot at their law school) – was to receive one of the best educations one could get, anywhere in the world. Going back to their founding by Saint Ignatius in the 1500s, Jesuit educators became known as “the Soldiers of God.”

They would go anywhere to teach and serve – often to the poorest, most dangerous places. They became known for always pushing for change – angering some in power, and leading to their official suppression in the 1700s. But they would be back in the 1800s, their commitment to social change unchecked.

President Bill Clinton, Senator John Kerry, Mexican President Vicente Fox, White House Chief of Staff Alexander Haig, Dr. Anthony Fauci, French President Charles de Gaulle, Finance Minister Jim Flaherty, Pierre Trudeau at Jean-de-Brebeuf and now Prime Minister Mark Carney at St.  Francis Xavier in Edmonton: through the Centuries, those given a Jesuitical education were urged to advocate for a better future within government, law, journalism and education.

In school, Jesuits like Francis taught us about labour leaders like Cesar Chavez, Watergate reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, and – of course – Saint Ignatius, who famously said: “Give me the child until he is seven and I will show you the man.”

But Francis’ order didn’t just educate Catholic boys. At Loyola, I had Jewish and Muslim classmates, and we were expected to learn and know their faiths and traditions, too. At other Jesuit institutions – not quite yet Loyola High in those days – girls were taught, as well. U.S. Senators Lisa Murkowski, Catherine Masto and Mazie Hirono were all educated by Jesuits.

Nudging their students towards public life was a constant theme in Francis’ order. When my parents made the decision to build a new life in Calgary – far from the language wars then roiling Montreal – my mother told Father Francis O’Brien, my history teacher. Father O’Brien looked disappointed.

“That’s too bad,” he said to my mother. “We had plans for your son.”

That, perhaps, was the best articulation of the philosophy of the Jesuits, and their greatest alumni, Pope Francis: they were teachers, always pushing their students towards change. They had plans for us.

We are unlikely to see the likes of the Jesuit named Francis again in our lifetimes. May God bless and keep him, always.