Te llamaremos compañero, hermano y amigo

Al nuevo Superior General
Trigésimo primer sucesor de San Ignacio de Loyola

Te llamaremos compañero, hermano y amigo

Te llamaremos compañero, porque la misión exige que trabajemos en equipo. Sin protagonismos ni liderazgos malsanos. Libres de toda presunción y vanagloria. Con la mirada limpia y honesta. Sin temor a equivocarnos.

“(…) Ven si para ti el servicio a Cristo es el centro de tu vida. Ven si tienes unas espaldas anchas suficientemente fuertes, un espíritu abierto, una mente razonablemente abierta, y un corazón más grande que el mundo. Ven si sabes ser bromista y reírte con otros y… en ocasiones, reírte de ti mismo”. (Pedro Arrupe, S.J.)

Te llamaremos hermano, porque estamos dispuestos a comprender tus limitaciones y a enorgullecernos de tus aciertos. Podrás contar con nosotros en tus momentos de profunda tristeza y decepción.

“Tomad, Señor, y recibid toda mi libertad, mi memoria, mi entendimiento y toda mi voluntad, todo mi haber y mi poseer. Vos me lo distes, a Vos, Señor, lo torno; todo es vuestro, disponed a toda vuestra voluntad; dadme vuestro amor y gracia, que ésta me basta.” (EE 234, Ignacio de Loyola)

Te llamaremos amigo, porque si de predicar la caridad se trata, debemos vivirla primero, en comunidad, entre amigos.

El 24 de julio de 1537, Ignacio escribió desde Venecia una carta a Juan de Verdolay, de la cual dice uno de los párrafos:
“De París llegaron aquí, mediado enero, nueve amigos míos en el Señor, todos maestros en artes y asaz versados en teología, los cuatro de ellos españoles, dos franceses, dos de Saboya y uno de Portugal, los cuales todos, pasando por tantas afrentas de guerras y caminos largos a pie y en la fuerza del invierno (…)”.

Ad maiorem Dei gloriam

© Francisco Díaz, S.J.

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2 respuestas a Te llamaremos compañero, hermano y amigo

  1. Francisco Diaz dijo:

    Qué excelso contraste de pensamientos, originados en la vivencia ignaciana de tu propia vida.

    Me gusta

  2. Ana Isabel Garcia dijo:

    Permitame compartir este cuento que me gusta mucho, me lo enviaron de ESPACIO SAGRADO.

    Sartre’s Christmas Play – a Message from Fr. Paul Andrews

    Here is a piece of spiritual writing that has meant a lot to me; it is from Barjona by Jean-Paul Sartre, the existentialist philosopher and playwright. In the autumn of 1940 the Nazis captured and deported Sartre, to a concentration camp in Germany. Before Christmas, a Jesuit fellow- prisoner, Paul Feller, persuaded Jean-Paul to write a nativity play for the French Christians who shared his captivity. Sartre, baptised a Catholic, was by this time a declared atheist. Writing a Christmas play ran against the grain. But as a gesture of solidarity with his French fellow-prisoners, he wrote Barjona, Jeu scénique en six tableaux.

    To my knowledge the play was never published in Sartre’s lifetime. He presumably saw it as a jeu d’esprit, like a piece written for a Christmas party among friends. As an atheist and existentialist, he would not appreciate its location in a spiritual setting. However, the play is of such searing beauty that whenever I have quoted it, people have looked for the text and marvelled.

    Barjona is the headman of a village near Bethlehem at the time of Jesus’ birth. He is a Sartre-like figure, a strong man consumed by existentialist despair. The villagers are starving and powerless under the yoke of Rome, and he cannot help them. In the play he has just persuaded his fellow villagers into a joint pact that they will bring no more children into the world, in protest against the oppression of Rome and the silence of God. Then the Magi enter, following a star. Barjona abuses them as doting, deluded old men, and points to the misery of the crowd who had gathered, torn between despair and hope.

    However, the villagers follow the Magi to Bethlehem in search of the new-born King. Barjona, determined to eliminate this illusion before it catches the imagination of his friends, takes a short cut over the mountains to Bethlehem, where he plans to kill the baby. There is a gap in the text – Sartre’s note reads: Il manque trois pages – and when it resumes Barjona is on his knees, watching from the shadows as the villagers gather in the stable. Sartre will not describe a conversion, but he leaves the door open for hope. Barjona, his fellow-villagers and the Magi kneel round the manger, and a narrator describes what they see.

    (The translation below is by the author.) The Virgin is pale, and she looks at the baby. What I would paint on her face is an anxious wonderment, such as has never before been seen on a human face. For Christ is her baby, flesh of her flesh, and the fruit of her womb. She has carried him for nine months, and she will give him her breast, and her milk will become the blood of God. There are moments when the temptation is so strong that she forgets that he is God. She folds him in her arms and says: My little one.

    But at other moments she feels a stranger, and she thinks: God is there – and she finds herself caught by a religious awe before this speechless God, this terrifying infant. All mothers at times are brought up sharp in this way before this fragment of themselves, their baby. They feel themselves in exile at two paces from this new life that they have created from their life, and which is now peopled by another’s thoughts. But no other baby has been so cruelly and suddenly snatched from his mother, for he is God, and he surpasses in every way anything that she can imagine. It is a hard trial for a mother to be ashamed of herself and her human condition before her son.

    But I think that there are other rapid, fleeting moments when she realises at once that Christ is her son, her very own baby, and that he is God. She looks at him and thinks: “This God is my baby. This divine flesh is my flesh. He is made from me. He has my eyes, and the curve of his mouth is the curve of mine. He is like me. He is God and he is like me.”

    No other woman has been lucky enough to have a God for herself alone, a tiny little God whom she can take in her arms and cover with kisses, a warm-bodied God who smiles and breathes, a God that she can touch, who is alive. And it is in these moments that I would paint Mary, if I was a painter, and I would try to capture the air of radiant tenderness and timidity with which she lifts her finger to touch the sweet skin of her baby-God, whose warm weight she feels on her knees, and who smiles.

    So much for Jesus and for the Virgin Mary.

    And Joseph? I would not paint Joseph. I would show no more than a shadow at the back of the stable, and two shining eyes. For I do not know what to say about Joseph, and Joseph does not know what to say about himself. He adores, and is happy to adore, and he feels himself slightly out of it. I believe he suffers without admitting it. He suffers because he sees how much this woman whom he loves resembles God; how she is already at the side of God. For God has burst like a bomb into the intimacy of this family. Joseph and Mary are separated for ever by this explosion of light. And I imagine that all through his life Joseph will be learning to accept this. That is how Joan-Paul Sartre, a male, an ex-Christian, a prisoner in a labour camp, saw the Holy Family. Is it surprising that at the end he returned to his baptismal faith?

    The typescript came my way in 1951 – from a French fellow-student in Munich. Paul Feller had given him a copy. Our life in Munich was Spartan. I was cold, hungry (the basic diet was still potatoes and turnips), and, as an isolated Irishman, lonely. I needed hope, not as a theological virtue, but as an existential experience, to help me trust that there was something beyond this stark and loveless existence.

    We put on Barjona as a radio play that Christmas. It was not like spiritual books which spoke from a faith too comfortable and unquestioning. I responded to Sartre when he described the Incarnation: a god who would submit to learning this taste of salt at the bottom of our mouths when the whole world abandons us. This was philosophy from the guts, not the head. It gave me spiritual sustenance when I needed it most. It has stood to me in bad times since then. Thank you for the excuse to recall it.

    – Paul Andrews

    Me gusta

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