scrooge

“We are made, and in turn we make.”
—Belle, in A Christmas Carol

My husband and I had the great fortune of spending Christmas in London, and, just in case Christmas in London wasn’t Christmassy enough, we saw A Christmas Carol at the Old Vic. Perhaps you know it from reading Charles Dickens’ famous book or seeing one of the many film or stage adaptations: the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge is warned by the ghost of his business partner of the arrival of three spirits who would offer him a chance to change his ways, and, forced to see what he couldn’t or wouldn’t previously, his heart grew three sizes when he realized that stealing the presents from all of Whoville wouldn’t stop George Bailey from pasting Zuzu’s petals. Oh wait…maybe I’ve mixed up my plots, but what Scrooge, the Grinch, and George Bailey do share is the experience of profound personal transformation, and through stories like these, popular culture tells us that this is the true meaning of Christmas. 

I was introduced to Ebenezer Scrooge as a kid at the Goodman Theater’s annual production in Chicago, and while I don’t remember much from the story (I was probably 10), I do remember the vivid if idealized portrait of 19th century London and the ivy-garlanded, Bacchus-like ghost of Christmas-present. I also remember conversations around color-blind casting for the play–it was the 80s, and still a novel and brave move for a theater company, but people seemed overly confused by it. Over time, I’d seen various film versions, and I’ve a soft spot in my heart for the Muppets’ turn at telling the story, with Michael Caine inhabiting the old miser and Kermit and Robin the Frog as Bob and Tiny Tim Cratchett, but it’s not a story I seek out. I’m a sucker for stories about personal transformation, but I’ve grown tired of the archetype that Scrooge has become. I mean, really, do we need another portrait of a straight, cis, White guy unhappy with what the world has given to him? 

I’d seen the Old Vic production last year, while traveling with my sisters, and I was struck then by the production’s innovative staging and its fluid integration of music and dance, deftly and delicately used to tap audience members’ heartstrings. This time, while still dazzled by the set, the performances, and the Christmas AF of it all, I was struck by the production’s emphasis on the social analysis at the heart of Dickens’ story. Emphasis isn’t really the right word–excavation is more to the point. Very much unlike other productions and adaptations I’ve encountered, the Old Vic production cracks open the character of Ebenezer Scrooge and explores his agency, both in his own life and in the world he profits from. This helped me to see that Scrooge’s transformation isn’t just a sudden and spontaneous burst of generosity or the result of some spell cast by three magic spirits–it was the result of hard work done by Scrooge himself to shed the layers that society and trauma and fear and pain shrouded him with over the course of his lifetime. The biggest revelation–to Scrooge and to the audience–isn’t his suddenly restored humanity but his ability to see others’ humanity and the ensuing desire to uplift their dignity. 

One of the most compelling aspects of Catholic Social Teaching for me is the emphasis on human dignity and the call to recognize it. This leads, at least in Catholic teaching, to the “preferential option for the poor,” a principle intended to guide Catholics in moral discernment. In short: when given two options, pick the one that benefits the poor. Pope Francis explained it this way in February 2020: 

Dialogue must not only favor the preferential option on behalf of the poor, the marginalized and the excluded, but also respect them as having a leading role to play. Others must be acknowledged and esteemed precisely as others, each with his or her own feelings, choices and ways of living and working. Otherwise, the result would be, once again, “a plan drawn up by the few for the few,” if not “a consensus on paper or a transient peace for a contented minority.’ Should this be the case, “a prophetic voice must be raised,” and we as Christians are called to make it heard.

Francis has stumbled often during his tenure, but he has given life to this principle in major ways. He famously refused the elegant papal apartments and chose to live in more modest housing in the Vatican. His famous “Who am I to judge?” was just the start of his attempts to shift the Church’s tone when talking to and about LGBTQ Catholics, most profoundly (to me) leading to the blessing (if not sacramental marriage) of same-sex unions. And last week, the world learned that he appointed a woman as head of a Vatican dicastery (it’s like an administrative department, sorta parallel to Cabinet-level leadership in US government). This is a major first, one that he’d been working toward since his elevation in 2013–not just that a woman is leading in the Roman Curia but that Cardinals now report to a woman. For some of us, this is a very, very satisfying change and a signal that progress is–finally–on the horizon. 

His papacy and even how he handles these major shifts haven’t been perfect, but the biggest disappointment for me isn’t Francis: it’s Catholics who, even after more than a decade of Francis’ stewardship, seem to be deaf to the calls to social justice at the heart of the gospels and Church teaching. Have the Catholics on the Supreme Court or in Congress even heard of this principle, or of Catholic Social Teaching in general? In case you haven’t, here’s a quick primer: at the end of the 19th century, in response to the rapid industrialization of the planet and even more rapidly expanding chasm between rich and poor and subjugation of the working class and marginalized groups, the Church articulated new teachings that dug into the gospels for guidance to respond to this new world that come down to seven principles: Life and dignity of the human person; Call to family, community, and participation; Rights and responsibilities; Option for the poor and vulnerable (my focus here); Dignity of work and the rights of workers; Solidarity; and Care for God’s creation. Catholics obsessed with abortion find great inspiration in the first and third principles, but they seem to forget the rest. 

In the 1990s, Joseph Cardinal Bernardin, then archbishop of Chicago, articulated a life-ethic with the metaphor of the seamless garment (drawn from gospel depictions of the cloak Jesus wore before he was executed). There is no difference, he argued, between the rights of the unborn and the born–guided by these teachings, we are called to uplift the dignity of people at all stages of life, not just its preamble. A “pro-life” ethic that only focuses solely on abortion is not “pro-life” at all. A true “pro-life” ethic attends to the conditions that lead to abortion and prioritizes the humanity of people who have to make difficult choices. A true “pro-life” ethic gives equal consideration to capital punishment, poverty, persecution, the rights of workers, equity, and the degradation of the natural environment. The goal shouldn’t be condemnation but invitation; it should proceed not with punishment but compassion. For this, he was mocked and condemned, even by his fellow bishops. I think of Bernardin as a kind of predecessor to Francis–instead of vitriol and condemnation toward a smaller, more faithful Church, the strategy of John Paul II and his chief henchman Cardinal Ratzinger, aka Benedict XVI, Bernardin sought common ground and invited the voices of the marginalized to his table. Despite his efforts, American Catholicism seems to have veered to the right in its theology and politics, ignoring the trampled dignity of immigrants, of persecuted minorities, of prisoners sent for execution, of queer people, of workers and patients ignored by bosses and insurers. 

I still identify as Catholic, but I’ve drifted from Catholic practice largely because of this shift. In my heart, and according to my conscience, I’m still in good standing with Christ, but I’m disappointed by the Church. And I don’t mean just the popes and bishops who are meant to be shepherds, not tyrants. I don’t mean just the rabid activists who target the most vulnerable in some quest for social-spiritual purity. And I don’t mean just elected officials who use their faith identity as a political prop but whose actions show no trace of Jesus’ powerful teachings in the Sermon on the Mount, none of his compassion for the poor and excluded. I also mean the Catholics still filling the pews who aren’t questioning Church leaders’ narrow focus, who don’t agitate for inclusion, who close their eyes and cover their ears to the cries of the poor and marginalized. These are the Scrooges for whom I pray. I hope they can open their hearts to the hard work of shedding the layers that society and trauma and fear and pain shrouded them with, that their ability to see others’ humanity–especially the ones suffering from their votes, ignorance, and inaction–their ability to see my humanity–might grow three sizes and inspire them to uplift each person’s dignity before it’s too late.