Should we love everybody, or should we love the people closest to us more than we do strangers?

The saintly Fr. Willie Doyle, S.J., captures the complexity of the debate about the ordering and limits of Christian charity in a single letter to his father.

I’m planning on writing something longer on the recent controversy regarding the ordo amoris, the idea that we should order whom we love rather than loving all human beings equally. Vice President Vance used this to explain his differences with a certain sort of liberal globalism, then was accused of not understanding the parable of the Good Samaritan. This began a debate between two camps, each starting from part of the Christian view: Should we love everybody, or should we love the people closest to us more than we do strangers?

But before I write that longer piece, I thought I’d share something from To Raise the Fallen, a collection of the letters of Fr. Willie Doyle, S.J., written to his father from the trenches of World War I, where he served as chaplain to Irish soldiers. I’ve heard about Fr. Doyle for years—his posthumously published writings were influential on Mother Theresa and St. Josemaria Escriva, among others. His cause for canonization was opened recently. I’ve written about him before, because he was a great example of the value of aspirations, praying tens of thousands of these short prayers in order to be constantly aware of God’s presence even while being shelled by German artillery.

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Fr. Doyle did not have to think about whether to love his fellow Irishmen more than the the Germans shooting at them. Nor did he think that he ought to limit his love to the Irish. With the saints’ gift of understanding, Fr. Doyle shows—in just one letter to his father—how to hold both views at the same time:

“Even now I can scarcely think of the scene which followed without trembling with horror. Punctually to the second at 3.10 A.M. there was a deep muffled roar; the ground in front of where I stood rose up, as if some giant had wakened from his sleep and was bursting his way through the earth’s crust, and then I saw seven huge columns of smoke and flames shoot hundreds of feet into the air, while masses of clay and stones, tons in weight, were hurled about like pebbles. I never before realised what an earthquake was like, for not only did the ground quiver and shake, but actually rocked backwards and forwards, so that I kept on my feet with difficulty . . . Before the debris of the mines had begun to fall to earth, the “wild Irish” were over the top of the trenches and on the enemy, though it seemed certain they must be killed to a man by the falling avalanche of clay. Even a stolid English colonel standing near was moved to enthusiasm: “My God!” he said, “what soldiers! They fear neither man nor devil!” Why should they? They had made their peace with God. He had given them his own sacred body to eat that morning, and they were going out now to face death, as only Irish Catholic lads can do, confident of victory and cheered by the thought that the reward of heaven was theirs. . . .” (p. 74)

Note here his national pride at the courage and piety of his fellow Irishmen, who had been oppressed by the English for centuries, and were here impressing the English colonel. These were his lads. He loved his countrymen with a preferential love. But, as a Catholic priest, he also loved his enemy, and when given a chance to minister to German soldiers who had been shooting at him a moment before, he did.

“In a short time the wounded began to come in, and a number of German prisoners, many of them wounded, also. I must confess my heart goes out to these unfortunate soldiers, whose sufferings have been terrific. I can’t share the general sentiment that “they deserve what they get and one better.” For after all, are they not children of the same loving saviour who said: “Whatever you do to one of these my least ones you do it to me.” I try to show them any little kindness I can, getting them a drink, taking off the boots from smashed and bleeding feet, or helping to dress their wounds, and more than once I have seen the eyes of these rough men fill with tears as I bent over them, or felt my hand squeezed in gratitude.” (p. 75)

Without citing Augustine or Aquinas, Fr. Doyle gets the answer right—you love everyone with charity; you love those closer to you with other kinds of love (friendship, familial love, national love); you love those for whom you are pastorally responsible with pastoral charity; and you help all those whom God has placed in your path, even your enemies, because Jesus is in them.

To Raise the Fallen, is an amazing book in at least two ways. First, as you can see from the quotes above, it is brilliantly written, giving vivid descriptions of life on the front lines. These letters, quickly dashed off between battles, could compete with that of a first class embedded professional reporter. (We forget how literate people used to be before the advent of television and social media!) More importantly, Fr. Doyle communicates the supernatural virtues of a saint. He suffers the horrors of war with a sense of humor and a sense of his divine calling. He puts himself in danger to anoint the dying and bring them viaticum. He pushes himself to the point of exhaustion, so that the boys dying around him can have their sins forgiven and go to heaven. More than once, I have stopped reading and thought, We should canonize this guy, now.

I highly recommend reading To Raise the Fallen this Lent.