‘Where Christ plays’: on what it means to be a Catholic school

I first met Sr Clarita when she was 100 years old. Her bright hazel eyes and genuine smile were a warm welcome. I was 29 and the newly appointed principal at Our Lady of Victory primary school in urban Chicago.

Sr Clarita had been principal until the mid 1980s and even though nearly two decades had passed since then, Sister still had the keys to every building. In the afternoons, she used to make her way through the corridors, with her hands clasped behind her back, inspecting around the corners and into the classrooms. At the end of her rounds, Sister would always stop by my office and give a little word of encouragement or pass on some time-tested wisdom about how a Catholic school should run.

When Sr Clarita was 101, she called one afternoon with a request: ‘The neighboring parish has asked me to give the talk after Mass in support of the Fund for Retired Religious,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say. Come over and help me write something.’

We met, and the next Sunday Sister stood in front of the congregation and said, ‘Good morning. My name is Sr Clarita Langenfeld. I am 101 years old. I am the full-time sacristan at Our Lady of Victory parish. Please give to the Fund for Retired Religious so that I can retire.’

I called Sister the following week to see how things went. ‘I received a standing ovation after every Mass,’ she said. No doubt the parishioners were reaching for their wallets as they stood to acknowledge the long service and dedication of this remarkable woman.

Sr Clarita’s was the story of tens of thousands of women who entered religious life in their early teens, received initial formation and a teaching or nursing license, then spent the balance of their lives in service, out on mission. Two years in one town, six years in another, teacher, principal, nurse, local superior, librarian.

To commemorate her first century on earth, the members of the parish had a documentary made about her life. It premiered at the neighborhood theatre complete with a champagne reception and a red-carpet welcome. Sister arrived in a black stretch limousine and was welcomed by a jubilant crowd. We settled into our seats to watch the story of Sr Clarita’s life. Hers was the story of tens of thousands of women who entered religious life in their early teens, received initial formation and a teaching or nursing license, then spent the balance of their lives in service, out on mission. Two years in one town, six years in another, teacher, principal, nurse, local superior, librarian.

In many ways, my story follows a familiar line.

I grew up in Kansas City, home of the Kansas City Chiefs, who after a 50-year hiatus, have recently climbed to the top of the NFL. I am the fourth of five children. Our family attended Sunday Mass, but we were not particularly pious. My parents are both deceased, but our family is still close. Leaving them to enter the convent was and continues to be one of the greatest sacrifices of my life.

Our home was adjacent to about 800 acres of wood, and as kids we spent much of our time playing, building forts, swimming in the lake and generally running about. Later we would tease our parents that they raised us with benign neglect. It was a different time, quite different from the highly monitored parenting of today.

St Catherine’s, our parish and parish school, was the centre of everything: school, friends, sports and lots of social events. Like many Catholic parishes in those days, the priests and people tried their best to navigate the challenges of a post–Vatican II age.

When I was about six years old, the sisters left the school one summer over a dispute with the parish priest and never returned. They were loved by the community, and it was a traumatic moment for the parish. If I had any notion of being a sister before then, the disappointment and confusion of those days extinguished that flame. But years later, studying at university, I became restless inside and unsatisfied with life. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I decided to visit a few convents with the intention of ticking that box so I could move on and get married. But clearly, the Lord had other plans!

The vow of obedience carries with it mobility and a willingness to go wherever and do whatever is asked ... and this has led to many opportunities, a few challenges and the chance to trust more deeply in the Lord’s goodness and providential care in the great and small things of life.

I visited the convent of the Dominican Sisters of Saint Cecilia in Nashville, Tennessee, on a bright day in May 1988. Immediately I had the overwhelming sense that I was home. I knew next to nothing about consecrated life, St Dominic or the community I was about to enter. Back then, the community was relatively small, about 140 sisters. The community has more than doubled since I entered, and I can say that the same joy I experienced when I first met the sisters in 1988 remains and is as vibrant and palpable as it was more than 30 years ago.

One of the vows consecrated men and women profess is the vow of obedience. This means that we go where we are sent and remain for as long as we are asked to stay. This vow is in imitation of Christ, who was obedient to the Father’s will in all things. We go where we are sent—in my life, this has meant Denver, Chicago, Virginia, Birmingham, Washington DC, Nashville, Sydney and now Melbourne. The vow of obedience carries with it mobility and a willingness to go wherever and do whatever is asked. Over the years, my superiors have seen in me things that I would not have seen in myself, and this has led to many opportunities, a few challenges and the chance to trust more deeply in the Lord’s goodness and providential care in the great and small things of life.

Like Sr Clarita and so many others before me, I have taught every year level from Year 3 to university students, served as a primary and secondary school principal, academic dean, and president of a small college (university). But as I look back on my life as a Dominican Sister, what comes to mind is not place names and positions, but moments of encounter: of taking a group of Year 12 students on retreat and teaching them how to pray morning prayer atop a craggy mountain in Colorado, of spending an afternoon with a group of African American girls in Audubon Park in New Orleans, just a few miles from the government projects where they lived, so they could experience the beautiful swans or any bird that wasn’t a pigeon; of welcoming hard working parents in Chicago to adore Christ in the middle of the night as we kept vigil for their children who were on retreat; of sitting with a mother at the kitchen table as we worked through the funeral arrangements for her daughter who had taken her life that morning; of cooking breakfast over a campfire for university students on an end-of-semester retreat in Tennessee; of countless excursions, camps and, most recently, a blessed opportunity to accompany a group of teachers and leaders to Rome, Siena and Assisi as part of the MACS Inspired Leaders Program.

Our vow of obedience carries with it mobility, and most recently this has led me and two sisters from our Dominican community to the western side of the Archdiocese, to serve at St Bernard’s Primary School in Bacchus Marsh.

Every day when I cross the gates that lead into the property, I invoke the Lord’s authority upon our students, staff and families and entrust this mission and the day’s work to his care.

St Bernard’s is a pioneer school that traces its origins back to 1851. Like the great medieval academies of Aachen and Paris, St Bernard’s School existed literally within the church, and with time grew physically from the church’s side. One of the strategic priorities in the Melbourne Archdiocese Catholic Schools 2024 Catholic Mission and Identity plan is for the schools to ‘enhance relationships with local Church and Parish Clergy’. In the Catholic Church, the parish church and school have always existed together as an integrated whole. Many of the first Catholic schools in our Archdiocese were borne from the side of parish church, and the close collaboration of priests, principals and teachers has contributed to the Catholic formation of youth in both the sacred and secular realms. This collaboration still remains the most effective way to inspire others with a supernatural vision, communicate a truly Christian anthropology, cultivate an animated Christian community, instill a love of wisdom and truth, and witness to a way of life that transcends and restores all things in Christ.

St Bernard’s School is nestled on a hill near the centre of the old part of town. The entire property could be considered a third-class relic of St Mary MacKillop, as she stayed there many times on her way to Adelaide or for a rest at the convent on the property. I love the idea that St Bernard’s is a place where a saint came to rest. Not too long ago, the last person who remembered receiving handmade lollies from St Mary as a child passed away. Our parish church would have been about 15 years old when she sat in the pews and looked at the same beautiful stained-glass windows. Visitors to the school always remark on how peaceful it is. I think St Mary might have something to do with that. Every day when I cross the gates that lead into the property, I invoke the Lord’s authority upon our students, staff and families and entrust this mission and the day’s work to his care.

Some of our teachers who have come from schools outside of MACS speak of experiencing healing and restoration, of themselves and their vocation as teachers ... Our Catholic schools have something to offer that no money can buy.

I have been the principal of St Bernard’s for two years. After 20 years in secondary and tertiary education, it is a delight to be with little people again. Many days I feel like the Mayor of Munchkin City. I had forgotten how much laughter there is in a primary school. Our staff and families are open, friendly and supportive of one another.

In the two years we have introduced the celebration of feast days to the students and staff, created religion lessons from the To Know, Worship and Love texts and incorporated art, music and a variety of ways for students to respond. The lessons are designed for student learning but also to support our teachers, who are excellent in themselves but many of whom have minimal formation in the Catholic faith.

A few months ago, I was in my office and a call came through from a Year 4 teacher who had recently come to St Bernard’s from the state system. The teacher said, ‘Hi. I know you are in a meeting but … we’re in the middle of the Trinity right now and I’m getting some curly questions.’ I laughed and said, ‘Wow. This sounds like a Trinitarian emergency.’ She said, ‘It is! Can you come right away?’ It was the highlight of my week. Some of our teachers who have come from schools outside of MACS speak of experiencing healing and restoration, of themselves and their vocation as teachers, after a few months at St Bernard’s.

Our Catholic schools have something to offer that no money can buy. Just as the Body of Christ, offered upon the altar of hundreds of churches throughout this Archdiocese each day, exerts its own mystical influence, so Catholic schools in their own way exert their own mystical influence on their communities. Catholic schools must be centres of excellence, but first and foremost they must be places of encounter with Christ, who is the reason for every Catholic school in our Archdiocese, the unseen but ever-present teacher in all our classes, the model of our staff and the inspiration for our students.

Last month, a family came from the nearby state school to enrol their Year 2 daughter. The state school is excellent by all accounts, so I said to the family, ‘You attend a very good school. Why do you want to come to St Bernard’s?’ The mum simply replied, “We want God.” “We have him!” I said. Then she said, “It has been on my heart for some time that we need to be here.”

What is a Catholic school? It is authority and guidance. It is love and inspiration. It is hope and assurance. It is staff, children, parents, the community.

When I think of our Catholic schools, a line from Gerard Manley Hopkins comes to mind: ‘For Christ plays in ten thousand places. Lovely in limbs, lovely in eyes, not his, to the Father.’ The vigour and spark and spontaneity that are inherent in the life of our Catholic schools are grounded upon the conviction that it is Christ who is behind and in all that is life. Christ plays in all that is true and good and beautiful in our Catholic schools.

What is a Catholic School? It is authority and guidance. It is love and inspiration. It is hope and assurance. It is staff, children, parents, the community. It is the polished floors of a hilltop academy and the unfinished floorboards of a country schoolhouse.

It is the wizened eyes of a veteran teacher and the bright enthusiasm of the graduate. It is the freshness of a prep’s first day and long persevering days with sleepy Year 9s.

It is the cry of the first child to spot the church’s spire on our walk to the church. It is the sound of children singing: the alphabet, the Sanctus, the school song. It is the deafening pitch of their voices the moment students beat their teachers in anything!

It is icy poles and doughnut Fridays. It is a smiling face smeared with fairy floss. It is garden flowers wrapped in paper and foil for a much-loved teacher.

It is hot afternoons at the bus stop, the sound of rattling keys on early frosty mornings, the weekend phone call to the family to see how the chemotherapy is going. It is the surprise encounter in the local shops, meeting on the green for the pre-dawn Anzac service, catching up after Sunday Mass.

A Catholic school ... is scored goals, skinned knees, down ball victories, and bug bites. It is the tiny finger of a child moving across the page as letters become sounds and sounds become words, words take on meaning, and life is never the same again. It is the power and strength of the Our Father recited all together, as one.

It is high fives at the end of the Friday assembly. It is the proud mother of the class captain and the heartbroken mother of the child with seemingly unsurmountable struggles. It is the hard-working father, vested in high-vis orange, covered with the day’s dust, carrying a small backpack over one shoulder, grasping the tiny hand of his daughter.

It is the discovery of a vocation in a religion class, a visit by the parish priest, or in the silent, mysterious workings of the Holy Spirit upon a soul in the ordinary events of life. It is a sensitive discussion about the family fees and making ends meet, of a staff member covering for another after a difficult moment on yard duty.

It is scored goals, skinned knees, down ball victories, and bug bites. It is the tiny finger of a child moving across the page as letters become sounds and sounds become words, words take on meaning, and life is never the same again. It is the power and strength of the Our Father recited all together, as one. It is fathers and children, mothers and children, together for a moment of prayer and a muffin to celebrate one of life’s sweetest blessings. It is the heavy peace that hovers after Communion, when the Holy Spirit rests comfortably in tiny, uncomplicated hearts.

A Catholic school is a constant exchange of smiles and surprises, of disappointment and tears, celebration, growth and life lessons. It is the door by which many first encounter Christ and the door through which, please God, they will be prepared to someday meet the Father.

Catholic schools have always been critical to the mission of the Church, but it is safe to say we need them now more than ever. The unprecedented fracturing of human life, the family and society leave us with an overwhelming experience of the carnage of Pope Francis’ image of the field hospital.

In the opening scenes of a play by Paul Claudel, a Jesuit missionary, Brother Rodrigue, survives a shipwreck but finds himself lashed by pirates to the mast of the ship. He drifts helplessly across the raging ocean, bound to the wood in a cruciform shape. Pope Benedict comments that this is the state of the contemporary believer, who clings to this loose piece of wood that connects him to Christ. He writes that, ‘In the last analysis he knows that this wood is stronger than the void that seethes beneath him’ (Introduction to Christianity, 2024). For our staff, our students, our families, the risk of falling into this void of unbelief is always a looming possibility.

In the Archdiocese of Melbourne, we have a blessed opportunity to begin again at the beginning, to start afresh from Christ ... to make a unique contribution in transmitting the Good News of Jesus Christ to others. We are redeemed by love, and love is a person, Jesus Christ.

The Catholic schools of the Archdiocese of Melbourne will succeed in their mission insofar as they cling to Christ, who is the same yesterday, today and forever. It is an easy trap to rest on the successes of the past or to become caught in our own machinery and unable to recognise and respond to the reality in which we find ourselves. We would be wise to take the pastoral model that Pope Paul VI proposed for the modern world—the Good Samaritan, an outsider who goes to the inside to rescue the insider from the insider’s violence. Catholic schools, in collaboration with priest and parishes, must be this presence, so that our classrooms, playgrounds, staffrooms and even the principal’s office becomes a place of encounter with Christ, a place of healing for minds and hearts, a place of hope, a place where Christ plays in ten thousand places.

In Pope Francis’ bull promulgated for the Year of Jubilee in 2025, he writes that ‘[w]e are also called to discover hope in the signs of the times that the Lord gives us. We need to recognize the immense goodness present in our world, lest we be tempted to think ourselves overwhelmed by evil and violence.’

In the Archdiocese of Melbourne, we have a blessed opportunity to begin again at the beginning, to start afresh from Christ. When St Vincent de Paul toured the country parishes of northern France in the early 1600s, he recorded in his diary that most of the priests were unable to recite the words of absolution. In our own day we have a new opportunity: to make a unique contribution in transmitting the Good News of Jesus Christ to others. We are redeemed by love, and love is a person, Jesus Christ.

May we become more completely conformed to Christ, more completely surrendered to his grace, and more united to his work in our own time. ‘The greatest figures of prophesy and sanctity step forth out of the darkest night,’ wrote St Edith Stein in 1942. In the Archdiocese of Melbourne, may Christ find a place of sanctity, of service and a place to play in every agency and every school, in ten thousand places, and may he who came to light a fire on the earth, and in the City of Melbourne, be praised forever.