Chapter Five, section two, of the "Instruction on Christian Freedom and Liberation," issued April 5, 1986, by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, contains a remarkable phrase, one that could easily be overlooked in the public discussion over the significance of the Instruction for Latin American liberation theology. It is obvious that this section of the Instruction is an abbreviated version of the thought of Pope John Paul II on the meaning of human work. It serves as an invitation to reread his 1981 encyclical Laborem Exercens. And yet, in one important respect, the Instruction goes one step further than the encyclical Laborem Exercens. In an imaginative leap it knits together the various socioethical principles found there by giving a name to the vision that inspired them, a vision that is gradually emerging as the centerpiece of contemporary Catholic social thought. The name the Instruction bestows on this moral vision is "a civilization of work."

The end of the second session of the Second Vatican Council, Cardinal Leo Jozef Suenens of Belgium asked his fellow bishops: "Why are we even discussing the reality of the church when half of the church is not even represented here?" This provocative question, midway through a council that was then totally male, was a breakthrough that prodded council members to invite a few "token" women to the ensuing sessions.

Myths. "Jesuit education" is a familiar couplet like "Roman Empire" or "Viennese waltz." Most people associate Jesuits with education, although not all they have heard about this association is so. From time to time, for instance, a journalist or a student writing a term paper will call the switchboard of a Jesuit school to ask what Jesuit source contains the remark that goes something like this: "Let us have the education of children until they are seven, and you may have them thereafter."

No reference can be given, however, because that legendary saying is not just spurious but is the exact opposite of what actually was said in the first draft of the famous Jesuit plan for schools, the Ratio Studiorum. The six veteran teachers who in 1586 wrote the Latin essays making up that draft recommended that no boy be admitted to a Jesuit school before he is seven. Children less than that age, it explained, are troublesome and need nannies, not schoolmasters: "Molestissimi et nutricibus potius indigent quam ludimagistris."

The second draft of the Ratio in 1591 was equally cool toward the kindergarten bunch. Beginning students, it said, must not be so young that they fuss about trifles (nor so old that they upset class discipline), and they must have learned to read and write correctly. Otherwise, the sight of their compositions will turn their teacher's stomach. Nevertheless, besides the myths, there is also a reality.

Origins. The third and final draft of the Ratio Studiorum was promulgated in 1599 by Claudio Acquaviva, who in 1581 had been elected the fifth General of the Society of Jesus, an office he held until his death 34 years later.

The most typical symbol of Christmas is a light shining in the darkness. The shep­herds in the fields and the wise men in the east suddenly see the night made bright. It is a season for candles and stars, and its theological sense is caught in one of the readings from the liturgy for Christmas night: "The grace of God has appeared, offering salvation to all men" (Titus, 2:11).

During the last few months I have been grappling with the complex question of how the different ministries within the church are interrelated. Just when I was tempted to draw an intricate chart with red, purple and black lines, some exciting fold-outs and many arrows pointing this way and that, I came across a very simple story about a monk and a cripple: