Acton Institute’s Fr. Robert Sirico had words for Catholics about poor people May 9 at the monthly Catholic Citizens of Illinois meeting: Treat them like human beings first and objects of your philanthropy second. It was a rich exposition of Catholic social teaching before a lunchtime crowd of 70 at Chicago’s Union League Club.

He billed his talk, “How helping the poor can hurt,” admitting it’s “provocative.” In explanation, he noted that Acton’s “Poverty Cure,” a new DVD, warns against solutions to poverty that leave the poor worse off than before, treats them as “political chips,” for instance employing tariffs when “trade not aid” is the answer to problems faced by the poor.

One thing for sure he presented at the start: Catholics have an obligation to the poor, whether those poor in money or in spirit. No options are available. The poor must be served. There is no disagreement on this. It’s a matter of “Christian anthropology.” Catholic teaching is that caring for the poor is part of human nature. The only question is how to fulfill this obligation.

Remember that not everything the Pope says is infallible, he said — the Pope would agree with that, he added — including how to help the poor, about which opinions vary.

He recalled how as a seminarian at Catholic University, he helped out in a soup kitchen in the rough D.C. neighborhood of Anacostia. It was run by a Catholic nun in a Protestant church and was aggressively ecumenical, with dinners supplied weekly by women’s groups of various D.C. churches of all denominations. He and another seminarian picked the meals up and brought them to the church, served them, took out garbage and the like.

All were welcome to the meals, no questions asked. Sirico and his fellow seminarian one Friday went to a nearby fish and chips restaurant, the Protestant ladies having prepared a meat dish, which at that time was not permitted on a Friday. This is where he had his realization what was going on: the soup kitchen was competing with the fish and chips place, a mom-and-pop operation, without the overhead.

This wasn’t fair, he realized. The kitchen should be asking something of the recipients, as poor as most of them were, whatever they would choose to offer. Why presume they had nothing to offer? he asked himself. “Ask them to give a little,” he told his fellow seminarian, who had objected to Sirico’s objecting to the free-lunch concept.

He cited ancient Christian tradition, quoting the first-century handbook for new Christians, the Didache, which advised on how to help the poor. Christians were to seek a reciprocal relationship with each other and were not to eliminate the poor as people without ideas and other resources.

Theirs were to be a less romantic view of the poor, such as Sirico witnessed years ago when two young women of refined demeanor and careful grooming approached him about joining Mother Teresa to help the poor in India, which they had never visited. Recognizing the need for some instant education, a sort of shock treatment, he told them, “The poor stink, you know.” Later, lecturing in New Zealand, he told that story and next day read in a headline that he had said the poor stink — without reference to his giving an instant lesson to the two naifs.

The welfare state failure, he said Friday, is like that, in that it fails to consider the poor as people, administering “politicized charity” that flies in the face of his “Catholic anthropology,” with its emphasis on individual dignity and its requirement of “solidarity with people in need.”

The church sometimes offends in this regard. For instance the American bishops’ web site lists seven social-justice principles, including devotion to environmentalism, but not the principle of subsidiarity, which prescribes solving problems at the lowest society level possible, from family to national government. “Proximity matters,” Sirico said. It’s “a mistake to presume” in these matters that the higher levels — county over municipality, state over county, federal government over state, etc. — should be deployed as a matter of course.

Nor is the welfare system to be permanent. Referring to modern capitalism, Pope Francis has in mind crony and state capitalism, not free-market capitalism, Sirico said. As to tariffs, favored to protect a nation’s work forces from competition, he said they inhibit trade, which generates prosperity. Legislation to favor one constituency is not the free market at work.

Solidarity, a sense of responsibility for others including the poor, has equal standing with subsidiarity, a preference for the proximate and the smaller unit of government. The first is not a liberal trait, any more than subsidiarity is a conservative one. Together they comprise the Catholic approach.

Beware presumptions here about what works to drive down poverty. And ask yourselves what happened in the last 150 years to feed the billion starving in China? What was the instrument? Global markets, he answered, not welfare supports. Government’s role is to drop the barriers to people’s ability to get work.

This refutes the zero-sum game of the Marxist, the attempt to carve up a static prosperity pie, rather than make the pie grow. This zero-sum model he linked to the “anti-natalist movement,” the “huma-phobic” approach that sees population growth as the enemy, when as John Paul said, “Man’s greatest resource is man.”

The popes caution about seeking prosperity. Make no idol of money, they tell us. Rather, see prosperity as a tool of bettering the lot of many. Mother Teresa took on the whole Marxist paradigm, the Hegelian dialectic. Economic life, she said, is “not a warfare of the classes but an encounter” of each with the other, whereby the rich and poor save each other. This, he said, is Christian solidarity.

He took a moment at the end of his talk to note the passing of his “great friend,” University of Chicago economist and Nobel prize winner Gary Becker, who led in extending economics to human behavior, “including nonmarket behavior,” as his Nobel award put it and whose Nobel lecture was about “The Economic Way of Looking at Life.”

Answering questions, Sirico took note of economist Francis Hayek’s “fatal conceit” which leads politicians to think they know what’s best for others, including the millions making market decisions daily. He referred the need for “massive education” of priests and other church leaders in these matters. He cited Frederic Bastiat, who called the state a “great fiction” by which “everyone tries to live at the expense of everyone else.”

Asked about encyclicals for reading about social justice, he named John Paul II’s Centesimus Annus of 1991 and Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum of 1891 as two basic sources, adding Veritatis Splendor for the nuances it offers of the mind of Pope Benedict.

Pressed by an objector to Pope Francis’s dismissal in his pastoral exhortation Evangelii Gaudium of “trickle-down economics,” he noted that Francis is neither socialist nor Marxist but a “Peronist populist.”

Asked about Catholic Charities’ 86% dependency on funding by the federal government in Chicago and the continued national collection for the Catholic Campaign for Human Development, he said that his parish in Grand Rapids does not take up that collection but substitutes a collection for a local initiative — arguing the application here of subsidiarity. Asked about (Saul) Alinskyism, he called it “dangerous.” One of his closing remarks was that he would “abolish” the Campaign if he could.

Ill. Courts Commission finally had a Brim-full and gave Judge Cynthia Brim the boot long after she set records for incompetence and erratic, in one case criminal, behavior. Read all about it in today’s Chi Trib.  Story per Chi Trib

Congrats to the commission, doing its duty per the state constitution:

The Illinois Courts Commission, composed of one Supreme Court Justice, two Appellate Court Judges, two Circuit Judges and two citizens, has the authority . . . (1) to remove from office, . . . any member of the judiciary for willful misconduct in office, persistent failure to perform his or her duties or other conduct that is prejudicial to the administration of justice or that brings the judicial office into disrepute; or (2) to . . . retire any member of the judiciary who is physically or mentally unable to perform his or her duties

AND congrats to Oak Park’s stalwarts, elected senator and representatives Harmon, Lilly, and Ford for their valliant behind-scenes efforts to send Brim to the showers, no matter how much the Dem Party supported her and 56 other retention-ballot candidates, appearing “way down at the end of the ballot,” who had got thumbs-down assessments by the various bar associations.

Don’t ask how this blogger knows Harmon, Lilly, and Ford fought tooth and nail for withholding or at least softening the Toni Preckwinkle-led full-throated endorsements of these incompetents, robo-calls and all. He just knows. They are Oak Park’s finest, after all, upholding the village’s reputation for all that is noble and forthright and good-government-ish. Yay.

Last night at the library, Oak Park village president Anan Abu-Taleb said he sees “no light at the end of the [fiscal] tunnel” for Oak Park, except for the lights of an oncoming train. He had told of the 2012 audit of village finances that showed a miserable $145,000 cash balance, which he called the key signal to credit agencies of Oak Park’s dangerous situation.

A man in the audience of about 40 people gave chapter and verse on how a proposed zoning change would cut in half the value of a building which he intends to buy. Anan, supporting the change as putting unused land into play as revenue-generator, responded with reference to the not-in-my-back-yard syndrome as thwarting what’s best for the village.

He spoke at one of his patented town meetings, his fourth in a year, accompanied by a newly appointed trustee and the recently appointed executive pro-tem of the village’s recently created economic development mechanism — the man who a year ago opposed him in the electoral race for village board president.

Anan’s mark is on everything. He praised the former opponent, a longtime villager with decades of public service, as effective in this new role. With him to field questions was the young professional mother of two pre-schoolers whom he had picked to replace a longtime much-admired trustee who had moved for business reasons.

A woman warned of coming economic hard times for the village and country, sounding a fiscally accountable note that mirrored Anan’s. A man warned of coming hundred-degree days and asked what plans the village had if generators go down, interjecting high praise for Anan’s town meetings, in which the constant has been the fiscal issue.

Contrast this with Chicago’s Mayor Rahm Emanuel as depicted in

a stunning signed column by a member of the Chicago Tribune’s editorial board — “an arrogant person . . . an ass-kicker” whom we would celebrate if he got results.

“The strutting. The finger-pointing. The swearing. Come on. We loved it,” writes Kristen McQueary. But Rahm “his arrogance is oversized for the record he has amassed. He’s beyond bossy. He’s a walking personality disorder. . . . his audacity exceeds his accomplishments.”

His main failure is his continuance of Chicago mayors’ excessive borrowing to make ends meet. In his three years, “the city has only nipped and tucked at its debt and deficit spending.” In February, for instance, after nearly three years in office, he “pushed a $900 million borrowing plan through the Chicago City Council.”

It was a pattern for his predecessors. It’s a pattern for him, a reliance on “expensive taxable bonds with high interest rates.” The Trib’s 2013 series “Broken Bonds” spelled this out, McQueary wrote, “including an unexpected $12 million cost” to cover “the disastrous parking meter debacle,” a deal “that will end up costing taxpayers at least $30 million.”

He promised to fix the problem, and unions opposed him accordingly. But he’s become a problem. Which is a major difference between him and the Oak Park president, who made fiscal responsibility the foundation of his campaign and has followed through, doubling down on what he said then, as he did last night at the library.

Bicycle: First out of the blocks, leaving alley east of East, turning west toward East, backpacked

Inline skates: Crossing East heading east, in rhythm smooth as glass, facing ahead serenely

Feet to the ground: Running north on East across Randolph, up and down, eyes ahead, lithely

All at same time, seen by stroller heading west toward East

Timing? perfect.

Mark Cuban’s ‘Slippery Slope’ Comment Is Why No One Thinks The NBA Will Force Donald Sterling To Sell The Clippers

“But regardless of your background, regardless of the history they have, if we’re taking something somebody said in their home and we’re trying to turn it into something that leads to you being forced to divest property in any way, shape or form, that’s not the United States of America. I don’t want to be part of that.”

Makes sense to me.

Hunt for the daytime cockroach, Chicago suburban Northeastern Illinois, a few days past the middle of April:

The older brother, a four-footer, spotted the black insect hustling along the locker room floor, hugging the base, passing the row of lockers, heading for the pool area.

“It’s a cockroach,” he yelled, causing the elderly man (Jim, freshly arrived from Pennsylvania, preparing for a short dip in yonder pool) to leap into action, ripping paper towels from the wall dispenser and bending down to the scampering insect.

A man half Jim’s age stood and watched, declaring that he was not in the cockroach-hunting business at the moment.

A third boy rounded out the crowd, a three-footer or so. He was not attached to the taller pair, the alarm-sounding four-footer and his three-and-a-half-foot brother. This third boy figures in this account, but later. Now it was all Jim and the roach.

Pow! One swat with his fistful of paper. The roach kept scampering. Pow! Pow! Two more swipes. Ah! He’s wounded, Jim realized, pouncing a fourth time on the now struggling creature, pow! He raised a hand, paper surrounding the captured roach, much like the Iroquois chief in “The Last of the Mohicans,” holding aloft the still beating heart of the white general which he had just extracted with a cut of his knife. (We saw the white man’s lower body lurch while his heart was scooped out.)

Jim gave a punching movement to his prize. The four-footer, startled, flinched, then returned Jim’s triumphant smile. It had been no time for the faint of heart, and Jim had not failed, even bending down with no apparent slippage of disc or wrenching of knee.

Into the nearby waste basket went the roach, by now scrunched beyond recognition within the ball of paper in Jim’s hand. Later the four-footer, arriving in the pool area, was heard announcing to his adult minder and all others the news: “We saw a cockroach!”

Meanwhile, Jim had gone back to his locker to finish changing into his Speedos, and the boys had gone back to theirs. The three-footer had for some reason chosen a locker next to Jim’s and could be seen now closely examining the lock assembly on the inside of the locker door, as if to verify a hunch. He had a comment at this time, addressed to no one, about cockroaches: “They are usually active at night.”

This kid knew cockroaches, Jim decided, ignoring him as both went about their business. But the three-footer’s business caught Jim’s eye. Having checked out the lock assembly, he entered the locker itself. Kids like to try things out, Jim told himself. But then the boy stepped out briefly to pick up his swim suit and then returned and closed the locker door. Not all the way, but almost. Seeking privacy, he had chosen the inside of his locker.

Jim’s day was complete. He was off to the pool, his mind replenished with marvelous experience. He would be dining out on this story, he was convinced.

Hunt for the daytime cockroach, Chicago suburban Northeastern Illinois, a few days past the middle of April:

The older brother, a four-footer, spotted the black insect hustling along the locker room floor, hugging the base, passing the row of lockers, heading for the pool area.

“It’s a cockroach,” he yelled, causing the elderly man (Jim, freshly arrived from Pennsylvania, preparing for a short dip in yonder pool) to leap into action, ripping paper towels from the wall dispenser and bending down to the scampering insect.

A man half Jim’s age stood and watched, declaring that he was not in the cockroach-hunting business at the moment.

A third boy rounded out the crowd, a three-footer or so. He was not attached to the taller pair, the alarm-sounding four-footer and his three-and-a-half-foot brother. This third boy figures in this account, but later. Now it was all Jim and the roach.

Pow! One swat with his fistful of paper. The roach kept scampering. Pow! Pow! Two more swipes. Ah! He’s wounded, Jim realized, pouncing a fourth time on the now struggling creature, pow! He raised a hand, paper surrounding the captured roach, much like the Iroquois chief in “The Last of the Mohicans,” holding aloft the still beating heart of the white general which he had just extracted with a cut of his knife. (We saw the white man’s lower body lurch while his heart was scooped out.)

Jim gave a punching movement to his prize. The four-footer, startled, flinched, then returned Jim’s triumphant smile. It had been no time for the faint of heart, and Jim had not failed, even bending down with no apparent slippage of disc or wrenching of knee.

Into the nearby waste basket went the roach, by now scrunched beyond recognition within the ball of paper in Jim’s hand. Later the four-footer, arriving in the pool area, was heard announcing to his adult minder and all others the news: “We saw a cockroach!”

Meanwhile, Jim had gone back to his locker to finish changing into his Speedos, and the boys had gone back to theirs. The three-footer had for some reason chosen a locker next to Jim’s and could be seen now closely examining the lock assembly on the inside of the locker door, as if to verify a hunch. He had a comment at this time, addressed to no one, about cockroaches: “They are usually active at night.”

This kid knew cockroaches, Jim decided, ignoring him as both went about their business. But the three-footer’s business caught Jim’s eye. Having checked out the lock assembly, he entered the locker itself. Kids like to try things out, Jim told himself. But then he stepped out briefly to pick up his swim suit and then returned and closed the locker door. Not all the way, but almost. Seeking privacy, he had chosen the inside of his locker.

Jim’s day was complete. He was off to the pool, his mind replenished with marvelous experience. He would be dining out on this story, he was convinced.

Act One, Sister Act, semi-rural SE Pennsylvania, late afternoon in the middle of April:

Picking the twins up from after-school organized running at John Beck Elementary School, Jim returned with them in the back seat. Lily, histrionically distraught, began declaiming about “feeling,” holding forth about the universality of it.

“Everything has feeling,” she said, her voice on a higher level than usual. Rose declined to endorse this assertion. They have no brains, she said, her voice on a much lower level.

This got to Lily in a big way. Raising her sound level even further, waxing yet more distraught, hearing Rose several times aver the lack of feeling in ants due to their lack of a brain, she turned up the volume: “You have no feeling!” she cried, raising several notches the level of over-all intensity.

Rose, who had demonstrated the falsity of this assertion in ways too numerous to count over her and Lily’s almost nine years of life as we know it, continued inexorably to deny feelings to ants and other minute subhuman creatures, including inanimate ones.

She did something else, several times injecting into the exchange her observation, offered in the same calm, steady tone: “You’re smiling.”

After each of these injections, Lily upped the histrionic ante. Neither missed a beat. The grandfather in the front seat might not have even been there. The twins had their routine. It was their (good) idea of a good time.

The 15–minute ride back home over, they got out and picked up with their pre-dinner activities.

(to be continued)