In the Spirit of Frédéric: Charity Rooted in Truth
As I write this, I’m just back from several days in Paris at the international headquarters of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. It was a grace‑filled visit in many ways, but one moment in particular has stayed with me, and I’d like to share it with you because I think it speaks directly to our Vincentian vocation today.
During the trip, I had the joy of returning once again to the tomb of our founder, Blessed Frédéric Ozanam, in the crypt of the Church of Saint‑Joseph des Carmes. I have had the privilege of praying there a number of times over the years, and each visit has felt like coming back to sit for a while with an old friend and mentor. Above Frédéric’s tomb is a depiction of the Good Samaritan, a reminder that he did not just think about charity – he organized it, he lived it, and he invited others to walk that road with him.
Standing there, I found myself thinking of one of his simple, practical invitations: “Let us do without hesitation whatever lies in our hands.” That sounds so modest, yet it’s actually quite demanding. It means doing the good we can, now, in this place, with these people, without waiting for perfect conditions or easier circumstances. For us as Vincentians, that might mean having a difficult personal encounter visit after a long day, listening patiently to someone who is angry or distrustful, or advocating for a neighbor even when the system seems stacked against them.
Frédéric also insisted that “the poor person is a unique person of God’s fashioning with an inalienable right to respect.” That phrase, “inalienable right to respect,” echoed in my heart as I left the crypt and walked literally through a small door to another sacred place of memory.
At the church and crypt is the site where a large number of priests and bishops were imprisoned and then killed during the French Revolution in what came to be known as part of the “September Massacres” of 1792. Revolutionaries had demanded that clergy swear an oath to uphold the new civil laws governing the Church, the Civil Constitution of the Clergy, effectively placing obedience to the state above obedience to the Church, specifically the Pope. Many priests and bishops refused this oath in conscience and were arrested and confined in the former Carmelite monastery, the Hotel des Carmes.
In early September 1792, mobs stormed the prisons of Paris. At the Carmes, they went through the courtyard, confronting these clergy one by one. Their demand was stark: take the oath or face death. Around 90–160 clergy and religious leaders (bishops, priests, deacons, and others) were killed there over those days, many hacked down in the cloister garden where they had been praying. Their names and stories have been preserved in the Church’s memory; some have already been beatified as martyrs.
It is sobering to realize that the same church which now shelters Frédéric’s tomb was once literally spattered with the blood of those who refused to betray what they believed. Walking from the crypt into that space, I found myself holding two truths at once: the gentle, organized charity of Ozanam and the fierce, costly fidelity of the September martyrs.
We are not, thank God, facing mobs with weapons at our doors. No one is threatening us with death if we continue to make personal encounters or operate food pantries. And it would be wrong (and frankly absurd) to equate the risks we face in ministry with the suffering of those martyrs.
But their story does offer us a moral framework, a kind of X‑ray of what it means to hold fast to the Gospel when strong pressures push us in other directions.
Those priests and bishops were not perfect men, but in that decisive moment they refused to say with their lips what they did not believe in their hearts. They would not sign away the truth of the Church’s life and their identity as shepherds, even under enormous duress. In the words Pope Benedict XVI would later use, they understood that “to defend the truth, to articulate it with humility and conviction, and to bear witness to it in life are therefore exacting and indispensable forms of charity.”
That is the connection I kept coming back to: charity and truth. Our Vincentian vocation is not just to “be nice” or to perform good works. As Benedict also wrote, “Without truth, charity degenerates into sentimentality. Love becomes an empty shell.” The martyrs of Carmes refused to empty their faith of truth. In our very different circumstances, we are called to refuse to empty our charity of the Gospel.
For us, the pressure is usually quieter and more ordinary: fatigue, bureaucracy, misunderstanding, conflict, or just the slow drift toward discouragement. No one is asking us to renounce our faith, but many small forces tug at our commitment.
Think of moments like these:
- When a neighbor we’ve helped many times returns again, and everything in us wants to say, “Not this time,” simply out of frustration.
- When a fellow Vincentian disagrees with us about how to help a family, and resentment threatens to take root.
- When a foundation, corporation, or individual tempts us to compromise our Catholic identity or our respect for the dignity of every person, in order to make things easier or more efficient.
In those moments, the example of the martyrs can strengthen our spine; not to become combative or rigid, but to be quietly faithful. They remind us that it is possible, with God’s grace, to say: I will not betray what I believe about who God is and who the poor are, no matter what the circumstances are pushing me toward.
Saint Paul told the Romans, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” (Rom 12:2). The priests at Carmes paid for that non‑conformity with their lives. For us, it may mean paying with our time, our comfort, our reputation, or our preferences. But the logic is the same: our charity flows from the Gospel, not from convenience or public approval.
When I read the words of Saint Vincent de Paul, I hear the same tough‑minded realism about charity. He acknowledged how demanding this vocation is: “You will find out that Charity is a heavy burden to carry… But you will keep your gentleness and your smile. It is not enough to give soup and bread… You are the servant of the poor… And the uglier and the dirtier they will be, the more unjust and insulting, the more love you must give them.” That is not sentimental. That is a form of martyrdom of the ego, a daily dying to self so that Christ’s love can live in us.
Frédéric, too, understood that our service has to be rooted in something deeper than our own goodwill. He reminded his companions that “our main purpose is not merely to help the poor – this is but a means to an end. Our true aim is to preserve in ourselves the Catholic Faith in all its purity and to communicate it to others through the channels of charity.” In other words, we are not just social workers with rosaries. We are disciples trying to let Christ’s truth and love pass through us to others.
Pope Francis, speaking on the World Day of the Poor, said that “the poor… are not one, two, or three, they are a multitude,” and that the Gospel calls us not to bury the gifts the Lord has given us but to “spread charity, share our bread, multiply love.” He calls poverty a “scandal,” not to shame those who are poor, but to stir the rest of us from complacency. That word, scandal, reminds me that indifference and cowardice are also forms of “bending” under pressure: pressure to look away, to stay comfortable, to protect our time and resources.
So how do we live this out concretely, in the spirit of Carmes and Ozanam, but without drama?
- By telling the truth in love when we advocate for our neighbors, even if it complicates relationships with institutions or public officials.
- By refusing to let anger, gossip, or division take root in our conferences, even when we strongly disagree, because our unity is itself a witness to the Gospel.
- By making decisions that prioritize the dignity of the person in front of us over metrics, statistics, or efficiency.
- By praying, (really praying, not just checking off a box), before and after our visits, asking the Lord to purify our motives so that it is truly His love we bring, not our own agendas.
These are small, hidden acts of fidelity. But that’s where most Christian heroism actually lives.
Standing Together at the Tomb
As I picture that day in Paris, I see myself again moving from the tomb of Blessed Frédéric to the memorial of those martyred clergy. They did not know each other in earthly life, but in that space their witness converges.
From Frédéric we receive the pattern of organized, thoughtful, incarnate charity: “Let us do without hesitation whatever lies in our hands.” From the martyrs, we receive a bracing reminder that the truth of the Gospel is worth our whole life and cannot be negotiated away. From St. Vincent, we receive the challenge to carry the “heavy burden” of charity with gentleness and joy, even when people are “unjust and insulting.” From our recent Popes, we hear that authentic charity always walks hand in hand with truth and courage.
My prayer for all of us, as Vincentians across the country, is not that we might face persecution like those martyrs – indeed, we pray to be spared that – but that we might share their inner freedom. May we be men and women who, by God’s grace, will not surrender our deepest convictions: that Christ is present in the poor, that every person has an inalienable right to respect, and that love in truth is stronger than any fear.
As we go about our ordinary, sometimes exhausting, sometimes beautiful service this week, I invite you to remember that courtyard at Carmes and that quiet tomb of Frédéric. Ask the Lord to give you, in your own setting, the courage to be faithful to the mission He has entrusted to you: to love our brothers and sisters in Christ, especially those who are poor, even when it is hard and challenging.
And then, simply, like good Vincentians, let us do whatever lies in our hands.
Peace and God’s blessings,
John