Joe Lindsley Jr., Guest Contributor

My senior year at Notre Dame, 2005, was a time of religious reinvigoration, from the outpouring of faith surrounding the death of John Paul II and the ascendency of Benedict XVI, to the re-institution of the University’s first campus-wide Eucharistic procession in 40 years.
This renewal, though, was met by an increasingly fierce drumbeat of challenges to the University’s Catholicism. In February of that year, not only did Notre Dame host the vulgar Monologues—that sad play that demeaned women and the faith—but a few academic departments even invited its author, Eve Ensler, to speak on campus.

The late Bishop John D’Arcy of Fort Wayne-South Bend was hurt to see such base attacks on the faith at his beloved Notre Dame, and he came out swinging, inspiring a number of us, including the staff of the Irish Rover, to speak out. The diocese sent us flyers of dissent, signed by the bishop, to hand out to Ensler’s fan base as they entered the newly-opened DeBartolo Center to hear her speak.

What radicals we were! How moderate and professional I’ve become in contrast to those days. A good thing, right? A sign of maturity?

Hardly—when I think of the example set for us that day. Because while we stood there passing out flyers in the stiff wind, a figure clad in flowing black emerged from a car in the nearby parking lot. It was Bishop John M. D’Arcy himself, there to stand with the 10 or so of us, to put up with the now-forgotten insults, and to pass out the flyers. It wasn’t enough for him to affix his signature. He wished to stand there, shoulder to shoulder, with his flock.

I’ve always thought his presence there resulted in a special grace that day. After Eve Ensler spoke about her war against patriarchy and the Catholic Church and all that, Gail Bederman, a professor of history, sitting next to Ensler, said she didn’t agree with the Church’s teachings but would do her best to describe its thinking on sexuality, as a concession to the Monologues’ detractors. (The organizers did not see fit to invite an actual opponent of the play to speak, and so we sat like docile sheep, around our shepherd the bishop, in the audience. A few of us wanted to shout out against this injustice, but D’Arcy kept us civil.)

Professor Bederman, who later proved a good friend of the Rover despite divergent views, described the Church’s teachings with fairness and beauty. When she finished, Ensler, this much-lauded leader of a nationwide movement against the Church, was stone cold silent! After a few moments, fumbling for words, she said, “Wow. I don’t know what to say. I had no idea there was that type of depth to those who disagree with me. That was actually … beautiful.” For a moment, those of us sitting with Bishop D’Arcy thought she might be converted, right there at Notre Dame! The moment passed, alas, but something special happened there for sure.

The Rover did not have many non-student allies in those days. We were abrasive at times, and we sure enjoyed the arguments. But when things got nasty, in addition to having each others’ backs as great friends, we knew there were a few folks who would always have our backs: some fantastic professors, including Walter Nicgorski and Charlie Rice—and, always, Bishop John D’Arcy.

Bishop D’Arcy was a fighter who cared not at all for popularity. He, of course, vocally opposed Notre Dame’s bestowal of honors upon President Obama; the University responded with a figurative, condescending pat on the head for their fiery shepherd. That same university, incidentally, is now suing the Obama administration just a few years later in a struggle for basic religious freedom.

That was not the only time D’Arcy was a voice crying out in the wilderness, issuing warnings unheeded: When he was an auxiliary bishop in Boston, D’Arcy, almost alone among the American hierarchy, he had cried foul that priests who were sexual abusers were not being punished and removed from ministry. Few listened and with a pat on the head he was shipped out to Indiana. Bad for Boston, and a boon for Notre Dame and the people of northern Indiana.

I wished I had got to know the bishop better. I was busy senior year—with the Rover, with trying to put together a semblance of a senior essay, with Thursday nights at Corby’s, and with weekend night shenanigans at Fiddler’s and Finnie’s and whatever Heartland is called now.
But when I think of those last golden days on campus, D’Arcy always comes to mind. From his powerful, inspiring sermons, delivered in a resonant, grandfatherly voice, from the pulpit of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart to his final charge to the class of 2005 at the Baccalaureate Mass. I remember his gentle exhortation to always be true to Our Lady and the Faith.

The next day, I was privileged to receive one additional closing charge: Standing outside the Joyce Center after graduation, surrounded by family and I friends, I saw the good bishop and went over to say goodbye and to thank him for his fine example and enduring support. He asked where I was going to work. I was entering the media, I told him, joining a fantastic group of people at the Weekly Standard magazine in Washington.

And, unlike several of my professors who scolded me for my chosen occupation, he told me that it was a good and fine and noble thing to do. “Good for you, good for you,” he said. “But—,” and with a laugh that was both light-hearted and absolutely serious—“Just remind those Republicans never to forget the poor!”

John M. D’Arcy was a true follower of Christ, one who had power, but never abused it, a dogged warrior for truth, a courageous, happy leader of souls, who embraced the faith in its totality, who saw no division between “social issues” and “social justice,” a dear friend of the University of Notre Dame.

I hope his example of pious strength, manfully working to save souls in the trenches of life, will long inspire us all, even long after the echoes of his carefully-delivered words have faded out of memory.

Joe Lindsley, ’05, founded the Irish Rover. He now writes at campfireblog.com.