I know relatively little about my great-great-great grandfather, John Kennedy. He was born around 1835 in Ireland, emigrated to New York City during the Famine, and married his wife Catherine at the oldest parish in the city, St. Peter’s. The church still stands, though unlike in 1854 it’s dwarfed by the skyscrapers of the Financial District that replaced tenements and shanties. John and Catherine raised five children in Greenwich Village, including my great-great grandfather Edward.
While the rest of John’s life is a mystery, and my research has proven largely fruitless, (a number of John Kennedys emigrated during that time–and married Catherines!) we can infer a bit about his life. He likely spent what little money he had in Ireland on a dangerous voyage, on a crowded ship with huddled, smelly, hungry, frustrated masses yearning for a better life. He would have had little idea what awaited him–perhaps a letter or two from emigrant relatives about a country that had won independence from his own just over a half-century prior. He would have arrived in a dusty, loud city, a shocking transition from Ireland’s rolling green hills. He would have encountered abundance in numerous forms, in a sharp contrast to the tragedy of mass hunger. And he would very likely have turned to his community–fellow immigrants, maybe some friends and acquaintances–to find work and the resources needed to grow a family in a new land.
He most certainly could not have imagined what his progeny would accomplish, and the lives they would lead, and where they would end up. (Though, in a twist of fate, his son Edward was married at St. John the Evangelist, the parish now housed in the Archdiocesan headquarters where my office is).
Believe it or not, though, this is both an astronomy post and a genealogical reflection. As I think about John Kennedy’s likely sense of wonder and longing, a few similarities to the work of the Observatory come to mind.
First, consider the process of discovery. The universe is far more vast than the Atlantic that John courageously traversed. But he–like the astronomers I work with–trusted in God that the work of exploration is worthwhile and even, I daresay, necessary. God doesn’t reveal Godself in one village, city, country, planet, or galaxy. All of creation, as St. Athanasius wrote and Br. Guy quotes frequently, is “cleansed and quickened” by the Incarnation. To even begin to understand God’s unlimited majesty, mercy and love, we must look far beyond our small worlds.
This leads to thinking about community. Had John Kennedy not turned to his neighbors for help in a vast new city, I probably wouldn’t exist, and nor would his numerous descendants. Likewise, Jesuits at the Observatory collaborate with other astronomers around the world, and it is from those collaborations that the work of discovery takes place (for some fascinating examples, see the Observatory’s recent annual report). Similarly, Jesuit astronomers share their knowledge with the world in service of the Observatory’s mission. Pope Francis writes in his encyclical Fratelli Tutti (2020), “The existence of each individual is deeply tied to that of others: life is not simply time that passes; life is a time for interactions.” The discipline of astronomy isn’t just enhanced by cooperation; it’s fundamental to research. In my own field of development, which might at first glance seem competitive, I’ve benefited from the insights of professionals across the country, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to share what I’ve learned as well.
Put discovery and community together and you land on the kind of pilgrimage each of us is on; in our own ways, sure, but with profound similarities. We are all in search of truth. We, like John Kennedy and the immigrants who came before and after, have no idea where that search will lead, or what we’ll find on the way. But with shared faith–in the beauty and richness of creation and the Creator–we trust and know that the journey is a worthwhile blessing.
Below: The Shamrock Nebula (NASA)
