Justice Scalia called me mid-morning on a Friday in August 1997. I sat at my desk in a work space upstairs from him at the Supreme Court. I had been on the job as his law clerk for a few weeks but had yet to interact with him in person. Back from travel, he was at the Court. The phone on my desk rang. It was downstairs calling.
“Hello?”
“AJ?” It was him.
“Hello, Justice.”
“What’s today?”
What’s today? Gosh, what is today? It’s Friday. He surely knows that. It’s August 15. He probably knows that, too. Ah, August 15. Is he asking…? Maybe.
“Justice, it’s the Feast of the Assumption.”
“Noon?”
“Noon it is.”
I assume the justice knew I was Catholic. I was his first clerk from Notre Dame Law School, and my last name rhymed with his. Or maybe he didn’t know, and this was his way of inviting me to Mass without inviting me. If I had replied, “Friday,” he might have said, “Thanks,” and hung up.
No matter. Our walk to noon Mass was one of my first interactions with him. The justice was lively, charming, and funny. When we knelt down in church, however, his face turned solemn. It assumed an expression that, I would later learn, it assumed when things mattered most. In that expression, he removed himself from his surroundings to his thoughts. Anyone who knew him can picture the expression. That day at Mass, the expression held within it a lesson of faith, one of many lessons of faith the justice conveyed by word and example. Here are just a few.
Faith is a gift. Justice Scalia viewed his faith as a gift. The expression he bore at Mass conveyed a sense of gratitude and responsibility. His faith was not a burden. It was not a credit. It was not an artifact. It was a gift, a blessing to be accepted, to be nurtured, to be treasured, to be shared. For those who did not know Justice Scalia and cannot picture this expression, you should imagine the look on the face of someone who has received an unexpected present, one more generous than the occasion required, but one that will require assembly and costly maintenance.
Don’t fear being “out of step” (but don’t relish it either). The image of a justice in quiet prayer may be “out of step” with general expectations of the noon hour at the Supreme Court. But Justice Scalia never feared being “out of step” with the sensibilities of the day. He said as much, time and again, and he encouraged others to avoid such fear. There’s a difference, however, between having the courage to walk out of step and relishing the fact that one is out of step. While Justice Scalia did not fear walking out of step, he never appeared to relish it. He would rather join a majority opinion than write a dissent. He would rather worship in a full church than pray in an empty one. And he would rather keep his heart in friendship with those with whom he disagreed than allow the disagreement to overtake it. Why? Because walking out of step held no value in and of itself. What held value was standing for principle, be it legal principle in a lone dissent or the principle of embracing the goodness that, as a gift of faith, we can see in everyone, disagreement notwithstanding. Don’t fear walking out of step. But don’t relish it, lest you trample the virtue of friendship. A good lesson for all.
No one is beneath you. Justice Scalia blended into the congregation at Mass as just another pilgrim. No special place. No special seat. It is hard for a Supreme Court Justice to avoid the special place and the special seat. If the nature of the office does not demand special treatment, security likely does. But the justice did not revel in special treatment. One time we tried to take him out for a steak. He wanted a hamburger. Another time we had a seat for him in a luxury box. He wanted a seat in the stands. The justice spoke with the same respect for those in the lowest station as for those in the highest. But it was not a drippy, sentimental, or, worse still, condescending respect. He expected everyone to do the job right, no matter what the job—judging, lawyering, fixing, cleaning. To respect someone was not to let that someone off the hook. It was to appreciate the potential of all persons, no matter the station, to make good decisions and do a job right. This kind of respect, rooted in the Gospel and the example of Christ, affected him on the job. He did not believe, for example, that questions surrounding the value of life were “known to the nine Justices of this Court any better than they are known to nine people picked at random from the Kansas City telephone directory” (as stated in the concurring opinion in Cruzan v. Director, Missouri Department of Health, 1990). As learned as the justice was, he did not believe that elite wisdom, as such, had anything on common wisdom in the pursuit of truth.
Find peace and joy in the truth. The justice found peace and joy in the truth. The Truth. And the truth. For him, the pursuit of truth was not only a matter of faith; it also was a matter of reason. The justice did not view his faith as something divorced from the demands of reason. To the contrary, his faith compelled him to embrace the demands of reason in all of life. The justice understood his professional vocation as one of solving legal problems in accord with the reasons upon which (he reasoned) judges should act. The justice thoughtfully addressed many questions in his adult life—questions of life, questions of law. As he pondered those questions, his face would assume that familiar expression, a retreat from his surroundings into his thoughts, into a realm where he attempted to solve problems in accord with reason. He’d listen to the voices in the room, process, ponder, listen more, process more, ponder more. Anyone who worked with him will recall the moment when his face softened into a knowing smile. It was the moment he thought he had the answer. That smile was the same smile he wore when he wrote an opinion that wrote itself. He loved the truth, and his smile betrayed the peace and joy he found in its pursuit.
A. J. Bellia, a law professor at Notre Dame Law School, clerked for Justice Scalia during the Supreme Court’s October 1997 term.