I never expected that Justice Scalia would influence me on matters of faith. During my clerkship, the issue of personal faith was rarely if ever discussed. It certainly never entered into our discussions of cases—even those, such as Employment Division v. Smith, that involved the religion clauses of the Constitution. Justice Scalia approached these cases as he did any others, by reference to the text and history of the relevant constitutional provisions.
But later, I came to appreciate the justice’s faith through other means. My own spiritual path had led me to Catholicism, so this became yet another reason to engage with Justice Scalia. Having learned from him on matters of legal meaning, I began to understand the depth and breadth of his faith—and the fact that he brought the same intellectual passion and discipline to such matters as he did to legal issues. And although his faith never affected his judicial reasoning, there were certain parallels—most notably, the centrality of text within its appropriate hierarchy; a deep intellectual tradition; a belief in right and wrong, and in the existence of objective truth; and the richness and relevance of historical tradition. The strength of Justice Scalia’s faith, like that of his intellect and legal vision, was profoundly humbling to me and to others who engaged him on that topic.
Justice Scalia never set aside his sense of humor and perspective, and that was true on matters of faith as well. The day I joined the Catholic Church, I emailed him to thank him for his support during the process and to say that I was happy to be joining his Church. “Not mine,” he wrote back. “Christ’s. I and the rest of us sinners welcome you.” He then shared a story of a funeral he’d attended earlier that week at Arlington National Cemetery. The deceased had served in World War II and the Korean War and risen to the rank of major general, and the justice noted that it was a “big funeral—caisson with white horses, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole megillah.” The priest told the assembled group that the deceased was in heaven now, and that everyone could pray to him. But that did not fool the man’s “good ol’ Chicago Irish-Catholic family.” The justice said he told a relative afterward that he would pray for the deceased’s miserable soul, as he hoped someone would pray for his when he was gone. She said she could not agree more, and that the family members were staring at one another in disbelief when the priest announced the man’s sainthood. “O tempora! O mores!” the justice concluded.
The justice always knew that his life on earth could end in an instant, without warning—“Poof, it’s gone,” he would say. His faith taught him to be prepared for that moment. It was his job to be ready when the time came, and, if he was ready, he and others had no need to fear.
Although I miss Justice Scalia greatly, I take comfort in the knowledge that his deep and abiding faith will guide him from here.
Kristin A. Linsley practices law in San Francisco. She clerked for Justice Scalia during the Court’s October 1989 term.