Seventy-plus Years of Carrying the Cross

Then Jesus said to his disciples:

“If any want to become my followers,

let them deny themselves

and take up their cross and follow me.”

                                                       Matthew 16:24 (NRSV)

These lines from next Sunday’s gospel (August 31) came to me yesterday morning as I left Don Hipólito’s house and accompanied him in the early morning as he walked—if one could call his slow, painful gait “walking”—to the same small church that he has walked to almost every morning for the past seventy years.

Hipólito walking to the church in San Marcos yesterday morning

Why was he going there? Because in 1944, when he was twenty-two years old, he was chosen to be the village “cantor” in San Marcos. Literally, “cantor” means “singer,” but Hipólito’s responsibilities involve a lot more than singing. In an isolated village where the parish priest might show up three or four times a year, he is the community’s religious representative before God.

Early-morning view from the doorway to the one-room house of Hipólito and Simona

What does that mean? Hipólito prays for the sick; he intercedes for a good rainy season; he looks after the saints in the parish church; he officiates as people are married or buried (these marriages may not be “sacramental” in the eyes of the Catholic Church, but they are definitely considered binding and are certainly “sacred” in the eyes of the villagers).

 

Some of the saints in the church of San Marcos

And why the painful gait yesterday morning? Because ninety-two-year-old Hipólito had been walking home—barefoot—in the dark the week before, and he had stepped on a piece of broken glass. He had made his own poultice of plants and was hopeful that this remedy would soon work, but so far, it didn’t seem to be having much effect.

Hipólito's foot yesterday morning. Ouch!

It was an honour to accompany Hipólito as he greeted (in Latin and in his native na savi language) each of the saints in the church. The “greeting” lasted over an hour and involved candles, flowers, incense, prayers, and song. Hipólito apologized for singing out of tune, but he said that he just hasn’t been able to recover the good voice that he had before he lost two of his front teeth.

Hipólito (accompanied by his future replacement?) greeting the saints

Staying overnight at Hipólito’s house was also a great experience. He and his wife, Simona, used to live high on the hill overlooking the village, but since their house was severely damaged last year, they now live at the lower end of the village. They have a dirt floor, no running water, no bathroom (not even outside), no table, no bed. But they do have hearts that surely reflect Jesus’ own, and they share the best of what they have and who they are. It was easy to think that they truly live Jesus’ invitation to “deny themselves and to take up their crosses and follow me.”

Hipólito and Simona enjoying breakfast

Their reality has touched other lives too. I had gone to San Marcos on Wednesday with Edith and Oscar, for a meeting of the twenty families or so whose houses had been destroyed or badly damaged during heavy rains, landslides, and earthquakes in September of last year. Edith is Hipólito’s granddaughter, and she has been spearheading an effort to raise funds in Mexico City to assist these families in rebuilding their homes and their lives. Oscar is a young man from Switzerland who is working among the poor in Guatemala, and he visits Edith several times a year. Is it love? Of course it is!

Edith helping Oscar to get ready for the day

One of the main fundraisers in Mexico City is the purchase of post cards depicting the lives of the people in San Marcos. When disaster struck the area last September, a number of journalists and photographers went to San Marcos to document the lives of the people. Many couldn’t believe their eyes; these Mexico City Mexicans had no idea that so many of their own people lived in such marginalization in the twenty-first century. 

My supper on Wednesday night (Simona stirred the chile sauce into the atole with her fingers)

Edith helped to coordinate a solidarity effort by many of these photographers: they donated their best photographs; postcards were made; these were (and are) offered for sale to the public. Besides the financial assistance for the people of San Marcos, the photographers want to raise awareness that there is still a lot of work to be done to create a Mexico for all Mexicans.

Hipólito and Simona's new (wooden) house; the one on the right belongs to a neighbour

PS: Hipólito reminded me of the words from Sunday’s gospel. His wife, Simona, reminded me of the cover of the tabernacle in the chapel of the Tonantzin Guadalupe Diocesan Seminary where I live here in Tlapa. Am I the only one who sees a similarity in the following two photos (and is tempted to draw a halo around Simona’s head)?

 Have a great weekend, all. God bless. Thanks for supporting Mission Mexico.

Some Great Memories

The memory of the righteous is a blessing…

Proverbs 10:7

It’s amazing how one day could become, for me, a day full of memories. I didn’t plan it that way; it just happened.

The Champagnat High School is the complex beside the soccer field in the lower part of the photo

 It began on Sunday morning, when I went at 6:30 to the village of Potoichan to attend a memorial Mass for the first anniversary of the death of Brother Manuel, who died while he was the director of the Champagnat High School of La Montaña. Mission Mexico has supported this school since its construction began nine years ago. Manuel was a much beloved teacher, mentor, and friend, and his sudden death (while watching the movie Rambo, believe it or not) was a heavy blow to the staff and students at the school. Many students who have graduated from the school returned, with flowers and with tears, to the anniversary Mass.

Remembering Brother Manuel on the first anniversary of his death

Then I went to Xalpatlahuac to drop off a couple of young people who had showed up to sing at the Mass in their native language of nahuatl. As I was driving along the riverbed leading into the village, I heard my name being shouted. I looked over, and there was Santiago, a friend from ten years ago. I hadn’t been expecting to run into him (I assumed he had died), and I didn’t expect him to recognize me and remember my name ten years later. It was sad to hear how he has been struggling since his wife died a slow death a few years ago, but it was a joy just to be with him again.

Don Santiago, a great friend from years past

Later I went to the village of Alcozauca, because I had heard that Sandra, a girl for whom I was the sponsor at her confirmation twenty-nine years ago, was visiting (from California) her mother, Josefina; they hadn’t seen each other in sixteen years. It was wonderful to see Sandra reunited with her mother and siblings.

Elisa, Josefina (the mom), Sandra, and Elisa's son, Denzel

One of those siblings is her younger sister, Elisa. I mention Elisa because Josefina told me that she had chosen the name “Elisa” for her daughter because sometime in the mid-1980s, two twin girls from Calgary called Elisa and Melissa had visited Alcozauca in the summer, and Josefina (the sister of the parish priest at the time, Father José Guadalupe) really liked their names. Wow! Do any readers of this blog know an Elisa or a Melissa from Calgary that would have taken part in a summer experience with Father Lawrence Moran in Mexico in the mid-80s? And Sandra remembered Jessica from Calgary (originally from Chile) and sends her a greeting.

Father Lawrence Moran in Alcozauca in the 1980s

 Another memory was Father Moran, who was the parish priest in Alcozauca from 1982 to 1985. Everyone in Alcozauca who knew him back then asked me about him. The people may not have seen him for thirty years, and he died in 2007, but his generosity, his total self-giving, and his commitment to the people of the parish left an indelible mark in all those who knew him. Many told anecdotes about ways that he had helped their families back in those days.

Father Moran in Calgary, shortly before his death

It was a good day. It was also fun just driving the roads—roads that back in the ‘80s were just footpaths that I had walked along while Father Moran rode his horse, Negro. Everyone encouraged me to visit more often. I am grateful to Mission Mexico for the incredible blessing of being allowed to live among these beautiful people and of being able to recall these wonderful memories of great people. Adapting slightly what Sirach (39:9) says in the Bible: Their memory will not disappear, and their names will live through all generations.

Driving into the valley to Alcozauca

"They Can't" — One View Of What It Means To Be Christian

The gospel reading at Mass today (about a pagan woman who seemed to be inviting Jesus to go beyond his “usual thinking” about what it might mean to share God’s mercy and love, and to make a difference in another person's life) brought back the memory.

It was a terrible day to be visiting. The pathways were muddy, slippery, and full of every kind of imaginable garbage. The stench of human excrement was overwhelming. The hard rains of the night before had caused the open ditches (the only “sewage system” available) of the settlement to overflow and deposit their waste everywhere.

So much wisdom and so much love in one person

Families were busy repairing roofs and walls of their homes; falling branches and blowing garbage had caused great damage to roofs and walls of the tarred-cardboard houses. No one really had time to talk with a group of foreign visitors.

Or—maybe—it was a great day to be visiting. On other occasions when I had brought friends from the north to the neighborhood, the people tended to be in a great mood, and the visitors were treated almost as royalty. That welcome, that hospitality, took the rough edges off the incredible poverty that was the main feature of the lives of the thousands of people living here.

I decided that the best person to visit today might be Doña Mari. Since her husband had a full-time job, her house was made of better materials (cinder block, not cardboard), so perhaps she would have less work to do today fixing it. Perhaps she could talk a bit with my visiting friends.

Being poor is never easy—but knowing someone else cares makes a huge difference

Yes, Mari was home, and she gladly welcomed everyone into her small home. There weren’t chairs for everyone, but no one seemed to mind. It wasn’t the seating arrangement that concerned people; it was the awful smell of raw sewage everywhere. The Canadians were trying to be polite, but almost everyone had a finger and a thumb against their nose, trying to block this assault on their olfactory system.

Mari talked about her life, how she had been born in this very poor settlement and how she had basically self-taught herself how to read and write, how to sew, how to embroider, how to handle minor medical issues, how to be a midwife, how to try to feed her children with nourishing food. She didn’t have any fixed employment, but she spent hours every day sharing the knowledge she had picked up along the way with other poor women in the neighborhood.

Doña Tere sharing a noodle soup in El Obispo

Mari seemed to be speaking so glowingly and so joyfully about her life in this poor neighborhood that one of the Canadian women seemed to be doubting whether she could really be sincere. It was the one woman who had already scolded me for letting them come to the neighborhood without advising them that they should wear sneakers rather than open sandals. Even someone else’s joke that walking in this “fertile mud” would surely help their toenails grow didn’t seem to go over well with her.

So, removing her hand from her nose for an instant, the Canadian woman challenged Mari: “Mari, you don’t have to live here, do you?”

The question seemed to catch Mari off-guard, so she responded, “What do you mean?”

Early morning coffee for Eli, Fernando, Sofía, Isadora, and Jesús

The Canadian said, “Well, you already said that your husband has a full-time job. Surely you could move to a nicer neighborhood if you wanted to.”

Mari thought about that for a second and then said, “Yes, I guess I could.”

The Canadian then blurted out, “Well, why don’t you then?” The way she said it showed that she thought that anyone in their right mind who could opt to get out of there should do so as soon as possible.

Jesús and Isadora checking the map of a reforestation project in El Obispo

Mari was pensive for a second, but before answering, she half-turned toward me (I was standing beside her as her translator), put her hand up to her mouth, and quietly whispered to me, “Mike, are they Christians?” I whispered back that yes, they were Catholics.

That seemed to make the answer easy for Mari. She looked at the woman who had asked the question. “Yes,” she said with a smile on her face, “I could leave. But”—and she spread out her arms as if she were embracing all the other people in her neighborhood—“they can’t.”

For Mari, that seemed to be all the answer that was needed. “They can’t.” That simple fact—the marginalization of others—made all the difference in her life choices. Maybe she wasn't in her "right mind," but I daresay that she was closer to having a "Jesus mind" than I will ever have.

Fernando, Sofía, and César—working for change in the mountains

One of the biggest blessings of being here in the mountains of Mexico is the fact that I meet people like Mari very often—more than I deserve. This past week I was in the village of El Obispo, where members of two groups based in Mexico City, Cosechando Natural and Cooperación Comunitaria, are living examples of persons who are making life choices because “they can’t.” Sofía, Julio, Fernando, Isadora, Jesús, and Elizabet had spent the week—and, by far, not their first—sleeping on the floor, eating poorly, and working hard, simply because they want to accompany the impoverished indigenous people of El Obispo in their efforts to create a more dignified life for themselves. It was an honor to be able to spend time with them.

The road from El Obispo wasn't great after a rainstorm, but we were able to leave

I guess that, in a sense, that’s what Mission Mexico is all about. “They can’t.” Maybe we can…Thank you, Mission Mexico supporters, for also keeping Doña Mari’s spirit alive. I find it easy to believe that the Holy Spirit plays a role in that. Have a great week.  

"A Cursed Place"? Not If We Can Help It

In this cursed place

Where sadness reigns

It is not crime that is punished

It is poverty.

En este lugar maldito

Donde reina la tristeza

No se castiga el delito

Se castiga la pobreza.

I first saw these words scrawled on the wall of a dirty prison cell in Tlapa; I was accompanying Father Vicente Cepeda, who had gone to the prison to celebrate Mass for the inmates. But on many occasions I have thought about how the “sadness reigns” and “poverty is punished” could be applied to many more places here in La Montaña than just that prison.

Men in Plan Ranchito wondering what might grow on this land

And sometimes one is tempted to feel a little discouraged. Life is not easy here in the mountains. Some days it seems that the pendulum is swinging closer to the side of “misery” than it is to just “poverty.”

But there are many good people here trying to push that pendulum in the opposite direction, to a place that perhaps we could call (at least) “poverty with dignity—and with hope.” Just in the past ten days I was blessed to accompany some of these people.

The roads aren't getting any better as the rainy season continues

The Tlachinollan Human Rights Center does everything it can to see that poverty is not punished in the justice system. The great team there does what it can to see that any “punishment” is for a real crime and that it is a just one and a rehabilitative one. It was an honor to participate last week in their twentieth anniversary celebrations.

Poor people marching to downtown Tlapa during Tlachinollan's anniversary celebration

And I went to the village of San Marcos with Euclides, a young doctor from Mexico City. He had traveled by bus all Thursday night (with lots of medicines, especially antibiotics), so that he could get to San Marcos on Friday, offer free medical attention all day Saturday, and return to Mexico City on Sunday. No fanfare for him, no swimming at the beaches. Just an emptier wallet, a lot of fatigue, and many grateful people in one of the most forgotten villages in La Montaña. 

Doctor Euclides checking his medical supplies in San Marcos

And I was in Plan Ranchito with two biologists from Mexico City who had come to get soil samples from the area, to see what crops or fruits or vegetables might best yield results in that area. Sofía and Salvador are a young couple who offer their expertise to different villages in the mountains. The soil here is not always great, and sometimes the results they share with villagers are not as positive as one might hope—but even getting honest responses from people who care is a life-giving experience for the poor who are accustomed to so much deception and abandonment from government authorities.

Sofía and Salvador digging for soil samples in Plan Ranchito

And I went to Xochitepec to pick up José Luis, a young man from Puebla who lived as a “volunteer” for one year with the pastoral team there. His time there has come to an end; however, there is no doubt but that this experience will “mark” him for the rest of his life. Just the opportunity to share life with Fathers Juan and Héctor and Brother Gustavo is an incredible blessing. There aren’t enough superlatives to describe the commitment (and deep spirituality) of these men. I feel renewed after just a few minutes with them; imagine a year with them.

Fathers Juan and Héctor receive radio and keys from José Luis on his departure

So is this “a cursed place”? It might sometimes seem to be that way in “the big picture.” But just as next Sunday’s reading at Mass (August 10) talks about Elijah perceiving God’s presence, not in the strong wind or earthquake or fire, but in a “sound of sheer silence” (New Revised Standard Version), so too there are many signs of that “light silent sound” (New American Bible) here in La Montaña.

Salvador found a flower to give to Sofía; isn't love great!!! 

Those signs don’t catch headlines; I daresay that next to no one knows about the solidarity of people like Euclides, Sofía, Salvador, and José Luis. But Mission Mexico is honored to call these people “friends” and to contribute in any way it can to their struggles for justice, hope, and life in these mountains of Mexico. As Father Fred would say: “God is good—all the time!”

Mike with two of his best friends (Baltazar and Antonieta) in Xochitepec

Thank you, supporters of Mission Mexico, for trusting in the worthiness of these efforts at producing that “tiny whispering sound” (Jerusalem Bible) of God’s presence and love shared with some of the neediest of God’s people in Mexico. Enjoy this summer month of August.