Working Together in La Montaña

This week about 200 pastoral agents from all over La Montaña gathered for four days in Tlapa to share experiences and search together for the best ways to be messengers of life in these impoverished mountains of the state of Guerrero.

Some of the participants in diocesan assembly

I had been looking forward to seeing Sister Carmen Dominguez, the founder of a Franciscan religious congregation here in the village of Tlalixtaquilla. But then I heard that she had hurt her back and has been in bed since late December, so she wouldn’t be attending the assembly. I decided to visit her on Sunday. It was painful to see such an active woman unable to walk, but it was good to talk with her and “catch up” on the work her congregation does with the poor indigenous peoples here.

Franciscan convent outside Tlalixtaquilla

The drive to Tlalixtaquilla certainly brought back some memories. When I approached a river outside the village of Amapilca, I remembered a rainy day back in the early ‘80s when it looked like the raging river would wash away the local bridge. A group of men were trying to tie up tree trunks near the base of the bridge, in an attempt to lessen the force of the water washing away the soil. I remember Bob Nau (from Medicine Hat) helping to tie trees together on the shoreline.

Amapilca River looks different in the dry season

When one of the trees started to be pulled into the rushing waters, another Canadian, Rob (I apologize, Rob; I forget your last name), tried to hold it in place. Suddenly, both he and the tree were hauled into the center of the river. Rob seemed to be caught in the branches of the tree, and he disappeared under the water. All of us near the shore held our breaths as we watched the tree—with no Rob in sight—barrel down the river. As the seconds went by, it seemed less-and-less likely that Rob was going to appear.

Then, almost as if by a miracle, Rob’s head appeared beside the tree trunk. He pushed off from the trunk and swam at an angle toward the shore. The rest of us all shouted and ran downriver. Rob made it to shore and was immediately engulfed in hugs as everyone gave thanks that he was still alive. I sometimes wonder if Rob has ever been able to forget that experience; I know that I haven’t.

The most surprising thing about participating in this diocesan assembly for the first time in seven years was the number of times that words such as “violence” and “fear” were heard. In many of the villages of this mountainous region, it is a real struggle just to stay alive. Being simply poor (rather than being in misery or in “survival mode”) has always been almost a blessing in La Montaña.

Small group discussion in diocesan assembly

But now, things seem to have become even worse. Perhaps in part because of struggles to control the harvesting of drugs in La Montaña (especially marijuana and amapola [opium poppy]), it is quite common to find bullet-ridden bodies scattered throughout the mountains on a regular basis. Life has changed drastically here in the past ten years.

Another not-so-surprising discovery in the diocesan assembly was the anger of so many people against Canadian mining companies. These companies seem to be able to get permits from government officials, and so they can claim that their exploration for gold or other minerals is “legal” here, but the local people are almost never allowed to have a say in how their region can best be “developed.” And almost always, the people have no desire to see mining companies destroying their environment for “riches” that these people will never share.

Hoping that the rosary that my mom held in her hands when she died in December
will help me to drive safely and be as a good a person as she was

One other thought that came to me this week relates to the similarity between what the Catholic Church in Latin America has been expressing for years and what Pope Francis is expressing nowadays in Rome. Anyone familiar with church documents from Latin America realizes that Pope Francis is not saying anything new; what is happening is that the “voice of Latin America” is now being heard on the global stage. My prayer and hope is that other people in the world will truly listen to this voice and allow it to resonate in their own lives and in the lives of their churches—and in the lives of their societies. If this happens, then perhaps the main word I will hear in one of these future diocesan assemblies will be “hope.”

Happy New Year 2014

Another year begins, and I can’t help but think a little of the past, the present, and the future.

The past: It was seven years ago today that Father Lawrence Moran, CSB, died. It was Father Moran who, after retiring from teaching at St. Mary’s High School in Calgary, began this “relationship” with the poor in Mexico. I remember when he asked me to stay with him for at least a year in 1982. He said, “Mike, I can’t stay here in the mountains by myself. I forget to feed the horse. I fall asleep driving the Jeep. I leave my sombrero in every church I visit. But I love it here. Please come and live with me.”

Father Moran in 1982

I was very happy teaching at St. Mary’s, but I thought that this living saint (Father Moran) deserved his “dying wish,” so I began my stay in Mexico. I wonder: if I had known at the time that Father Moran would be living another twenty-five years and making many other “dying wishes,” would I have accepted that initial invitation?

The present: It’s minus 25 degrees here in Regina (minus 38 with the wind chill factor), and I can’t help but wish for Mexican weather. I see that it’s 30 degrees today in Tlapa de Comonfort, Guerrero, Mexico, where I will be next week—although I also see that it will go down to 13 degrees there tonight. More than anything, though, I am thinking of my wonderful wife, Julie, and our two daughters, Sage and Sky. I want to spend as much “quality time” as possible with them during my last few days in Canada.

The future: There is no doubt that 2014 will be a difficult year for the people in the mountains of Guerrero. Tropical Storm Manuel in September of 2013—the worst natural disaster in the history of the State of Guerrero—destroyed houses, animals, crops, fields, lives. The outpouring of solidarity from people in other Mexican states was incredible. That initial response gave immediate relief to thousands of families. But the struggle for food, housing, and livelihood will be a challenge during all of 2014. Long-term solutions will need to be found for these people and communities.

Mission Mexico will try to be a partner in these life-giving efforts. But it will be a challenging year for Mission Mexico too. The flooding in southern Alberta in June of 2013 meant that people in the area concentrated on responding to the real needs of the people affected by that disaster—and that rebuilding effort continues. And in November of 2013, Calgarians and others responded (and are still responding) with great solidarity in support of the victims of the Super Typhoon Haiyan that devastated parts of the Philippines. One can’t help but feel gratitude and admiration for the compassion and sharing of so many Canadians after these tragedies.

I guess that my hope for 2014 is that people and institutions (schools; churches; businesses) in Canada will continue to support projects in Alberta and in the Philippines and elsewhere, but that people and institutions remember Mexico too. Mission Mexico has forged over the years a most trusting relationship with individuals and groups struggling for life in Mexico, and these friends and “partners” in Mexico are hoping that Mission Mexico will be able to continue offering support in 2014, in what looks like it will be a most challenging year for the very impoverished people there.

So thank you to all who have supported Mission Mexico in the past, and thank you ahead of time for all who will support Mission Mexico in the future. Have a wonderful 2014.    

PS: After my mom’s death a month ago, I found some old photos in her house that she had kept from 1982, my first year with Father Moran in Mexico. I have included a few of these in this blog. Thanks, Mom, for the memories.

Merry Christmas to all.

Bless the Lord, ice and cold…Bless the Lord, frosts and snows…

I always smile when I think of these lines from chapter 3 in the Book of Daniel in the Bible. Because that same chapter tells us (eight times in the NRSV translation) that the young men praying these lines were in “a furnace of blazing fire.” Maybe it’s easy to think that ice and cold and frosts and snows are great blessings when one is in the midst of great heat.

But here in western Canada, where I am spending Christmas with my family, I confess that the ice and cold sure don’t seem like blessings at the moment. Ouch! I can hardly breathe outside some days. Ouch! Get me back to Mexico!

But I see that in the mountains of Mexico the people are also experiencing cold. The Mexican meteorologists are calling it “Cold Front Number 20.” It’s not as bad as 30 or 40 below, but throw in the cold rain and the fact that thousands of people are still living under plastic tarps (since Tropical Storm Manuel in mid-September), and it means that the cold is hardly perceived as a blessing.

I think of the many “displaced” people I know there: the 81 families from Tepeyac; the 145 families from Union de las Peras; the 114 families from La Lucerna; the 44 families from Filo de Acatepec; the 445 families (yes, 445—it’s not a typo) from Moyotepec…and the list could go on.

So at the same time that I feel grateful to be celebrating Christmas here with my loved ones in a nice, warm house, I think too of my Mexican friends who are struggling in very difficult situations for life for themselves and their loved ones. And I breathe a prayer of thanks to Mission Mexico—and to all the people who support Mission Mexico—for assisting them in their efforts.

It will be good to get back to Mexico on January 6. But it is great to have time now to be with my wife and two daughters and other friends here in Regina, Saskatchewan. Memories made now will hopefully “keep me going” during some tough times in the mountains of Mexico in 2014.

One nourishing memory will be the potluck dinner that I was invited to at the offices of the Archdiocese of Regina last week (thank you, everyone). I worked in those offices for four years as the catechetical coordinator, and I know the many challenges that my friends on the archdiocesan team encounter in their work. Whenever I think of these friends, I think of some words written by Pope Francis in his recent apostolic exhortation, Evangelii Gaudium (The Joy of the Gospel). In article 266, Francis writes:

…we are convinced from personal experience
 that it is not the same thing
 to have known Jesus as not to have known him,
 not the same thing to walk with him as to walk blindly, 
not the same thing to hear his word as not to know it, 
and not the same thing to contemplate him, to worship him, 
to find our peace in him, as not to. 
It is not the same thing to try to build the world with his Gospel
 as to try to do so by our own lights. 
We know well that with Jesus life becomes richer 
and that with him 
it is easier to find meaning in everything.

In a way, I like to think that this is the "spirit" nourishing not only my friends on the archdiocesan team in Regina, but also many of the people involved with Mission Mexico—including myself. We are simply striving  (as the prophet Micah expressed it more than 2500 years ago) “to act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God.”

My friends, Merry Christmas. My wish for this beautiful time of year is taken from today’s gospel: that the rising Sun will visit us “to give light to those who live in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Our Lady of Guadalupe and "the Promise"

Today, December 12, is the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mexico’s favorite saint. More than five million people will visit her shrine in Mexico City this week. Thousands of these pilgrims will be from the mountains of Guerrero; many of these will be there to fulfill “una promesa” ("a promise") made to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Juan Diego and Our Lady of Guadalupe

What is “una promesa”? In general terms, it is simply a commitment made by a person to Our Lady of Guadalupe that if Our Lady helps this person achieve a goal or a favour, then that person will travel to the shrine in Mexico City to personally thank Our Lady and to leave an offering such as flowers or candles.

What kind of “goal” or “favour” is requested? These can vary. It could be a request for good health or a successful medical operation; it could be that a loved one get a job; it could be that the rainy season be a good one; it could be that a family member manage to “sneak into” the United States; it could be that a child manage to do okay in his or her studies at school.

In the Spanish translation of “Nican Mopohua,” the first document describing the appearance of Our Lady of Guadalupe to a humble indigenous man, Juan Diego, in December of 1531, one reads that Mary wanted a church to be built on the hill of Tepeyac so that she could share there her “amor, compasión, auxilio y defensa” and “oír allí sus lamentos, y remediar todas sus miserias, penas y dolores”—so that she could share there her “love, compassion, assistance and defense” and “hear there their cries, and remedy all of their miseries, sorrows and sufferings." It’s no wonder that the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe is the most visited Catholic pilgrimage destination in the whole world.

I’ve always found it interesting that when the new Basilica of Guadalupe was being built in Mexico City in the mid-1970s (the old basilica was sinking and was unsafe to enter), one Mexican bishop, Sergio Mendez Arceo, bishop of Cuernavaca, spoke often in his homilies about “la promesa” and how the “powers that be” that controlled Mexico’s government and Mexico’s economy at that time were taking advantage of this religious practice in order to “keep the poor people in their place.” It’s one reason why, even today, one can read a plaque at the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe that states “Patrocinado por el Banco de México” (“Sponsored by the Bank of Mexico”—which was, in the mid-70s, a government-owned bank).

Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe - Mexico City

I had the good fortune to translate for Bishop Sergio Mendez Arceo on several occasions (most memorably when he was visited in the 1980s by Henri Nouwen), and I remember his way of explaining this reality. Here is a summary of his thinking:

Bishop Sergio Mendez Arceo (1907–1992)

If the poor believe that they are poor because God made them poor, and if they believe that it is Our Lady of Guadalupe who will be the “responsible one” for helping them achieve goals that should be the right of every human being (food, water, health care, education, dignified employment, decent housing, etc.), then the governing powers are only too happy to encourage this way of thinking, in order to continue exploiting the poor. For example, if a poor mother makes a promise to Our Lady of Guadalupe that the mother will travel to the shrine to thank Our Lady if she helps the mother’s thirteen-year-old daughter successfully complete Grade Six, then any failure on the part of the daughter to finish Grade Six would seem to rest with Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Might the daughter’s success in school depend on other factors, such as:

-       was the daughter malnourished as an infant; will her brain cells even allow her to learn?  

-       is the mother literate; can she help the daughter with her homework?

-       does the family earn enough each day to eat healthily and rest securely?

-       does the daughter have to look after smaller siblings every night in a one-room house?

-       is there electricity in the home; can the daughter even study at night?

-       is the daughter out at the street corner every night selling candy or gum or flowers, just so that the family can eat every day?

-       is the daughter discouraged in school because she is bullied or made fun of because of her poorer clothing and appearance?

Factors such as these (in the words of Bishop Sergio) undoubtedly have as much to do with the child’s success or failure in school as does the requested intervention of Our Lady of Guadalupe. And the above-mentioned factors surely are as related to the political and economic situation of Mexico as they are to the loving desire of Our Lady of Guadalupe to “hear” and “remedy” the sorrows of this poor mother.

Bishop Sergio was famous for reminding the people of God’s words to Moses in Exodus 3:10: “Go now; I am sending you [to free my people].” Pope Francis, in his recent apostolic exhortation Evangelii Gaudium, reflects those words when he writes (187): “Each individual Christian and every community is called to be an instrument of God for the liberation and the promotion of the poor, and for enabling them to be fully a part of society.” He clarifies (201): “None of us can think we are exempt from concern for the poor and for social justice.”

Pope Francis with image of Our Lady of Guadalupe

My friends, we are getting close to Christmas, the celebration of Jesus’ birth. Pope Francis reminds us (197) that “God’s heart has a special place for the poor, so much so that he himself ‘became poor’ (2 Cor 8:9).” Let us pray that each of us can have that same heart.

“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

Living and working among the poor in Mexico and in other countries of Latin America has certainly given me a new appreciation for these words of St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians. It is impossible to be here and to not experience death almost daily. But resurrection is also a beautiful part of the same experience.

I can remember several occasions when I would be driving a very sick person to a hospital and I would be told by a family member that I could turn around, that the sick person had died. Continuing to the hospital would only involve paperwork and expense; why go on?

I remember giving a family a colorful blanket that I had bought thinking that it would be a great gift for my mother the next time I went to Canada. Instead, we used the blanket to wrap the body of a mother who had died in the village that day. My blanket was her coffin.

Cemetery in the background of Cochoapa el Grande

I remember being asked (because I was the tallest person around) to tear off a piece of plastic that was being used to keep out the rain on the roof of a “house” that wouldn't even qualify as a “shack” to most people. We used the plastic to wrap the body of a baby boy who had died that day. The plastic was his coffin.

I remember thinking of how “macho” many men in Mexico are purported to be. Seeing Enrique moaning on the ground of the cemetery and screaming “Why, oh God, why?” as we buried his twenty-five-year old wife didn't make him seem too “macho.”

I remember my own pain when I returned from a four-day visit to some villages and learned that Pepito, a five-year-old boy who hung around my house every day and who was my “special buddy,” had died of diarrhea why I was away. If I had been there, maybe I could have done something.

I remember so many elderly people who died slowly and painfully on old straw mats on dirt floors in their homes. Definitely, there were times when death seemed to have a very great “sting.”

Cemetery in Tlacoapa

But the people—the family members and the community members who stay behind to struggle on—never seem to lose hope or to see death as “being the victor” or “stinging.” Death is simply the passageway to the next life. It is the fate for all, and it is to be accepted as a “natural” part of life—although malnutrition and exploitation are not "natural" parts of life. After almost thirty years with these people, I think I have “absorbed” (gratefully) some of their relationship with death.

Especially “educational” for me has been the experience of living and working with people who risk death—an almost-certain death, in many cases—by struggling against the injustice, exploitation, and suffering of so many of their people. In other words, they risk their own "unnatural" death in order to assure a dignified life and a "natural" death for their people.

I remember Reynaldo. He was the eighth president of an independent, non-governmental human rights commission. All previous seven presidents of the commission had been either murdered or disappeared.

On his thirty-ninth birthday, a small party, with several close friends, was held for Reynaldo.

As Reynaldo bent over to blow out the candles on the cake that had been bought for this festive occasion, someone jokingly shouted, “Don’t worry, Reynaldo; you’re not old yet. You’re only thirty-nine; you won’t be old until you hit forty.”

Without meaning to dampen the spirits of anyone present, Reynaldo turned his head for a second toward the people around him and simply asked, “Do any of you really think I’ll live to see forty?” Then he blew out the candles, and the celebration continued. But everyone present knew that Reynaldo was right: undoubtedly, he would never live to see forty. But that didn't mean that he’d give up the struggle for justice.

I apologize for thinking of death today, on the First Sunday of Advent of 2013—a time of coming, of new life, of new hope, of renewed love. But today my mother died. She was blessed to be allowed to live eighty-five years, and she used that time to love as generously and as fully as she could. She lived her life with so much faith, hope, and love that I know that she would be the first to repeat the words of St. Paul: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” She continues her journey, and I can only pray that I can live my earthly life with as much faith, hope, and love as she did. Thank you, Mom; I love you.

Mom's right hand at the end—no, at the beginning of something new.

Have a wonderful Advent season, my friends.

A "Holy Spirit" of Service

Early every Wednesday morning the 45 seminarians here in Tlapa climb the hillside and have a special morning prayer service that reflects the customs and traditions of the indigenous peoples of La Montaña. Most of the seminarians are indigenous themselves, and they organize this time of prayer. Flowers, candles, and incense tend to play a major role in the celebration.

The huge cross in the prayer area was donated by a religious congregation called the Missionaries of the Holy Spirit, and the cross has symbols of a heart and the Holy Spirit on it—it is the cross of their congregation. At this week’s prayer service, I remembered an incident that occurred in the diocesan offices here in Tlapa several years ago.

There was a meeting scheduled for 10 AM with the bishop, and several of us were waiting for the meeting to begin. I was talking with two priests when a man approached us and requested that a priest accompany him to the local hospital to “confess” and to offer his dying father “the last rites.”

The two priests explained to the man that they were busy now, that they had a meeting planned with the bishop. But the meeting should end by 2 PM (lunch time in Mexico), and one of them could gladly accompany the man to the hospital at that time.

It was evident that this possible “solution” to his request wasn't what the man was hoping for. What if his father died before 2 PM? It pained me to see the anguished look on his face.

Just then Father Juan Manuel Ayala, Missionary of the Holy Spirit, walked in. He was to be in the same meeting with the bishop and us. He noticed the man standing off to the side and went up to him and asked if there was any way he could serve him. The man mentioned his dying father in the hospital. Before he could continue talking, Father Juan Manuel interrupted him and asked him if it would be okay if he (Juan Manuel) went immediately to the hospital to celebrate the sacrament of the sick. The man said, “Of course.” Juan Manuel gave him an embrace and said, “Thank you, my friend. It’s for moments like this that I became a priest. I am so grateful to you. Do you want to come with me right now?”

The other two priests interrupted to remind Juan Manuel that it was time to begin the meeting with the bishop. Juan Manuel simply smiled and said, “You guys start without me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Off they went. Less than an hour later Juan Manuel showed up for the meeting. The bishop asked him how things had gone at the hospital. Juan Manuel said that he had just had time to celebrate the sacrament of the sick with the dying man before he took his last breath.

A seminarian called Jesús

I thought of this at morning prayer on Wednesday. I don’t know where Father Juan Manuel is, but I give thanks for his wonderful example of true service to his brothers and sisters. And I pray that I might be more like him.

Remembering on Remembrance Day

Today is Remembrance Day in Canada. I think gratefully of all the men and women who sacrificed so much to protect rights and freedoms for others. That includes my father (who fought in World War II) and my uncle Joseph (whom I never knew, since he died in World War II; my middle name is Joseph).

I had a brief experience with war in El Salvador in 1989. I was living there and working “undercover” with the Independent Human Rights Commission of El Salvador. By “undercover,” I mean that only a few members of that Human Rights Commission knew I was working with/for them. I had obtained permission from the Armed Forces of El Salvador to be in the country as a journalist “covering” the war for a small newspaper in San Francisco. (Yes, I know it sounds like a TV show, but it's true.)

I had a “beeper” on my belt that was linked to the Independent Human Rights Commission. If it beeped once, I knew that I had to be in front of the Baptist Hospital in thirty minutes to receive instructions. Two beeps meant having to go to McDonald’s. Three beeps meant going to Mr. Donut (that was my favorite; I liked their coffee).

That experience came to an end when the government of El Salvador expelled me from their country the day after attending the public funeral for the six Jesuit priests (and two women helpers) massacred on November 16, 1989. I feel sure that my movements in the days following that massacre helped to “blow my cover.” And I almost didn't manage to get out of the country; that’s another story that was almost surreal.

I don’t often speak of those terrible war experiences, but here are two paragraphs from a longer description of that experience (I titled it “Stranger and Scarier than Fiction”) that I wrote for my family:

“The members of the Human Rights Commission had to go into hiding, and my beeper began to sound often. Sometimes I was asked to book a hotel room with a fictitious name (I could be sure that it was for someone on the blacklist of the death squads). Sometimes I would bring food or a message to someone in hiding (I remember bringing a note to an address and giving it to the president of the national university). Sometimes I would be sent to an area where the fighting was intense, so that I could photograph how many non-combatant civilians—men, women, and children—were being killed (my photos always showed more victims than the government would admit).

“On one occasion I was caught in crossfire between the army and the guerrillas. Yes, it is possible to hug the ground. However, I knew that Oscar (a young man on the Human Rights Commission) and I had decided that morning that if I didn't contact him by 10 AM, then something must be wrong, and he would leave his hiding place at my house. I also knew that the armed forces had checkpoints all over the neighborhood: he would surely be detained (and, just as surely, disappeared) if he did leave the house. I tried crawling down the street; the movement seemed to only attract more bullets. At 9:45 I had no choice but to jump up and run (and I mean run!) to a public phone located at the far street corner. The bullets came so close to me during that race that I am still not sure if I heard them or if I saw them or if I felt them as they crossed the bridge of my nose. The phone worked, in spite of the bullets pinging off the pole. I was sure that my house telephone (like that of all foreign journalists) was being intercepted, so I communicated to Oscar (without using his name) that he could rest tranquilly at the house since the neighborhood was being ‘protected’ by soldiers at every entrance or departure point. Oscar understood: he stayed put.”

Thank you to all who offer their lives to the struggle for justice and freedom and human rights.