Joyful Easter Wishes from Mexico

[Then Elijah was told],

“Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD,

for the LORD is about to pass by.”

Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains

and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind;

and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake;

and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire;

and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.

When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle

and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.

1 Kings 19:11–13 (NRSV)

A painting on the wall of the church in Tlaquiltepec

 Here in Mexico, today is known as “el Sábado de Gloria”: the Saturday of Glory. It’s a “quiet day” in the villages after several “busy days” of processions and religious ceremonies. I like to think that today is the kind of day in which we are invited to do what Elijah did: just “be” at the entrance of the cave and listen for “the sound of sheer silence” that is the language of God. (We did have a major earthquake here yesterday, but—like Elijah—most people realized that "the LORD was not in the earthquake.")  

Palm Sunday Mass in Huamuxtitlan

I visited several villages this week, but I confess that I didn't take a lot of photos. I mostly wanted to accompany the people, not “observe” the people through the lens of the camera. It was an honour to be with them. The farthest place I visited was Xochitepec, which involved a four-hour drive from Tlapa. It took me two hours to drive the last 39 kilometers from Acatepec to Xochitepec; the dirt road was very narrow, very perpendicular, very dusty, very bumpy, and very dangerous. 

The village of Aguatordillo, on the way to Xochitepec

Almost all of the villages re-enact the last days of Jesus’ life. In some places, local men and women and children are chosen ahead of time to play different roles. In other places, men carry statues and “move” them as Jesus’ last days are recalled: Jesus rides into the village on his donkey; Jesus washes his apostles’ feet; Jesus institutes the Eucharist; Jesus is taken prisoner and kept overnight in jail (with guards watching over him all night); Jesus is condemned to death and crucified; Jesus is laid in a tomb (usually a small “chapel” somewhere in the village). 

My friend Emanuel represents Jesus here; his name means "God is with us."
He thinks his name is a sign that he should have this role.

Since there are fewer than 50 priests in this diocese of more than 700 villages, most of these Holy Week ceremonies are coordinated by laypeople. And it’s interesting to note that in most villages, this re-enactment of Jesus’ last days ends with Jesus’ body being laid in the tomb. The whole village is there on Good Friday. There is usually no Saturday midnight or Sunday morning service to celebrate the resurrection (except in those places where the parish priest lives). When I ask the people why Easter doesn't receive the same emphasis as “the passion” of Holy Week, they tend to just respond, “I don’t know; that’s the way we've always done it.” Some friends suggest that it’s easier for them to identify with the “suffering Jesus” than with the “glorified Jesus.” 

Jesus at the Last Supper

 My friends, I wish you a most joyous Easter. I hope that springtime (itself a beautiful reminder of life out of death) arrives soon for you. Thank you for supporting Mission Mexico and the beautiful people here in the mountains of Mexico. God bless.

What the sky looked like driving back to Tlapa from Xochitepec

Please Pray for the Most Incredible Bishop I Know

I know that my mother told me many times that I shouldn't lie to people, so she was probably rolling over in her grave when she heard me tell a lie to a bishop.

Bishop Alejo Zavala Castro a few years ago

But I didn't know what else to do. I had to get out of the Bishop’s house. I’m not sure which reason was more important: Was it that I wanted him to get some rest, or was it that I had to get out before he saw me crying?

Father Fred Monk and Don Alejo during a trip to Calgary

Maybe some of the readers of this blog remember Bishop Alejo Zavala Castro, the first bishop of the Diocese of Tlapa here in the mountains of Guerrero, and presently the bishop of the Diocese of Chilpancingo-Chilapa. He visited the Diocese of Calgary several times. Everyone here just knows him as Don Alejo (in Mexico, calling someone “Don” indicates respect).

My mom bought that sweater as a Christmas present for  Don Alejo 

The plan yesterday was to have supper with Don Alejo in Chilpancingo, stay at his house overnight, and then return to Tlapa today (Saturday). I hadn't seen Don Alejo for a couple of months, and he had not been totally healthy the last time I saw him.

If one collar of flowers indicates a welcome,
what do you think this many collars indicate?

But my heart was almost torn out of my body when I saw him get out of his Jeep and start to make his way toward his house. He was returning from the village of Paintla, and he was so weak that he could hardly walk. I hate to say it, but the first thought that came to my mind was the name of a TV show that my daughter used to like: Dead Man Walking.

Bishop Alejo Zavala Castro on Friday, April 11, 2014

Of course, I quickly took his arm and guided him to the house. He tried to ask me about my wife and children, but it was evident that it was even difficult for him to get the words out. I thought, “This man has to get to bed. He needs to rest.”

Don Alejo in Metlatonoc

So I told him that I couldn't stay for supper, because I had to get back to Tlapa that night. I knew that if I stayed, he would be a good host to me and offer me all of his attention. I’m no doctor, but I felt sure that he needed rest more than he needed conversation with me.

This banner said it all when Don Alejo left Tlapa in 2006:
Bishop Alejo:
Your simple and generous heart, as well as your always being close to all of us,
strengthened our faith and our hope in the God who loves us.
Thank you for your gospel-like testimony;
that's the most sublime thing you're leaving us as the Shepherd of La Montaña...

Don Alejo is one of the most incredible human beings I know. When he was first asked in 1992 to accept being the first bishop of Tlapa, he had to ask, “Where is Tlapa?” He found it, and he became the most beloved man in the mountains. Everyone can tell some anecdote about his simplicity, his compassion, his love for the poor, and his commitment to justice. I was his secretary in Tlapa for ten of his fourteen years there. In 2006 he was named bishop of the Diocese of Chilpancingo-Chilapa, where he still lives and works.

Priests, authorities, and people accompany Don Alejo to his last Mass as Bishop of Tlapa

So, my friends, as you prepare for Holy Week and its celebration of our “passover” from death to life, please remember Don Alejo in your prayers. The world is a better place because of incredible persons like him. 

Risking for Change—There's No Other Way

A church that suffers no persecution

but enjoys the privileges and support of the things of the earth

—beware!—is not the true church of Jesus Christ.

Archbishop Oscar Romero, assassinated in El Salvador in 1980

I can’t get these words out of my head. They come to mind as I think of the incredible generosity and solidarity of the architects from Mexico City who are helping the people of San Marcos rebuild their homes and their lives after the terrible landslide there in September 2013.

Architects Israel and Ligia showing the lots (Salvador, with sombrero, is mayor)

The other words I can’t get out of my head are those of Father Jorge Decelis, who used to be the parish priest in Cochoapa el Grande. Knowing that Jorge had worked as a Combonian missionary in different countries of Africa for eighteen years, I asked him what he saw as the main difference between working in the mountains of Mexico and working in Africa.

Father Jorge Decelis

“The most surprising thing I've discovered here,” said Jorge, “is that the people have no sense of forgiveness. If someone resents you for something that he believes that you’ve done against him, he is going to do something against you. There is always payback—but not in the good sense of the word.”

One little girl was attentive in the village assembly

On Saturday I drove architects Ligia, Israel, and Jaime to San Marcos. The architects brought detailed topographical plans that showed that the hill that had been leveled to create building lots could comfortably house twenty-four families. These could be the nine families that lost their houses in September and fifteen families whose houses are along a grieta (“crack”) on the mountainside—a mountainside that will almost inevitably be washed away during the next rainy season.

An attentive mother in the assembly

This is what the village authorities had requested. However, the villagers made it clear in the assembly on Saturday that not everyone was happy. One man had wanted the houses to be built on his land about two kilometers outside San Marcos; he thought that the government would pay him generously for the land. However, another villager had donated a piece of land that was actually already in the village, so it made more sense to build there.

Israel (helped by Ulisa) measuring one of the lots

Another man wanted the best lot among the twenty-four envisioned in the topographical plan; however, his family already had a perfectly safe house in the village, so he wasn't even included in the twenty-four families to be given a lot.

One family getting ready to build on their lot

Another man, who considers himself to be a political “big shot” in the municipal government, thought that he should be the person in charge of this rebuilding effort. He hadn't even been named to the coordinating committee.

So the people warned the architects: beware! There are rumours that these unhappy people are blaming you for what’s happening and that they are going to pay you back for your “meddling.”

Ivan and Ulisa walking to their new lot

What does “payback” often look like in these mountains? It often means death. The dirt road to San Marcos is a solitary one: I've often driven it for hours without encountering a single vehicle. It’s almost straight up and straight down the mountainside, and it’s narrow; a driver has no choice but to go slowly. One couldn't find a better place for an ambush: someone shooting from above would never even be seen.

Road to San Marcos

So the drive back to Tlapa on Saturday evening was rather a silent one. It wouldn’t have been a big shock to come around a corner in the road and find a tree trunk blocking it. I even thought, “If that happens, what do I grab? Do I grab the gear stick to change to reverse and try to back up as quickly as possible, or do I grab my mom’s rosary hanging on the mirror and whisper words of love for my family?”

Mom's rosary—it's a nice reminder

I debated about sharing these thoughts with you, the reader. I’m not trying to scare anyone; but I wouldn’t be honest, either, if I didn’t share this aspect of reality here. It’s life here.

Road to San Marcos

Will the architects return to San Marcos? Almost definitely. If this project is to succeed, their orientation and participation is still needed. Will they tell their loved ones—at least their spouses—in Mexico City about the “warning” that the villagers gave them? I have no idea. I suspect that their loved ones already know about the risks of working for change. And I suspect that many trust in one of Jesus’ favorite expressions to his followers: “Be not afraid.”

Two women walking home after the assembly

To close, I want to thank Father Fred Monk for his pre-Easter reflection on “A New Creation” at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICPS9BKffTI&list=UUgZk6j2TxXhPJKEkSchd1DA. It's a beautiful way to bolster one's faith, hope, and love. God bless.

Giving Sight to the Blind

As Jesus walked along, he saw a man blind from birth…

Jesus spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva

and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in

the pool of Siloam (which means “Sent”). Then he went and washed

and came back able to see.

       John 9,1.6–7

Today, Saturday, March 29, I can’t help but think of Father Fred Monk preparing his Sunday homily in Bow Island, Alberta.

Father Fred Monk receiving a "royal welcome" in Xalpitzahuac in 2005

If you are reading this, you undoubtedly know that Father Fred is the founding director of Mission Mexico. He comes to my mind today because of tomorrow’s gospel reading from chapter 9 in John’s gospel, in which Jesus gives sight to a blind man.

Father Fred, through Mission Mexico, did the same thing here in Mexico ten years ago. A young boy in the village of Xalpitzahuac, Pedro Bruno Ramon, had been blind for several years. His very poor family had never been able to take him to a doctor. Mission Mexico provided funds for an initial medical visit, for surgery on his eyes in Mexico City, and for several follow-up appointments afterwards.

Pedro after his eye surgery

I remember taking Pedro’s hand on one occasion and guiding it toward a cup of coffee on a table. He really was blind! Yet, months later, he was able to see everything—and he proudly began to learn to read and write. That was in 2004.

Thinking of Sunday’s gospel about sight and light, and thinking of Father Fred’s gift of sight and light to Pedro—as well as Father Fred’s incredible use of sight and light in his photographs; please check out www.fredmonk.zenfolio.com—I decided to drive today to Xalpitzahuac to see how Pedro is now doing.

Pedro and one of the first "white persons" he ever saw in his life (he was impressed)

I drove for two hours, but discovered that Pedro was not there. I spoke with relatives, and they informed me that Pedro had left last month with his family to seek work cutting sugar cane in the State of Morelos. He will come back to his village in May, in order to prepare the fields for his crops of corn and beans.

When I asked who was included in the “family,” I was told that he went with his younger sister Martina (who also received assistance from Mission Mexico when she was ill from tuberculosis), his wife Lourdes, his four-year-old daughter Cristina, and a ten-month-old son who has not been given a name yet. Yes, Pedro is now a husband and a father—and according to his relatives, his sight is perfect.

Pedro's house in Xalpitzahuac on March 29, 2014—it's locked while he's away

It would have been great to speak with Pedro about his memories of those days of darkness and the new sight and light that he received, but that will have to wait for now. (It gives me more time to think of more questions.) I’m simply happy to know that Mission Mexico could help to make possible a new life for this young man. Thank you, Father Fred. Thank you, Mission Mexico. Thank you, supporters of Mission Mexico.

The Church of St. Mark, in Xalpitzahuac

Of course, Pedro’s life is surely not an easy one. Cutting sugar cane is one of the worse jobs that one can think of in Mexico. The work is hard, the pay is low, the hours are long, the field is hot. Shortly before the workers go in to cut the cane, the field is set afire. The fire destroys any kind of grass or plants growing among the cane, it forces snakes and other rodents out of the field, and it softens the sap (maybe we’d call it “molasses”) inside the cane. However, the worker tends to become filthy black within minutes of starting work, and the temperature is unbearably (almost) hot. Often the worker is breathing in smoke and soot. But as long as there are impoverished people willing to do this kind of work just to feed their family, the life of a sugar cane cutter probably won’t soon change much.

Cutting sugar cane—I can't imagine most Canadians doing it

So please pray for Pedro and his family—and please do what you can to relieve suffering in other peoples’ lives.

PS: Thinking of Pedro and Father Fred reminds me of Father Keith Sorge, a priest from the Diocese of Calgary and Father Fred’s great friend, who died in October 2010. Father Keith accompanied Father Fred to Mexico (including Xalpitzahuac) in 2005. He touched many lives here. As Father Fred (quoting Dr. Seuss) says about Keith: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” Thank you, Keith.

Who needs a bed?—Father Keith taking a break in Xalpitzahuac in 2005

Celebrating El Santo Entierro—The Holy Buried One

Having bought a linen cloth, Joseph of Arimathea

took Jesus down from the cross, wrapped him in the linen cloth,

and laid him in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock.

                                                                                                             Mark 15:46

Here in the mountains of Guerrero, the biggest religious celebration in all of the year is el Tercer Viernes de Cuaresma—the Third Friday of Lent. Thousands of people come from all over Mexico to pray at the shrine of El Santo Entierro (“the Holy Buried One”) in the village of Xalpatlahuac.

 

Carrying El Santo Entierro out of the church

El Santo Entierro is an image of Jesus laid horizontally in a burial casket. During 364 days of the year, the image lies behind the altar in the parish church of Xalpatlahuac. But on the third Friday of Lent, the image is taken down and carried all around the village. The image is considered very miraculous, and everyone tries to at least touch the casket as it passes by. The church and the streets are packed with throngs of people.

 

You can almost see the faith in the eyes of the man in the middle

I remember back in the early 1980s when a new parish priest was sent to Xalpatlahuac. He was rather upset that people came to the church often to greet El Santo Entierro but didn’t always attend Sunday Mass. So, in one of his homilies, he reminded people that El Santo Entierro was just a ceramic image and wasn't really Jesus, whereas the host in the tabernacle was the real Jesus; therefore, the Mass was more important than the image behind the altar.

Did this attempt at evangelization work? Not by a long shot. That evening the people from Xalpatlahuac gathered in front of the priest’s house, took him prisoner, stripped him, tarred him, covered him with chicken feathers, led him to the edge of town, and wished him well on his new journeys. The next parish priest—and none since—didn't repeat his predecessor’s homily.

 

Bishop Dagoberto and priests in procession with the Holy Buried One

One lives and learns. Two of the people I have been most learning from during my years here in Mexico have been Father Cesar and Father Pablo.

 

Father Cesar and Father Pablo

Father Cesar is the rector of the diocesan seminary, and he does an incredible job in offering preparation to the young men who will offer their priestly service in this indigenous, impoverished, mountainous setting. As I type these lines, Cesar is in a meeting with his mom and dad and brother and sister. Doctors are telling the family that the 77-year-old father, Natalio, who has suffered with diabetes for many years, should have an operation this coming week in the city of Puebla to remove his right leg. The family wants to do what is best for the dad; the operation will cost more than 6,000 Canadian dollars; the family is talking about how they might best be able to cover this expense. And what if the doctors suggest a prosthetic leg for Dad in the future? Ouch! Please pray for Cesar and his family.

 

What I contemplated when I couldn't sleep the other night

Father Pablo belongs to a religious congregation called Missionaries of the Holy Spirit. He helped organize this Diocese of Tlapa in terms of its evangelical processes and programs (but he can’t be blamed for the priest’s homily in Xalpatlahuac). He left the mountains about five years ago to work in the southern state of Chiapas. But he is returning to Tlapa in May to participate in a national encounter of his congregation taking place here. The congregation has invited me to participate in that national encounter. I feel honoured by the invitation and overjoyed by the thought of being able to spend time with Pablo and other former friends.

Life goes on. On Wednesday evening I went to Ixcateopan, where Father Hubert celebrated his first Mass after being ordained a priest the day before. The mountains are blessed to have him here serving the people.

 

Father Hubert during his first Mass as a priest

I had better go to fill the truck with gasoline. Tomorrow I will drive Arnulfo, an architect from Mexico City, to and from the village of San Marcos. Arnulfo just wants to be sure (for safety reasons) that the ten houses being built by the villagers there for the families that lost homes in the September landslide are being built according to plan. It’s not easy to find transport to this isolated village, so it’s one small way in which Mission Mexico can accompany the people in their effort to offer a dignified life to these families.

 

Question of the Week: If you had to get your van across a lake when the road was washed out,
would you think to get two boats to travel side by side, with half of the van on each? I thought
I was seeing things when I took this photo.

Have a great week, my friends. God bless.

Seeing and Hearing God this Lent

Once when a visiting philosopher

 asked St. Anthony the Great (251–356)

how such a learned man as he

got along in the desert without books,

Anthony replied,

"My book is the nature of created things,

and as often as I have a mind to read the words of God,

it is at my hand."

I’m still working on my Lenten mission of trying to deepen my awareness and understanding of the psalmists words that “the heavens declare the glory of God; the firmament proclaims the work of God’s hands” (Psalm 19:1).

 

Getting the fields ready for the rainy season

I may not agree one hundred percent with Saint Bernard of Clairvaux when he wrote a thousand years ago, “You will find something greater in woods than in books,” but I do believe that if we have the eyes to see, then every moment can allow us to apprehend (or be apprehended by) the sacred, the holy, the divine (I thank David Suzuki for that metaphor of “apprehension”).

The mobile ice cream "truck." The ice cream costs the equivalent of 50 cents.

I am undoubtedly prejudiced toward books, simply because I love to read. But this Lent I’m trying to get away (okay, I admit it—not totally) from books, trusting that Origen was correct when he wrote almost two thousand years ago that since “the parallel between nature and Scripture is so complete, we must necessarily believe that the person who is asking questions of nature and the person who is asking questions of Scripture are bound to arrive at the same conclusions.”

Some days it seems like I'm going to drive to the clouds.

 Of course, people play a special role in this apprehension. I went this past week to Potoichan, where Mission Mexico plays an important role in supporting a high school for 260 impoverished youth from all over La Montaña of this state of Guerrero. A Mexican Marist brother, Salvador Gonzalez Cardona, is the director of the school. His nickname is “Cepillo” (“Brush”); take a look at the photo below, and try to guess why he has this nickname. Cepillo is, for me, almost a “miracle-worker” in terms of the incredible difference his school is making in the lives of these youth from the mountains.

 

"Cepillo," the director of the high school, with two crosses from Chiapas.

And I visited with Abel Barrera Hernandez, the director of the Tlachinollan Human Rights Center (which receives support from Mission Mexico). Tlachinollan has received recognition from all over the world for the great work it is doing in its support for justice for the indigenous peoples of La Montaña.

Abel Barrera Hernández, director of Tlachinollan Human Rights Center

 On Wednesday evening, Abel was travelling on a road outside Tlapa when he was assaulted. The three thieves stole the vehicle he was driving—a new Nissan truck just like the one I drive—his laptop, his cell phone, and his wallet. He was left abandoned in a remote field, but after managing to untie himself, he was able to walk to a road and eventually receive assistance. Here in La Montaña we are simply grateful that Abel is still alive.

House where I stayed overnight in San Marcos

 But it’s not only “important people” that allow me to feel that I am on “sacred ground.” On Friday night I slept in Doña Gertrude’s house in San Marcos. When I got up at about 7 on Saturday morning, she was outside pushing coffee beans into a bag, so that I could take a gift of coffee back to Tlapa.

 

Doña Gertrude with her coffee beans

Another woman, Elodia, insisted that I go to her house for breakfast. The photo below shows this “special” breakfast for the Canadian visitor: water to drink; noodles; squash; beans; herbs; tortillas (under the colorful cloth). No coffee, but who was I to complain?

Breakfast. It's not all for me. Each persons takes a bit of what he/she wants.

 And since Elodia’s mother, Doña Virginia, was going to the river to wash clothes, Virginia insisted on taking a dust-filled shirt of mine to wash. While she was washing clothes, other children were taking advantage of the river to cool off.

 

Doña Virginia washing clothes at the local "laundromat."

So, hopefully, I am advancing with my Lenten “challenge.” I wonder if the seminarians who are doing homework this weekend for my class next week will refer to nature and creation in response to the questions I left with them. The class is on the Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible), and we were talking about Abraham. Genesis 12:7 begins: “Yahweh appeared to Abram and said.”

The seminarians have to turn in a written response to the following questions: How does God “appear” and “speak”? Does God appear and speak today any differently than when God “appeared” and “spoke” to Abram? What is needed to “see” and “hear” God?

 

Some children cooling off on a hot day near Ojo de Pescado.

I’m smiling as I’m thinking that I’m glad that no professor ever gave me a homework assignment like that. Maybe you, esteemed reader, are thinking the same thing. But just maybe we’ll all learn something from the exercise. I’m not great at answers, but I love asking questions.

 

I'm still happy to have my mother's rosary accompany me in my travels.

Have a great week, my friends. I hope God appears to you and speaks to you this week. Or maybe I should rephrase that: I hope that you are “seeing” and “listening” as God appears and speaks to you this week.