Monday, March 30, 2009

Soul Journal: Daniel in El Mozote

I've written about El Mozote before. It's one of those "thin places" in my life where the distance between heaven and earth, delegations and martyrs, seems very small. There are places where a certain kind of quiet reverence seems to be demanded- the Vietnam Memorial Wall; the site of the Twin Towers in NY; the Holocaust Museum; etc. It seems almost like a violation of the space to speak in anything but a hushed tone or, sometimes, to speak at all. To me, that's El Mozote.

So, along comes Daniel. Here we are, a delegation from the US, traveling quite a ways to visit this site of an awful massacre, and we meet Daniel. What a treat. Our introduction to him was when we first arrived in El Mozote, which is still very sparsely populated and so we're about the only folk there except for a few people who will guide us on our visit. We got out of the microbus and met Maria, who would guide us and tell us the story of El Mozote. But, before that, several of our delegation members were more interested in visiting a bathroom. So, Maria told her little boy, Daniel, to show these folks where the bathroom is. Daniel obeyed his mother, but did it in such a shy way that we were all smitten with him immediately. He looked down to the ground and started walking slowly toward the bathroom, looking up only long enough to see if anyone was following. I did not follow, but those who did told me that when they got near the bathroom he just gestured quickly with his hand toward it and then turned to walk back to his mother. It was fetching and he seemed like such a sweet, shy boy. In the end, he was sweet. But, shy? Hmm...

Maria, Daniel's mother, is a lovely woman who was 11 at the time of the massacre. She escaped death because she happened to be in another town that day. Her five brothers and pregnant sister-in-law were not elsewhere and they were among the people who were killed during the massacre. It is an awful story and one of the great experiences of my life was having the honor of meeting Maya Rufina- the only adult survivor- on a trip to El Mozote and hearing her speak about that awful event. Maya Rufina is now buried at the site of the memorial following her death a few years ago.

The most difficult part of the story of El Mozote, for me, is the massacre of the children, which took place in the sacristy of the church. The children were shot and then the building was burned to the ground as those who were not yet dead cried out for their mothers and fathers. Today, there is a garden there, with some of the pavement still bearing blood stains. But, in that place of death, there is now a beautiful, muti-media display of art on the side of the remaining church building, with images of hope and remembrance. Along the bottom of the artwork are names of the children killed there, with ages ranging from 3 days to 18 years. Lots and lots of names. It baffles me to imagine how hard it would be to identify the children when the entire town was virtually wiped out during the massacre. Some of them were only remembered as a child of So and So..., probably by a distant relative from another town. As I read the names, hear the story again, view the monument that says "El Mozote, Nunca Mas!" (Never again!), see the pavement and the artwork, I enter a tunnel of wonder and reverence, where silence seems to be the only thing to say.

And then, there's Daniel. After escaping his initial shyness, he was loud, happy, and energetic. He teased his little sister, he asked his mother for money to get a drink, he climbed a ladder far higher than someone his age ought to be climbing, he ate unidentifiable (to us) objects that fell from the tree, he was cute and mischievous (whereas his little sister was just adorable.) Daniel was not going to let us walk around El Mozote in stunned silence. Whatever quiet moments we had, were quiet only to the extent that we were able to tune him out and that was not easy.
The most unnerving thing that Daniel did was when we first walked up to the site of the old sacristy where the children were killed. Daniel ran ahead of us and when we got there he was lying on the grass. I don't know if he was acting out the story, playing with us, or simply lying in the grass, but it was shocking to see him lying there, right were children would have been lying after being killed. I was petrified. But, his little sister merely jumped on him and he laughed as they tussled a bit in the grass. The juxtaposition of such light-hearted freedom and life in the location where innocent lives were brutally and senselessly massacred was almost overwhelming to me.

But that's how life is sometimes. A flower grows out of the killing field and a child plays where his cousins died. I'm sure Daniel has heard the story of El Mozote many times over. I suspect he'll hear it again and again throughout his life. But I hope he never loses his ability to play there, to live where death has spoken, and to be a witness to us that the reverence for life is not only found in quiet memorials but also in the loud noise of play.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Soul Journal: Perquin

Perquin is a small town in the Morazan district. Some people say that it was the unofficial center of the liberation movement (FMLN) during the war. I don't know if it had that distinction intentionally, but there is a significant event that happened there, which makes Perquin a meaningful place to visit when we endeavor to listen to the stories of the people of El Salvador.

As Mark Danner recounts in his excellent book, Massacre at El Mozote, one of the FMLN's most significant military achievements ended up in Perquin. The story- as I remember it, so see Danner's book for a more accurate account- is that the Salvadoran Army's Colonel Domingo Monterrosa, wanted badly to capture "Radio Venceremos," which the FMLN used to warn villages and towns and one another about the army's movements. Radio Venceremos allowed the FMLN to stay one step ahead of the army in many cases, and Monterrossa wanted to get the transmitter in order to cut off the broadcasts. (Monterrossa was born right across the street from the house where our Parish Team works and where we stay when we are in ES. He was a very effective military leader- "effective" meaning he did not hesitate to kill women, men, children, combatants, non-combatants, and even animals to achieve his goals. He was the leader of the fearsome "Atlacatl Battalion", and the one who ordered the massacres at El Mozote, Cinquera and elsewhere as part of his policy that "you are either for us or we will kill you.")


What the FMLN did was to boobytrap one of their radio transmitters, by planting a bomb inside of it and leaving it behind them as if they had accidentally done so when they left hurridly. The soldiers who found it took it to Monterrosa, who immediately boarded a helicopter in order to take it to the army's leadership as a trophy of a great accomplishment. When the helicopter was over Perquin, the FMLN detonated the bomb and Monterossa was killed. The place where the mangled helicopter landed is now the location of the Museo de la Revolucion.


This museum is a unique, must-see when one visits El Salvador. Not only does its remote site remind us of the challenges that the FMLN faced when living in the mountainsides, but the simple photo-and-typed-index-card displays of the museum are authentic testaments to the fact that this is a people's museum, organized and put together by those who lived the struggle. It tells of the poverty that provoked the war, the violence that the government used to quell protests, the honor that is due to martyrs, the horrors of massacres and murder, and the process of peace. The silent witnesses that one finds in that museum are simple things like a 500 pound bomb that says "Made in the USA" on the side or the reinforced bullet-proof autos that were used to attend signing of the peace accords. Everything there gives us something to think about, something to remember, and something to repent.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Soul Journal: The Market, Tears of Joy

Whenever a group from Heartland Church goes to El Salvador, we visit a woman named Haydee, whose name I am not sure how to spell. I've seen it written in several ways and I'm going with Haydee, because that's how I saw it first, but it's pronounced "Hi Day." We have a special relationship with her and here's why.

Ten years ago, Bill and Joyce went on our very first trip to ES, in order to see if Heartland should commit itself to a long-term sister-parish relationship with the community of El Tablon. They came back with photographs, stories, and - most importantly- hearts that had been captured by the people of El Salvador. After sharing their experiences with us, the congregation at Heartland voted to step into a long-term relationship with El Tablon, focusing primarily on building relationships and attending to the three needs that the people of El Tablon had identified as their greatest needs: Potable water, education, and economic development. That relationship is still going strong- Woohoo!

Later, when Rev. Bob Cook told us about a young girl named Milagro who was in need of corrective surgery on her achilles tendons, Joyce opened up her home to Millie and her mother Haydee. After some arrangements were made with the Blank Children's Hospital in Des Moines, Haydee and Millie came to the US and lived with Joyce and her husband Jim and their daughter Alexis for three months, while Millie underwent surgery and rehabilitation. Since that time, Joyce and Haydee have managed to keep in touch, although neither of them speaks the other's language. Millie, on the other hand, has become so adept at English that we employ her whenever we are in ES now as our translator. Through Millie, Joyce and Haydee have stayed close over the 8 years since Haydee and Millie were here.

Heydee has a Papuseria ("Papuseria Millie"), which is a kiosk where she makes and sells papusas. Not everyone loves papusas, but I do- they are like stuffed tortillas (cheese, meat, you name it), usually served with some cabbage and red sauce, which is kind of like salsa, but not so spicy. Haydee makes them well and she loves to have us over so she can show us how to make them (and feed us about 3 times more than we ought to eat.) Whenever we visit El Salvador, one thing we like to do on Market day is make a beeline for Papuseria Millie and say hello.

This time, Joyce was with us and Haydee did not know it. It was an emotional trip for Joyce all around. Not only does she have one of the softest hearts that God ever made, she was returning for the first time since that initial trip 10 years ago. Things that had changed brought tears to her eyes; things that had not changed brought tears to her eyes. Since our reflection times were centered around the theme of "tears," Joyce was our "case in point" all week long.

Haydee saw us, greeted us warmly, smiling and hugging and doing all the things that she always does when we see her. It took her a few seconds to realize that Joyce was standing right there. For years now, she always asks me "Como esta Joyce and Jim?" But now, she looked dazed and confused for a moment, then burst out into tears and laughing and hugging Joyce and accusing us of trying to give her a heart attack, and starting it all over again. Seriously, it was the longest, most joyful and drawn out greeting that I've ever witnessed in person. "Joyce, Joyce, Joyce is here!"

Tears. Who can fathom them? Tears of sorrow; tears of joy. Tears mark that wonderful conjunction between the body and the soul, where broken or dancing hearts express themselves through the secretion of our eyes. Of all of the things we experienced in the market that day, Joyce's and Haydee's tears were the gifts most precious.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Soul Journal: The Market

Sunday in Berlin, El Salvador is market day- at least until noon. People from the city and many of the surrounding Cantons set up shop, either with a rented space inside of the deceptively large and complex market itself or outside along the street. Most people have a kiosk of some sort, a few have just a large piece of plywood with their wares attached to it. Everyone shows ingenuity and industry in what they sell and how they sell it- from the guy selling pirated DVDs with a DVD player handy to demonstrate that they work, to the folks selling dried fish set neatly in tubs, separated from the crabs. The market is a place of commerce, but it is also a place where people gather as they sell or buy or simply chat with the person in the next kiosk. There was an abundance of things and an abundance of people there.

The night before we went to the market, our delegation had a reflection time when we looked at the story from Luke 7, where a nameless woman came into a dinner party and washed Jesus’ feet with her tears. It boggles the mind to think of how much pain would create enough tears to wash someone’s feet, but the host of the party simply dismissed the woman as a ‘sinner.’ So, Jesus question to him was, “Do you see this woman?” So, the whole time I was walking through the market, I was thinking about that question and hoping to see, to really see, the people that I passed in the market.

Seeing everyone was not easy. First, there are so many people there moving around and if you were in the aisle you need to keep moving because there are plenty of folks behind you. And, if you stop for too long to look at anything or anyone, some of the vendors assume that you want to buy something and begin to offer you everything they have. Others, like the legless man sitting along the corridor with his hand outstretched, are hard to look at. Sometimes it felt like I was being a ‘tourist’ when the folks gathered there wanted me to be a ‘customer.’ And one guy- he and his brother are familiar faces to us after all these years- simply wanted me to give him money. I tried talking a bit with him, found out he had spent a little time in Virginia (my home state) and spoke a little English, etc. But as soon as I said ‘No’ to his request for a couple of dollars, he got pretty ugly and I simply had to walk away from him.

Walking through the market with Jesus’ question ringing in my ears was an interesting experience. Did I see that woman? Did I notice that child? Did I pay enough attention to that man? I did not want to put on my “Don’t mess with me” face that I normally wear in crowded places. I wanted to be fully present. BUT, I was reminded constantly that relationships are two-way streets.

A prolonged look may be a welcomed encounter in one case and a suspect invasion of privacy in another. Or, to put it more crudely, just because I show up wanting a “Jesus moment” with people doesn’t mean that the woman who has spent all morning loading up her avocadoes in hopes of making a little money wants to waste her time with a guy who has no intention of buying any. Being fully present in the market means not only carrying good intentions around in my head, but also honoring the real folks whom I encounter- people who were not just sitting there so that I could have a mission experience, but people with lives and stories and struggles and hopes.

Sometimes the answer to “Did you see this woman?” might be, “Yes, and she wanted me to get out of the way because the guy behind me wanted to buy something.” This darned world just refuses to center around me even when I’m trying to be all Jesusy.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Soul Journal: The Language of Worship

After we completed our orientation time in San Salvador, we loaded up a van and headed for a town called Berlin. Why a town in El Salvador would have the same name as its more famous counterpart in Germany is a mystery to me, but that's the name. The nice part about Berlin is that we can, and encourage one another to, walk around the town in groups of 3 or more. One of our favorite walks is to the ice cream shop, where we realize pretty quickly that we are the minority here. While my own ability to communicate in Spanish gets a teeny bit better each time I go, the fact that I have to work so hard at it reminds me that I am the visitor here; the guest, the invader, the border crosser, the person for whom a simple transaction like buying an ice cream cone is complicated because I don't know the words that 3 year old child knows. So, while I thought I was getting a nice buttery ice cream with walnuts, I actually got something with raisins. That's the second time I've screwed up trying to order food on my own. The first was when I thought I was ordering pizza with cheese; instead I was ordering one 'piece' (of chicken) with a little square of cheese on the side. In a country where too many people are undernourished, I simply eat my mistakes. The chicken tasted fine, but I don't eat meat, so it made me queasy the next day. The raisin ice cream didn't make me sick, I just despise raisins.

Our first day in Berlin was Sunday. We went to mass at the Parroquia de San Jose (Parish of Saint Joseph) and it was a great Sunday for us to be there, because the community of Alejandria is participating in worship. That means that our friend Balmore (a 'Delegate of the Word' in Alejandria and a part of the Pastoral Team that hosts us) was one of the liturgists. He's good at it. Other people from Alejandria were leading music. The regular guitarist was gone for the day, so his son was playing and you could tell that he's a little less accomplished at this than his father. Nobody had hymnals or other music books, except for the small choir at the front- which consisted of about 5 people from Alejandria along with 4 of us. There is no bulletin, so every song begins with a few strumming chords of the guitar, a couple of the lead singers start in on the song, the rest of the choir join in right away, and then whoever knows the song in the congregation joins in eventually. One song seemed unfamiliar to most everyone except the choir. The Priest would occasionally start singing and he had a nice enough voice, but he also had a loud microphone, which meant that when he sang he took over. And it seemed that on this day he needed to take over a few times to help the guitarist slow down or speed up a bit.

Other parts of the liturgy were interactive on occasion- the Nicean Creed, the responsive words as the Sacraments were consecrated, and so forth. Again, nothing was printed; everything was said from memory whether said confidently or mumbled hesitantly. The sermon seemed long to me, but that has more to do with the fact that I didn't understand a word of it than time itself. Of course, nobody was taking notes or following an outline on the back of the bulletin. You just listen.

I suppose that the primary reason there was no bulletin or hymnal is because many of the folks in the congregation- especially the older ones- cannot read. While literacy is as high now in Berlin as it has ever been, a worship service is an accumulation of history. And the history at the Parroquia de San Jose has been that you learn the songs by singing them over the years and you learn the rhythm of the service by participating in it over the years and you develop a type of 'liturgical literacy' whether you can read or not. The absence of printed stuff and the dependence on repetition is how everyone can be included- over time.

In fact, text-less, repetitious worship is probably the kind of worship that has happened in more places over more times than the text-bound worship that many of us experience in the US- whether we go to churches that read out of bulletins, sing out of hymnals, or project words on a screen. It was certainly the case that the worship of ancient Israel was more dependent on memorized responses and simple sung refrains, leaving most of the textual stuff up to the priests and the choir leaders- the Psalms are evidence of that.

Here's the funny part: In the land of worship, those of us who only know how to worship with printed or projected texts are like the English speakers trying to purchase an ice cream cone in Berlin. We are the minority. When we go "church shopping" instead of bearing with the same group of people over many years, we are the minority. When we expect innovation and think the church has to reflect the same technological pizzazz as Disneyland, we are the minority. When we criticize liturgy as 'boring repetition,' we are the minority. That "boring repetition" has actually been a means of enabling people to participate in the message and life of the church for millenia. I wonder if our refusal to learn the native language of the land of worship means that we end up ordering ice cream with raisins instead of walnuts.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Soul Journal: Location, Vocation, Location

One of the most breath-taking moments that I ever experienced in El Salvador was on an early trip. We had seen the poverty of San Salvador (so we thought) as people spend their day hawking items at stop lights or trying to scratch out a living selling fruits at a roadside stand. (What a risky living, to try to entice people flying down a highway to stop and buy your wares- while watching your children.) We had seen other forms of poverty, especially following the earthquake, when people lost their mud-brick-and-stick homes and were living under plastic strung from trees. I thought we had seen it all, until we saw the community living at the garbage dump. (I am not intending to use the word 'dump' dismissively, but that's what the NGO herself was calling it)

A garbage dump. Just when I thought I had seen it all- a garbage dump.

When we hear that unemployment is over 50% and underemployment is much higher; when we hear that people are landless; when we hear that people have to be creative in finding ways to provide for their families- that means things like a community that lives in a garbage dump. They came to forage through the garbage, looking for items that could be redeemed by pulling it out, cleaning it up, and taking it to town to sell on the street. They stayed because the did not have another home and by staying the could get first dibs on new piles of garbage. They found scraps of plywood or tin to lean against each other, pieces of string and plastic to hold things together, and they made them into their homes. There were children living there, old people dying there, and of course there were numerous health problems festering there because of the toxins that inevitably seep into the rivulets of water that form during the rainy season.

An NGO worker told me that she was part of a group that advocated on behalf of this community. The city government of San Salvador was going to close this dump and start using a new one, which was bounded on all sides by high fencing and barbed wire. And the people of the dump protested. It might be festering, it might be an eyesore, it might be heartbreaking, but they called it home and work and it was their way of providing for their families. The story that I heard at that time (I don't know the current status), was that they agreed for half the trash to go to the 'old dump' and half to go to the new one. A small victory, according to the NGO worker.

I think we saw this dump on our most recent trip. We stayed at a different guest house and so we saw a part of San Salvador that I had not seen in the last few years and I am pretty sure that we passed the dump on our way out of town. It is the dry season right now, so the puddles and mud were not there like the first time I saw it. And it might not be an active landfill- it didn't have that look to it. The biggest difference for me was that I felt guilty staring at it and tried not to. I was telling my van-mates about the earlier experience, but I had this extreme feeling that I was falling into the trap of the 'poverty tour' if all I did was to gawk at how horrible this place was. It is their home. They emerge from those shacks as clean as possible, trying to keep their dignity intact. They are living there, eating there, making love there, birthing babies there, teaching the alphabet there, dying there, dreaming there. And I have to respect that.

Shortly after my first encounter with this dump, while back home in the States, I met a missionary who had been in El Salvador for a couple of years. We shared stories and interests and I liked him immediately. Then he told me that he was part of a program that was trying to get the city of San Salvador to close a garbage dump where people were living in horrible conditions. It was the kind of story that I would normally applaud and support. But, the wisdom of my NGO friend forced me to ask him, "Do the people in that dump want to be relocated?" (I know, it sounds like a stupid question, almost like when Jesus would look at bent over, ill people and ask, "Do you want to be healed?")

The missionary just stared at me for a while and mumbled, "Well, I never really asked."

In the end, I don't know if people ought to be living in a garbage dump. I don't know if the NGO worker was doing them a favor by helping them to stay there or if the missionary was doing them a favor by trying to get the dump closed. But, this much seems clear, if we view the folks living in the dump as real people, God's beloved children: We ought to ask.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Soul Journal: In San Salvador

Whenever we travel to El Salvador, we spend at least half a day in the capitol city, San Salvador. Here are a few of the images that come to my mind when I think of San Salvador: There are lots of buses that leave diesel fumes behind; any bank, store, or gas station with large amounts of cash have armed guards dallying in front of the building; stop lights are places of small entrepreneurship- people insisting on washing your windows, selling any number of items, looking slightly desperate; and somehow the familiar places- like McDonald's- seem offensively out of place (but maybe that's just me wanting a true 'other world' experience.)

However, there are some powerful and beautiful sides to San Salvador as well. I have stayed at three different guest houses- 'Los Pinos' being the latest- and they all offer wonderful hospitality. It's not like a Ramada Inn. There may be 3 or 4 single beds in a room and the lone television is in the lobby. But, the best thing these places offer- to me- are the outdoor sitting areas. They are enclosed by high walls covered with either barbed wire or broken glass- like every house in San Salvador- but these small yards are filled with beautiful vegetation, hammocks and rocking chairs, and cooing birds. Especially when we go to El Salvador in February and one morning we slog through old snow to get to the Des Moines airport; it is nothing short of heaven to sit on a rocking chair the next morning sipping coffee and being able to sit outside without freezing one's tush off!

Okay, that's the indulgence part of San Salvador. Here is a more meaningful part. We visit the University of Central America (hereafter UCA), a Jesuit university where six Jesuit professors, along with a housekeeper and her daughter, were brutally murdered by the Salvadoran military during the war. Under the cover of darkness, soldiers shot each of the professors and, because they were intellectuals, left their brains exposed as a warning to others. The bodies were found the next morning in a place that the housekeeper's husband later turned into a rose garden. I often think of that labor of love, how ever push of the shovel must have been accompanied by the tears of a grieving husband and father.
Inside, there is a museum that has displays about each of the professors. Ignacio Ellacuria was rector of the University, an outspoken critic of the Army, and a very good theologian who articulated what is popularly called "Liberation Theology." Ignacio Martin-Baro studied the effects of war on the human psyche and was an amazing guitarist. Segundo Montes was a strong advocate for refugees and human rights. Amano Lopez was a gifted counselor and pastoral worker. Joaquin Lopez y Lopez was the director of an education program in poor communities. Juan Ramon Moreno was a gifted preacher and retreat leader. Elba Ramos was the Jesuits’ housekeeper, remembered as sensitive and intuitive. Celina Ramos was Elba’s 14-year-old daughter who had worked as a catechist.

The museum personalizes each of these martyrs by showing some of their belongings as well as the clothing that they were wearing at the time of the massacre. Father Martin-Baro, for example, was a musician, whose type-written lyrics to "Yesterday" by the Beatles strikes me as a longing for a simpler time that he would never see. The museum also has has information about other martyrs in El Salvador, from the famous cases of the four churchwomen who were raped and murdered to the obscure, nameless folks who were shot trying to swim across a river to safety.

Also at the UCA is the Romero Chapel, which I mentioned in a previous post as having graphic charcoal paintings on the wall of torture victims. There is also this powerful oil painting that has so much symbolism in it. The dog, the pointing rich man, the death-soldier, the wealthy pious woman, all are fairly familiar symbols in paintings about the war and its victims. Jesus is depicted as a torture victim, with a blindfold and wire around his thumbs. The six Jesuits are there, along with Elba and Celina Ramos, rising in solidarity with Christ out of the fire that emerges from the Salvadoran volcano. Think of this painting whenever you read Romans 6:5, "If we have been united with Christ in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his."
(I can't help but wonder if the pointing man in this picture is a satire of the famous crucifixion painting Matthias Grunewald, where John the Baptist is pointing to the crucified Christ while holding an open Bible. If there are any art-savvy people out there, I'd love to hear your reply to this possibility.)

Monday, March 9, 2009

Soul Journal: The Forgiveness of Sins

Forgiveness is a paradox in El Salvador. On the one hand, it takes a enormous amount of good will and forgiveness for former armies to become current political parties and to actually carry on as a government without constantly rekindling a war. It also takes forgiveness for neighbors to live together knowing that they were once enemies. In that respect, Salvadorans have done a marvelous job moving past the rancor of war and functioning as a country.

On the other hand, suspicions run deep, hurts are still festering, and things that look like small infractions to an outsider carry heavy implications for many Salvadorans. And, of course, there is always a tension between forgiving and forgetting. Ought one to 'forget' the mysterious disappearances that tore families apart? Is it a sign of not cooperating to construct a museum remembering those who were martyed? Or, ought the truth to be exposed deliberately and openly, even if there is no specific punishment to follow? Difficult questions, all.

One of the most tender issues still in El Salvador is the matter of death squads. During the war, the newspapers or other forms of information would identify someone as being an enemy and that would be a signal to death squads that the person ought to be eliminated. The death squads were organized- with U.S. assistance- as a shadowy, plausibly deniable, extra-governmental way of carrying out the government's wishes. Their primary work was to terrorize, as they would torture and often leave their victims exposed as a warning to others. One of the most gripping religous expressions that I've ever seen are the 14 paintings of torture victims that are positioned in the Romero Chapel at the University of Central America as 'stations of the cross.'

So, here's a story that I heard while in El Salvador from one of my friends who joined us midweek. In the town of Suchitoto there is a town square (like in most towns in ES) and on there lives a homeless man. He seems to have lost his mind somewhere along the line, but my friend said that the townspeople bring him food each day, make sure that he has a blanket on the coldest nights, and offer other gestures of care- most of which he is incapable of acknowledging properly. My friends noticed the man and asked about him. Then they heard his story.

He had been a leader of a death squad. His guilt finally caught up with him and was mostly what drove him mad. The people of Suchitoto have every reason to let him suffer and die after what he had done to so many of their friends and to people like them. But, instead, they care for him. They are living out what Paul says in Romans 12, "If your enemy is hungry, feed him."

I believe in the forgiveness of sins.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Soul Journal of El Salvador: The Meaning of Saints

Yesterday, I wrote about "the communion of saints" from a Protestant perspective, that all of us are called saints because of the grace of God. Today, I want to begin with a different notion of sainthood. We often speak of this or that person as a "saint," meaning that s/he does wonderful things, is self-giving, or seems especially holy. (The root word for 'saint' and 'holy' are the same in Latin and Greek and Spanish. English is the oddity here.) Or, we speak of specific saints from history, those noted persons who have been officially designated by the Roman Catholic Church as saints according to their lives, their deeds, and miracles attributed to prayers in their names, etc. Hence, we have Saint Valentine, Saint Jude, Saint Mary, Saint Augustine, and before too many years I suspect that we will have a Saint Teresa of Calcutta.

Being born and bread Protestant, I have never had a great appreciation or understanding of saints. I heard of Catholics who would "pray to saints" and I thought that was weird. I heard of miracles that were attributed to those prayers and it sounded hokey to me (still does). And, the whole things smacked of a kind of "works righteousness" which seemed to rub against my understanding of grace. But, then I met San (Saint) Romero.

I call him San Romero because that's what courageous people in El Salvador call him. He has not yet been officially designated as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church and, frankly, there are numerous political and theological hurdles to such an act. But, it is because of Archbishop Oscar Romero's life and death that I think I am beginning to understand a different meaning of sainthood.

Jesus, speaking about his impending death, once said, "Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" (John 12:24). San Romero used that metaphor to speak of his own death, saying "If they kill me, I shall rise once again in you, my people."

And that is precisely what I see among the poor in El Salvador. Because San Romero was in a position of power, but chose to walk with the people in humility, the humble people of El Salvador embrace their humility as a place of dignity. Because San Romero was in a position to live in a palace, but chose instead to live simply at a hospital for cancer patients, the feeble in El Salvador know that God does not reject them in their weakness. Because San Romero was in a position to live, but chose instead to speak the truth even under the continual threat of assassination, God's people in El Salvador are willing to live and even to die if necessary, in order to proclaim "good news to the poor" (Luke 4:16ff). And even when San Romero was murdered while serving the sacraments at the chapel of that hospital, his spirit has indeed risen among the people. He continues to inspire, the continues to teach, he continues to give hope that the work for justice is worth the price that it exacts.

If that is what a "saint" is, then I'm all for it. I have no compunction about saying, "San Romero, pray for us, live among us, and lead us in our walk toward justice." Amen.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Soul Journal of El Salvador: The Communion of Saints

(Only read this first paragraph is you are a geek like me. Otherwise, skip it and jump in below. You've been warned.) In this post, I'm going to be using the word "saints" in a very Reformed, Protestant manner. There is a phrase in one of Paul's letters- part of the greeting- where he refers to the church to whom he is writing as those who are "called saints." Or, it could be translated "called to be saints." My sense is that Protestants tack toward the first translation, assuming that all of us who have been claimed by God's grace are called saints; while Roman Catholics seem to tack toward the second translation, assuming that there are certain persons whose lives and actions make them 'saints', unlike the rest of us. Today I'm using the word "saints" in the first sense; tomorrow I'll explore the second sense.

On our trip to El Salvador, we experienced what the Apostles' Creed calls "the communion of saints." On several occasions we had, in our company, not only our delegations and our hosts, but also the presence of those who have died. And while I am generally not a spooky sort of thinker, feeling the living presence of the dead is very much a Christian experience. I'll share two:

The first was in El Mozote, a town that was virtually wiped out by the Salvadoran military during the war. General Monterrosa- trained and equipped by the U.S.- launched a massacre on the small town of El Mozote because they were thought to be offering aid to the rebels moving around in the surrounding woods. Mark Danner's excellent book, Massacre at El Mozote, describes carefully how this massacre took place. The men were separated out and taken into a house and shot. The women and children were separated and the children were gathered into the church hall and shot, then the hall was set afire. The women went ballistic when they heard their children being killed and had to be herded down the street where they were shot and killed. It was mindless violence, meant to instill fear into other communities. One woman survived- Maya Rufina, who died a couple of years ago. Maya Rufina survived by hiding under the branches of a maguey plant until she was able to escape amid passing cattle and make it into the woods.

It has always been my experience that, whenever I stand in El Mozote, I am standing among the children who were massacred there. I feel them calling me to speak out against violence; to ensure that- as the plaque there says- El Mozote, Nunca mas! (never again!). I feel accountable to those children, whose names and ages are listed from 3 days old to 18 years, numbering at least 300 victims. To me, those children are the saints with whom I am called to live accountably as a person of faith. The communion of saints- living as if victims matter. (You can read more about this by viewing my sermon from last Sunday at www.heartlandpresbyterian.org.)

The second occasion on which I felt the communion of saints was in El Tablon Cerna, when we dedicated a brand new school. Most of the money for this school was provided by memorial money from two women- Ruby Hartsook and Trina Fischer. Ruby's son Larry was there to tell us of how she was born in the early 20th century, riding a horse to a one-roomed school house and getting there first in order to start the fire for warmth. He spoke of how Ruby married and after the 2nd World War they bought a house in which she and her husband lived for the remainder of their days. And now Ruby Hartsook- of blessed memory- has left behind estate money that was given freely on behalf of the children of El Tablon Cerna.

Then Bill Fischer spoke about his daughter Trina. Unlike Ruby, Trina did not live a long and complete life. She died way too young, leaving behind grieving family and her partner Erica, who was able to join us for this celebration as well. Before she died, Trina was able to visit El Tablon and as she was dying she made it clear that whatever memorial gifts might be given on her behalf, she wanted to put toward the school that the children of El Tablon Cerna needed.

Most of our friends from El Tablon would not remember Trina and none of them had ever met Ruby. But, on Wednesday of last week, Trina and Ruby were present in that school- they were remembered, loved, and mystically laughing with us as we danced, crying with us as we cried, and hoping with us as we put our hope in God's steadfast love that endures forever.

I believe in the communion of saints. Amen.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Soul Journal of El Salvador: What We "Do"

One of the most difficult questions that I've ever been asked regarding our sister parish in El Salvador came from a friend who was aware that I had just returned from a visit. She was running on the treadmill at the Y and saw me, took out her ear buds and said, "Welcome back! What did you get done?"

What did we get done?

I don't want to read too much into a question that was meant kindly, but the assumptions behind that question simply do not correspond with the purpose and disposition of our delegations. The question assumes an approach to missions that is project-oriented, which is how missions has been practiced for so many years. We have the truth/know-how/ability; they don't, so missions happens when we go there and do things for them. Again, I'm not trying to be too harsh, but I don't know how else to understand a question like "What did you get done?" and others like it.

What did we get done?

Here is the short answer: Nothing. We did not go down there and build a school, because they are as good or better at building a school than we are. We did not go down there and teach them about Jesus, because they are as good or better at living the gospel than we are. If the assumption of the question is that we've got it going on and they don't, so God wants us to go down there and show them how to be like us, then our delegation was an abysmal failure.

What did we get done?

Here is the long answer: Everything. Our primary goal in El Salvador is to experience the redemptive presence of Christ in the world. Our primary method of achieving this goal is to build, nurture, and sustain a relationship with our brothers and sisters there. Our primary practices of this method are to listen, to "walk with the people," to practice "solidarity," and to open our eyes to "the reality of the situation." For that reason, we go to a massacre site- like El Mozote or Cinquera- where innocent children, women, and men were brutally murdered during the war and cry with the dead. We go to Archbishop Oscar Romero's small apartment and the chapel at the Cancer Hospital (called Divina Providencia) and listen as one of the Carmelite nuns describes Romero's life, death, and meaning for the people of El Salvador. We go to the University of Central America, where six Jesuit priests, their housekeeper, and her daughter were assassinated for their outspoken work on human rights during the war. We go to Perquin, where the poor have erected a museum that describes with photographs and index card captions the origins of the war (poverty), the situation of the war (the poor organizing for their rights), and the breakout of the war (the army being used by the wealthy and powerful to attack the poor.) We go to Berlin and worship in Spanish- as incomprehensible as parts of that service might be to us. We go to El Tablon and listen as the "directiva" (town council) talks of why they need electrification for their health clinic. We meet with the "ACE" (school board) as they describe the number of 9th graders that they need in order to receive government funding for another teacher. We go to El Tablon Cerna and help peel potatoes and carrots, as we prepare for a celebration of a brand new school that will enable K-3rd graders to be educated without having to walk uphill a couple of miles first. We dig holes (imitating our hosts badly), we haul bricks with the children to build temporary ovens, we make fools out of ourselves as we try to 'help' or try to 'talk'. We put ourselves out there, not as experts, but as vulnerable people who have developed enough of a trust-building relationship with them that we don't mind looking foolish. We celebrate with them, we mourn with them, we grit our teeth at the ravages of poverty with them, we dream about tomorrow with them, we celebrate the small steps ("poco a poco") with them, we sleep in their mud and stick houses and recieve their gracious hospitality. Most of all, we try not to be difficult guests.

I guess you could say that's what we got done. But, in phrasing it that way, we would rob this trip of its real value. The real value lies in how our own lives and our friends' lives were mutually enriched by laying aside our cultural arrogance and opening our hearts to one another. God is present among the poor in ways that those of us who are not poor can never quite understand. But, by laying aside the assumption that we can go and "get 'er done" for them, we can be transformed by a respectful, listening relationship. And that is what our delegations are all about.

More later...

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Soul Journal of El Salvador: Introducing the Sojourners

For 10 years now, the community of Heartland Presbyterian Church have had a deliberate and lovely "sister parish" relationship with the community of El Tablon, a poor canton in the mountainside near the city of Berlin in the Usulutan district of El Salvador. El Tablon has 2 parts- the upper and larger part is called El Tablon Centro; the smaller part has just recently attained the official status of a canton and is called El Tablon Cerna. (Hereafter Centro and Cerna). Therefore, by virtue of their own developing community, Heartland Presbyterian Church now has 2 sister parish relationships, which overlap and cooperate quite often as one.

This year's delegation consisted of a very fluid group. From Heartland's membership were me, my son Luke, Lisa and Matt, Scott, Trisha, and Joyce. I could write volumes about each person on this delegation, but initially the most intriguing story here is that Joyce was returning to El Salvador for her second trip. Her initial trip was 10 years ago when she and a man named Bill (see below) went to El Salvador on our very first delegation, mostly to see if we even ought to step into a sister parish relationship with a community there. More about that later...

Also on our delegation were a friend named Mike from our neighboring Central Presbyterian Church in Des Moines, and a friend named Meghan, from Omaha, whom we know through spending a week together each summer at Synod School. Meghan, Matt, and Luke are teenagers, while the rest of us are from 5 to 25 years older than they.

Another member of our delegation- sort of- was Kathy, who lives in Berlin, El Salvador now. Kathy is a member of Heartland Church and has recently been commissioned as a mission co-worker in El Salvador by the Presbytery of Des Moines. That means that she works as part of a "Pastoral Team" (or "Equipo Pastoral" as they call themselves) in Berlin. The Pastoral Team is a group of women and men who began their work in the city of Berlin and its surrounding Cantons as part of the work of the Parroquia de San Jose (Saint Joseph Parish), a catholic church in Berlin. Much of their work (but not all, by any means) centers around empowering sister parish relationships between congregations in the Des Moines area and cantons in the Berlin area. They are marvelous witnesses to grace and very hard workers. Kathy is the one who leads delegations from the US that come to Berlin. Her Spanish is getting better and better and she is a delightful person who demonstrates the kind of servant's heart and flexibility that this kind of relationship requires.

And, finally, our delegation doubled for a short time, because we met up with some other members of Heartland Presbyterian Church and their friends/families for a special occasion. I'll tell more about that later, but for now there was Bill and Joie, Larry, Eddie and Tara, Erica and Nikki, Regina, Alvaro, and another couple whose names I'll recall by the time I get around to telling that story.

So, for today, I will leave it at that: We traveled and the number of our group was fluid and each of us brought something special to the trip that I will share in bits and pieces over the next week or so. I may even tie it all together along the way with the story of the book of Revelation!

Until then ...

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