I have an earned doctorate in philosophy from Boston College, but I don’t use the appellation "Doctor." However, I remember the facetious remark of a dear departed friend, a teacher of philosophy from the University of Scranton, Tom Garrett. I don’t have his exact words, but he noted that we (philosopers) are the true doctors – teachers – and the rest are technicians. He was, of course, joking; his wife was a nurse and he wrote much on medical ethics.
But I do not use the title doctor for other reasons. I may have used it occasionally when I taught a few classes at Iowa State University, but I see no reason to use it here in Honduras. In fact, I think it would be wrong for me to use it here.
Class and privilege are engrained in the Honduran society. The people I work with in a rural parish are often looked down upon by government officials, educated people in the cities, and even some clergy. I remember one remark of the president of the National Assembly in 2008 who called people from our area, protesting for strong mining legislation, “gente del monte,” which could be translated as “hillbillies” or “hayseeds,” obvious terms of contempt.
Classism pervades the culture, sometimes in subtle, non-provocative terms. It is not uncommon to refer to someone as “profe” – professor – even when they have been retired for years. I know it’s a mark of respect, but still it strikes this egalitarian gringo as classist.
But what is even more serious is how some with advanced degrees insist on being called “licenciado” (“I have a university degree”), or “ingeniero” (“I’m an engineer”), or “abogado” (“I’m an attorney”). Sure, you’ve worked for that, but that doesn’t make you better than another person who cannot read or write, possibly because his family was poor and there was no school nearby and he had to work to help his family survive.
And so I don’t want to be called “doctor.”
When I first came to Honduras in 2007, the bishop asked me to help put in campus ministry at the Santa Rosa campus of the Catholic University of Honduras (UNICAH). I soon realized that only the rector of the campus and I had doctorates. Many of the professors only had undergraduate degrees.
Part of my style of ministry is to be available and get to know people by just hanging out – which Dominican friar Timothy Radcliffe once called “loitering by intent” (which, I believe, is a crime in England).
I got to know a number of students and professors. There was one young prof whom I often spoke with. He called me “Juan” or “Juancito,” until one day he called me “Doctor.” He had found out that I had a doctorate. I know it was a sign of respect, but I quickly and politely told him that he should address me as “Juan.” He now calls me Juan.
But I also found that this classism is not limited to Honduras. On one of my visits to the US, someone told me that someone I knew was questioning my working so much in the countryside, thinking I was possibly wasting my time and education. My response is, “Don’t the poor deserve people with doctorates working with them?”
And so I'd prefer not to be called "Doctor."
Nor should you call me "Señor Diácono."
Four and a half years ago I was ordained a permanent deacon in the diocese of Santa Rosa de Copán, the first in our diocese and the third in the country. It was, as I’ve noted in other blog posts, not something I had sought but rather I resisted it, even when my pastor and the bishop suggested it.
But now I faced a new dilemma. What would I be called?
The people I worked with in the parish know me as “Juancito,” a name I got from the kids in the parish of Suchitoto, El Salvador, when I volunteered there for six months in 1992. In many ways, I cherish this name more than any university title.
Juancito is the diminutive form of Juan in parts of El Salvador and Honduras. It's like calling me Johnny or, better, "Jack" - which my parents calle me and the name my cousins use.
Most of the people here still just call me “Juancito” or, at times, “Diácono Juancito.” That suites me fine, though I don’t hesitate occasionally that the word “diácono” means “servant.”
Yet a few priests began to refer to me as “Señor Diácono,” which could be translated “Mr. Deacon.” I quickly began to respond that “Señor Diácono” is a contradiction, an oxymoron
It is important to note that, in Spanish, “Señor” means “mister,” but it is also the translation for “Lord.” To hear someone call me, “Señor diácono,” feels like someone calling me a Lord Servant.
I know that Jesus told us that we are not to be like the “rulers of the gentiles” (Matthew 20: 25), who ‘lord it over them” (Mark 10: 42) but to be like the Son of Man, “who came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matthew 20:28; Mark 10:44).
So it is better to call me "Siervo".
More recently, I have occasionally begun to refer to myself as “el mozo diácono” – the servant who is a helper, an attendant – even a hired hand. For me, this expresses more what the deacon is called to be, the one who accompanies those on the margins.
And so, I continue to resist being called “señor diácono,” despite what others say. I believe that to do otherwise is to give into a clericalism that denies my servant vocation.
This, of course, is not just something that happens here in Honduras with priests.
A while ago I wrote a blog post on permanent deacons wearing Roman collars. To put it simply, I don’t see this as fitting, in most cases. The post can be found here.
I posted a link on a private Facebook group for deacons. Although I did not argue against wearing the collar in terms of clericalism, I was rather strongly attacked, some questioning my formation, and so on. A couple of response were much more thoughtful and helped me nuance my position. But what struck me was that such a strong reaction from some permanent deacons. I think this may indicate the temptation to clericalism is strong among some deacons. I revisited the issue with another blog post which you can read here.
These reflections lead me back to reflecting on my calling.
I am here in Honduras to accompany the people, to be their servant. I bring with me knowledge and experience which I ought to share, but in a way that respects them and, even more, respects what they could be.
Sharing the Gospel in another culture doesn’t mean that one has to accept all aspects of the culture. But it does mean that one has to respect the persons and accompany them on their journeys.
I still have major problems with the authoritarianism, machismo, and passivity I find among some people, tied to traditionalisms as well as to traditional political parties. I also have problems with the occasional unquestioning acceptance of whatever a priest says (and not just about doctrine.)
But I know that I don’t have all the answers. (I don’t even know all the questions.) But I want to be with the people as we journey together in our efforts to follow Christ and live as citizens of the Reign of God.
Call me "hermano juancito,""brother Jack" if you want. It's what the kids in the rural cantones of Suchitoto called me in 1992. I think they got it right. Now I have to live up to it.
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| Photo in Haciendita II, Suchitoto, 1992. |
ADDENDUM:
A friend put a link to this post in a post on a Facebook group for Catholic Deacons. There were several thoughtful responses, some critical. One was particularly helpful for me. I'm posting it and my response below.
Well, I happen to come from a Hispanic culture, I am an engineer and a permanent deacon so I feel qualified to comment on this. I'm sure that in his years of service this brother deacon has learned much from the people he serves and yet, I feel he has missed a very important lesson from Hispanic cultures; what people from these cultures call "El Respeto" (The Respect). You see, in Hispanic cultures one form of showing appreciation is by using the appellatives, "Doctor", "Ingeniero" , "Diacono". This is done not to separate or stratify society (Although it sometimes that is the result) but as a way to express respect and appreciation for a person accomplishments. In the same way in Spanish we have the formal "usted" and the informal "tu" tenses. When a priest calls him "Senor Diacono" he is expressing the respect he has for another fellow servant of The Master. I wonder if the good deacon lets everyone call him "Tu" and is bothered by the use of "Usted". Don't get me wrong, I know what my brother deacon is trying to say but he is just projecting his anglicized idea of social relationships into a culture that works in a very different way.
My response to the comment:
I noted in the article that sometimes this is a way of expressing respect. But I see it all too often in a context in Honduras - which may be different from your experience.
I have heard academics speaking down to campesinos; I have also heard disrespect for campesinos by clergy as well as by politicians.
I have no problem with anyone using "tu" with me, although this is not used much in the Honduran context. With my friends in El Salvador, I am accustomed to have them speak with me using "tu" and "vos." In fact, I find myself thankful when someone uses "vos" with me, since it indicates a sense of equality and friendship.
As for the question of projecting my anglicized idea of social relations, I think there may be some of that, but you may note that I refer to examples from both the US and the Honduran culture.
Also, cultures are not static, nor are they always good. Sometimes one might challenge a culture.
In my response to priests calling my "Señor diácono," I am very clearly challenging the culture of clericalism which is all too strong here in Honduras. I am also encouraging them to think about the servant aspect of the deacon.
Today, at the ordination of a transitional deacon, I was sitting at lunch with some seminarians and tried to explain this. I think they understood. Whether they agreed or not is another question.We didn't have enough time for a good discussion, but I think it's important to raise questions that challenge us in the way we live and the way we live our faith.
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