Monday I served as a deacon at a funeral Mass for a woman
from a remote hamlet, Pasquingalón. I had visited there once for a Mass and the
family there had sent me home with some grapefruit and plantains. They also had a beautiful garden, looking
out on a beautiful valley.
Last week at the celebration of the feast of St. Joseph the
Worker in La Colonia San José Obrero I had seen Saúl from there – and he had
played and sang at the Mass.
It was his mother who had died.
The Mass was in Dulce Nombre, because the burial would be in
the Dulce Nombre cemetery. After they brought the body into the church and placed
it before the altar, I saw Saúl and asked him how he was feeling. “Triste,
pero con esperanza”, he told me.
I was floored. He grasped the meaning of death and resurrection
and put it in these four words.
He is for me a living witness to the words of St. Paul in 1
Thessalonians 4:13:
We do not want you
to be unaware, brothers, about those who have fallen asleep, so that you may
not grieve like the rest, who have no hope.
In some ways, these words of a campesino help me reflect on my
reaction to events in the last few weeks.
This has been a difficult time here in Honduras.
Migration is increasing. Last Sunday at Mass in Plan Grande we
prayed for fourteen persons who had left in the past week in the hopes of
reaching the US, finding some work to improve the lives of their families. We
also prayed for a man and his son who had reached the US.
Then, one night, I saw a note on a friend’s Facebook page,
asking help for a relative’s seven-year-old son who had died, crossing the Rio Grande,
in hope of getting to his parents. (Story here in Spanish,) They had recently fled to the US to earn
some money to pay off a debt they had incurred trying to pay for the medical
expenses of another child.
Meanwhile, this past week there were demonstrations, led
mostly by organizations of teachers and medical professionals, in the face of a
law that would, in their understanding, lead to the privatization of health and
educational services.
As someone explained it to me, the money for these services
would be provided to the municipalities who would be responsible for providing
the services and, if they couldn’t, they could contract it out to private
persons or businesses. In addition, this would mean that there would be a
reduction of people with steady jobs and an increase of contracted jobs, with
no guarantee of stability. As the person told me, this seems a sure way to
provoke more emigration.
But what concerns me is that this seems to be a part of the
Honduran government’s response to the International Monetary Fund’s policies of
cut backs of funding in public services.
Massive marches resulted and streets were blocked – with some
violence by some protestors, but there was massive military and police
response, including the use of undercover agents, one of whom shot into a crowd
of protestors. Various public leaders, including a church leader and, of course,
the government, castigated the protestors. Though I am completely against
violence, from any side, this seems like a way of blaming those who protest,
ignoring their concerns.
The demonstrations were, surprisingly, somewhat effective. At
least for a short time, the law will not go into force. But who knows.
But in the midst of this, there is a report that Israel is
sending 1000 soldiers to train Honduran military and police. This is in
addition to the arms that Honduras is buying from Israel.
I fear that Honduras is become even more militarized than
ever. With increasing concentration of power in the executive, this is a
dangerous situation.
But in the midst of this, I note that people are continuing
to go forward.
I had two workshops for catechists recently. Even though the
turnout was discouragingly poor, those in attendance were enthusiastic.
This past weekend I took twelve young people in my pickup to
the diocesan youth encounter in Copán Ruinas. It was an all-night vigil that
began with a procession from the main plaza. About 80 young people came from
our parish.
The procession began in heat but soon encountered a
torrential downpour – with hail! Many of us got soaked. And when we got to the
place for the major events, we found a muddy field.
The rain stopped and some music groups played before the
crowd of several thousand.
Mass began about two hours late. I served as deacon and
helped with communion. I was a bit overwhelmed by the number of young people
coming forward to receive. There is hope for the church in Honduras.
After Mass, there was a meal for the clergy and the groups
that performed. (I feel bad that there was no food provided for the youth.)
I tried to get some sleep in the car – but to no avail. I
was, therefore, awake to hear a great song written by one of the priests of the
diocese – which resounded with “no” to corruption, to poverty, and even to a
church that keeps silence (una iglesia callada).
When I got home I slept a bit – but there was an afternoon
Mass for the ninth day after the death of Don Raúl, a good man whose son had
been baptized at the Easter Vigil a few years ago and who had gone to the Youth
Encounter.
There is more – both of sadness and hope.
I am reminded of the first words of Vatican II’s Pastoral
Constitution of the Church in the Modern World, Gaudium et Spes:
The joys and the
hopes, the griefs and the anxieties of the [people] of this age, especially
those who are poor or in any way afflicted, these too are the joys and hopes,
the griefs and anxieties of the followers of Christ. Indeed, nothing genuinely
human fails to raise an echo in their hearts. For theirs is a community composed
of [human beings].
More and more I feel blessed to be here. These words of
Henri Nouwen speak to me:
"Here we see what compassion
means. It is not a bending toward the underprivileged from a privileged
position; it is not a reaching out from on high to those who are less fortunate
below; it is not a gesture of sympathy or pity for those who fail to make it in
the upward pull. On the contrary, compassion means going directly to those
people and places where suffering is most acute and building a home
there."
And so I try to live in my home – sad at times, but
sustained by hope.
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