Don't call me Doctor or Señor Diácono

I have read the condescending and tendentious article of Jacob Epstein, in The Wall Street Journal, castigating Dr. Jill Biden, the future first lady, for using Doctor. I don’t care if she uses the title or not. She earned her doctorate in education and almost no one is going to be disappointed that she is not a medical doctor. 

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.

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.

A comment from a deacon: 

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.

Deacons and Roman collars part 2

Last week I posted on deacons and Roman collars. I posted a link to the post on a private Facebook group.

There were perhaps a few parts of my original article that were not clear. I also recognize that my position has roots in the clericalization found in the Honduran Catholic culture, as well as in some of my experiences in decades of lay ministry in the church in the US. (I do have to admit, though, that most of my experience with clergy was very positive and I saw little clericalism.)

Some of the responses to my blog help me clarify what my real concerns are. I am a bit more open to a limited use of the Roman collar by permanent deacons but my concerns about its use and the vehemence of some responses in defense of its use continue.

I was questioned several times whether ordination to the transitional and permanent diaconate were the same. I thought that would be obvious and so I didn’t mention it.

The post was not meant to castigate anyone but to raise what I think are serious questions about the ministry of permanent deacons.

But what struck me is that many of the responses focused on the question of the use of the Roman collar by deacons. My other concerns were only noted by a few commentators.

One person, a chaplain with a federal agency, explained why he wore the Roman collar. His reasoning struck me as sincere and really oriented to the role of the deacon.

At least one person spoke of the need to use the collar for safety in prison ministry. Another who worked for years in prison ministry has never worn the collar.

I think of my early years here in Honduras when I was a lay missionary. I often accompanied a Spanish Franciscan sister in the local prison. She, by the way, does not wear a habit and in now in her eighties – and still visits the prison, every week, I believe. I did not feel threatened. More recently I have been accompanying a US Franciscan sister with Alternatives to Violence workshops in another part of Honduras. I don’t feel threatened. My white skin (and my association with two sisters who regularly minister in prisons) are my “Roman collar.” I can understand the justification of the use of the Roman collar in limited circumstances in prison ministry, though I still have a few concerns.

At least one commentator did get one of my concerns.

I’m not exactly anti collar - I wear clerics in the prison for the reasons already mentioned. I see, however, a growing trend where the collar becomes for some a symbol of separation and status, whereby the ministry of the deacon tilts heavily toward the liturgical functions serving those inside the church and not the ministerial functions serving those on the margins.

Though clericalism wasn’t my main concern when I wrote the article, I am wondering whether it is a serious issue, at least a serious temptation. One stated that, “Clericalism is often a canard for those who are uncomfortable being clergy.”

Perhaps an extended discussion about clericalism is desperately needed – among priests and deacons. Pope Francis seems to think this is a problem.

I won’t refer to his writings at this point but to a book I read in February: Clericalism: The Death of the Priesthood, by Father George B. Wilson, S.J., published in 2008 by Liturgical Press. I will not try to summarize the book, which deserves a careful reading, but share some points that struck me.

This book, Clericalism, is a nuanced approach to the issue, recognizing that there are clerical cultures and that “clergyhood is essential to organizational development.” In his analysis, Fr. Wilson notes the presence of “clergy status” among doctors, lawyers, university professors, as well as ordained clergy.

But, the author notes, “Clergyhood brings genuine benefits- and harmful potential.”

He notes several seeds of clericalism:

·      “Clericalism grants automatic status.”

·      “Clergyhood’s embodiments: dress and address and perks”

·      “Strengths can become weaknesses”

·      “Clerics are sensitive to critique”

·      “Clerics focus on image”

·      “The power of arcane language.”

·      “Economic advancement confers status.”

·      “Clerics lose touch with those to be served.”

·      “Distinction turns into superiority.”

·      “Clericalism breeds secrecy and lack of accountability

·      “The name itself creates the power”

Fr. Wilson notes the relation between ordained priesthood and the priesthood of baptism, denying neither but trying to open a dialogue on their relationship.

“The priesthood of the ordained is real and not simply metaphorical. But it is meaningful only to the extent that it actually participates in and contributes to the life and holiness of the primary priesthood, the gathered faithful.”

I think this is one of the areas where we deacons need to examine in depth. Fr. Wilson writes of the exercise of priesthood by the community in this way.

“The Christian community priests when its members take on the mind and heart of Jesus; when they show forth singleness of purpose in their following of the risen Lord; when their daily lives are an expression of praise and gratitude—and joyous song—to the One Jesus called “Father”; when they identify compassionately with the broken and dispossessed of society; when they relate personally to others as peers, as brothers and sisters; and when they use the power of their voice to speak out and act for the rights of the voiceless.”

A question for us deacons is how we take on the mind and heart of Christ Jesus the Servant and how we animate the Servanthood of all the faithful. After all, in the words of Pope Paul VI, the deacon ought to be “the animator of the Church’s diaconia.” How do we do this – not just in the service of the Word or the service of Sacrament, but also in the service of Charity? And how are we present to the efforts of all the faithful to live a life of love and justice in the world, helping them see how they are and can be true servants of the Love of God – in the church and in the world, even in their daily occupations.

When I was a lay campus minister, I often tried to help students and other parishioners see that they live out their faith in their daily lives, not just in church activities. I believe that the permanent diaconate has the possibility to help make this real for more people.

Consider what it might mean for a campesino, an agricultural worker, a farmer seeing someone like himself at the Table of the Lord, knowing that he also serves at the Table of the poor, and also that he has a job like his where he serves the world and a family where he struggles with living the love of God.

I think that might be a challenge for us permanent deacons.

I write this post on the third anniversary of my diaconal ordination which is also the feast of Saint Bonaventure. When I was young I had a holy card with a quote from Bonaventure that still sustains me.

“Constant fidelity in little matters is a great and heroic virtue.”

Robert Ellsberg, in All Saints, shares an expanded version:

“The perfection of a religious [person] is to do common things in a perfect manner, and a constant fidelity in small matters is great and heroic virtue.”

I will reflect on this today as I celebrate the gift and challenge of being a deacon.

Ordination, 15 July 2016

Bringing communion to the sick, Debajiados, July16, 2016, with Juan Ángel (RIP)

Heling dig a sewage trench, Plan Grande, August 2016

Baptizing in Plan Grande, August 2016

Roman collars or muddy shoes

Deacons wearing collars

I am completely against deacons wearing Roman collars. If I am fortunate, my bishop will never ask me to wear one.

A recent discussion on a closed Facebook group yielded over 150 of comments, many of them in favor of wearing the Roman collar, many arguing its usefulness to distinguish deacons as clergy.

My first reaction was that this may be a symptom of a growing clericalism of the permanent diaconate. But this is not my major concern.

My second reaction was that wearing a collar can create distance between the deacon and the rest of the People of God. When the local bishop asked me to consider the diaconate I told him that I was concerned that this would create a wider breach between me and the people I serve.

As a layman from the US, a missionary in Honduras, I had privilege. I could leave whenever I want and return to the US. I had the financial security of social security monthly payments and a bank account. And there was more.

Would becoming a permanent deacon pull me further away from the poor in whose midst I serve.

But my real reason against the collar is theological. I think the theology of the diaconate is not sufficiently developed and so we fall back upon arguments of the deacon being a cleric and the usefulness of being recognized as one.

But I think we need to get back to the roots of the move toward the permanent diaconate.

After talking with the bishop, one of the first articles I read on the diaconate mentioned that priests in the Dachau concentration camp seriously studied the crisis in Nazi Germany and the failure of the church to recognize and respond to the emergent evil of the Third Reich.

This was not a move to clericalize the church. Rather, as William Ditewig wrote in The Emerging Diaconate,

the pioneers of a renewed diaconate, incarcerated at Dachau concentration centration camp, saw the diaconate as a necessary component of a renewed church transforming the world so that tragedies such as the Second World War and the Shoah would not happen again.

I wonder. Was there no one in the Resistance to Nazi Germany who had the ears of the bishops? If there were permanent deacons, living and working in the streets of Germany, would they have been able to let the bishops see what was really happening?

If the deacons are “the eyes and the ears” of the bishop, they may make them more aware of the serious crises facing the lives of ordinary peoples.

The deacon should be in a place in the secular world – not only revealing the sanctity of the world of work by his presence, but also bringing the experiences of his coworkers to the altar. He also should be the one who brings the poor to the church and the church to the poor.

Does the permanent deacon bring the world of work into the structures of the Church? Will he let the bishops and those in authority know of the challenges facing the world?

In addition, would the deacon in his daily life of family and work be better able to show the presence of Christ? This seems to be what one of the priests at Dachau noted:

The Church has not succeeded in holding its ground among either the leading intellectual classes nor among those classes most easily led astray, the proletariat. In their own milieu, deacons from these classes for these classes could gain influence incomparably deeper than could any priest, since priests would never develop within this milieu the kind of rapport that deacons would have already established. One could develop the diaconate into a means to win back the de-Christianized milieu. An intelligent deacon from the working-class would, without any special theological training, be able to touch the heart of his worker colleagues with just the right words.

The working permanent deacon might be the one who can better connect the world and the altar, the Church and the people who are alienated or marginalized from faith.

I think this is part of what Pope Saint John Paul II meant when he spoke in a 1993 general audience:

A deeply felt need in the decision to re-establish the permanent diaconate was and is that of a greater and more direct presence of Church ministers in the various spheres of the family, work, school etc., in addition to existing pastoral structures.

This line of thought leads me to suggest that we need to develop the practice and the spirituality of the worker-deacon.  One of the experiments in Europe in the mid-twentieth century that I think held out some hope for the re-evangelization of Europe was the worker-priest movement. Perhaps that movement should be the inspiration of a theology of the “worker-deacon.”

I write this as one working full-time in the church but I see the need to develop a diaconate in the world, a diaconate of the blue collar worker, a diaconate of the campesino, a diaconate of the bus driver, a diaconate of the civil servant.

In addition, the deacon should be recognized by who he is and what he does – not just at the table of the Lord at Mass but at the table of the poor.

Is the permanent deacon – am I – an icon of Christ the Servant at the Table of the Lord and an icon of the Servant Body of Christ in the world?

A final thought.

If the deacon is to serve in the margins, to witness the church’s love and justice for the poor and neglected, what might be our distinctive sign?

Father Paul McPartlan pointedly wrote that “The deacon stands at the altar and prepares the gifts with clean hands, but he stands also where the practical need is greatest, getting his hands very dirty.”

The dirt under our fingernails might be a worthy sign of our diaconal ministry. But I think there is another image that might help us develop a practical theology of diaconal ministry.

Pope Francis worked for some time with Jesuits in formation in Argentine. When they returned from their visits to the villas miserias, the poor neighborboods, he would inspect their shoes to see if they had walked among the poor.

Maybe muddy shoes should be the sign of the deacon.