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.