Monsenor Romero: Memories in Mosaic

Archbishop Oscar Romero comes to life as never before in this wonderful set of memories of his life and martyrdom. Edited and collated by Maria Lopez Vigil, Romero's coworkers, fellow priests and friends tell stories that add up to a portrait of a man who tried to make the gospels a tangible reality. Snippets of Romero's homilies and diary entries add his own voice to the mix.

Romero was thrust into a position of leadership in the late 1970s, during the turbulent and violent El Salvadoran civil war. The book makes it clear that he started not from a position of radicalism, but from the same blinkered, knee-jerk anti-communism that was the stock in trade of his brother bishops. The difference between him and the others, however, was that Romero had the capacity to learn from the real lives of his people. His episcopal brothers were satisfied with lives of "holiness," separated from their flocks, oblivious to their troubles and uninterested in their corporal well being.

Romero was radicalized by the death of his friend, Father Rutilio Grande, who was gunned down by Salvadoran military men. His death was one of countless thousands that epitomized the mindless slaughter of civilians by a military pledged to protect the interests of a few wealthy landholding families. Grande's funeral was one of many military murders that Romero presided over.

Romero is shown as a man of the people, sacrificing comfort and sleep to celebrate Mass in far-flung, hard-to-access villages. He preferred the company of old campesinos to rounds of meetings with his fellow bishops. He even worked out a system of pretexts with one of his parishioners to get him out of dull meetings. His homilies were broadcast on the archdiocesan radio station, and listened to by the entire country, including hopeful peasants as well as ill-intentioned military men. He was adored by the ordinary and the poor as much as he was reviled by the rich families. That went doubly for the wealthy matrons, who were interested in helping those less fortunate as long as their place of privilege was never threatened. His battles with the Vatican hierarchy were most disheartening. Even Pope John Paul II couldn't understand his fierce defense of the gospel, as viewed through the lives of the suffering of El Salvador. In the end, Oscar Romero was forced to tread his Via Dolorosa alone except for his enemies, as are most of the world's great martyrs.

I couldn't help but think back to the wonderful Paulist film made about Romero's life. That Romero was timid and quiet, though capable of bold words and deeds. The Romero of Memories, by contract, is passionate, wildly generous and full of fire. He gets irritated, he sweats in the heat, he lashes out in anger at his stubborn subordinates. But he also loves greatly, and is humble to the point of apologizing to those he has hurt.

There is no question that Romero could have lived a longer life had he tempered his critiques of the Salvadoran government and of their US backers. But politics was not his strong suit. He saw suffering in front of him and demanded that it end. He saw the wretched lives of the poor and demanded that they be succored. He saw thousands of dead and demanded that they be honored and buried.

Truth be told, some passages from that could easily be taken as coming from a man who had crossed the line into radicalism."As for the left, I don't call them leftist forces, I call them forces of the people. Their violence is likely to be the result of rage that people feel from having confronted so much social injustice....We can't say that there is a formula for moving from capitalism to socialism, if you want to call it socialism, well that's just a name. What we are looking for is social justice, a kinder society, a sharing of resources." You don't have to be a rabid anti-communist to hear what might have come from a rebel's mouth.

Perhaps this is a lesson for us who have grown up on tales of tepid saints sanctified for helping the poor. Perhaps their struggle was no less harrowing than that of Oscar Romero. Perhaps the gentle holy men and women who clothed the naked and fed the hungry were not so gentle after all. Or perhaps they played it safe by tended to the outcast without challenging the societal structures that required poverty as a side effect.

Memories shows that Oscar Romero, like Jesus, chose another path: to point the holy finger of blame at the economic structures that breed poverty. He made a career of living the words of Dom Hélder Pessoa Câmara , who said famously, "When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why they are poor, they call me a communist." Memories in Mosaic shows how one man came to embody Camara's words and paid for his commitment with his blood. His sanctity was not one of quiet piety but of an active, almost violent clash of the gospel against the world. That the world struck back with fury is no surprise. Neither is it surprising that Romero's death is fated to overcome that fury.

Pope Dream

I had a crazy dream about the pope two nights ago. The scene: a huge cathedral, which was also an enormous, well-stocked supermarket. Crowds sat in stadium-style seats around the perimeter. Pope Francis (and helpers) were stripping the shelves and throwing food out to the masses in the seats. I was watching, very upset. I wanted to know (loudly) how this giveaway would be sustainable. How could the markets keep the shelves stocked when everything was being given away? In my dream, this seemed to border on communism.

So what was that all about?

I'm both a Francis fan and a supporter of the poor. At least, so I like to think. And I also take dreams seriously, especially ones that challenge my self-image. Am I worried that Francis is "giving away the store"? And if so, how?

Francis has certainly challenged the world's economic powers to rethink their cultural assumptions about their self-serving trickle-down  theories. And he is "throwing around" grace and kindness to communities (gays, Muslims, women, the sick and imprisoned) that have long dwelt in deserts of the church's love. Am I worried that Francis will empty the world's storehouses in order to feed the poor, and the world's (and God's) stores of love by distributing it too freely?

Maybe I am more stingy stingy (with my dollars and my love) than I should be.

Ten years ago, I visited South Africa. It has bugged me since then that I haven't found some way to directly assist the people I met there. There are the familiar reasons. I have kids to raise. A mortgage and house remodeling to pay for. College costs. Commuting. Utilities. Internet. Restaurants. Dry Cleaning. Christmas. By the time I have totaled my expenses, I live pretty close to the edge -- at least the edge defined by living a comfortable life in a first world country.

But the truth is that I don't know where to cut back. Taking five percent of my income and diverting it the poor would mean giving up something that I consider bedrock to my lifestyle. That I might in some sense need to survive in a high-paced world. Even the ten bucks I spend each month on the gym, a very modest amount, seems essential to maintaining a health weight.

I don't know whether my dream is a critique within a critique (criticizing me for criticizing the pope) or even whether it addresses economic concerns or spiritual ones. For all I know, the pope's approach to economics is naive and unsustainable. The fact is that I am not happy with the merry-go-round I am on, and that I feel hypocritical about it.

Pray for the stingy, imprisoned in a cocoon of "necessary" expenses.

Funeral drudge

I attend the funeral services for my cousin's wife's mother yesterday. Held in the chapel of the funeral home, something that seems to have caught on lately. An elderly deacon from one of the local churches showed up, ran through the funeral liturgy and gave the standard reflection.

It started, "Well, I didn't really know , but..."

I call this the "standard" reflection because I have heard it too often. A man of God struggles to say something heartfelt and extemporaneous for the deceased, whom he doesn't really know. Rather than avoiding this possibly embarrassing topic, he makes it the centerpiece of the eulogy.

"I didn't really know her."

This is why homilies and eulogies should never be combined. It should be chapter one in the class on homiletics. What "good words"  ("eu logia") can you say about someone you don't know? First off, Father, the reflection is not about you and your relationship with the deceased. It is about the deceased and their relationship with the Almighty. It's about the survivors and their relationship with the deceased, now broken, but also with each other, and with God.

I would speak about the relational rupture that is the result of death. Of the lines of love and communication that seemed to have been sundered irrevocably. Of obligations that will never be repaid, tasks that will never be completed. Of a life line for which the ink has run out, with no erasures or rewrites possible.

I would also speak of the presence of God in grief. Of the continuation of life, love and relationship. Of how the deceased has transcended to a newer and deeper relationship with Life, the Universe and Everything. Of how the dead live on in our memories, and in our hearts and in their descendants. Also, in the good or evil they have done during their lives, and which we are called to foster or to undo.

But even beyond this, I would says that even after all memory has faded and the existence of the deceased has been lost to memory and to history, they are held in the life of God. They are always precious, always loved and always nurtured. Their lives continue, in prayer for those still alive, in praise for God's goodness and love. In gratitude that life continues beyond the grave, beyond remembrance and into eternity.

When suns bloat and die; when atoms evaporate; when galaxies fade, cool and solidify; when the universe cools into a dark, hard and lifeless cinder, life in God continues -- probably in ways that we cannot imagine.

This is the promise of Resurrection. That after our descent into hell, we will rise again as Christ was raised. That we will sit at God's right hand as Christ sits, and that we will continue in God's company, doing whatever God needs done, growing in holiness and love until ours is indistinguishable from His.

Memento mori: the Death Watch

I didn't ask for a Tikker for Christmas, but could have: it's a watch that tells me when I will die.

Every minute of every day.

Interviews with the makers of Tikker claim that having a wrist-mounted reminder of my remaining minutes will make me treasure the time I have left and maybe use it more wisely. I have my doubts. But those were put to the test when I checked my remaining lifespan on two Internet death sites. I'm 57 at the moment, and healthy. My blood pressure is great, though my cholesterol is a little high. I don't smoke, drink moderately, eat well and exercise regularly. I get enough sleep (more or less), find time for silent prayer and don't have too stressful a job. Even after a Yuletide of caloric excess, I barely register above the normal range for BMI. I figure I will live as long as my Dad, who was spry and active until he turned 80. So that gives me 23 more years of good living, right?

Maybe not.

Deathclock.com gave me a shock when it estimated my death to land on May 24, 2030, which has me kicking off this mortal coil in 17 years at the age of 74.

Deathtimer.com is even more pessimistic, having me start pushing up daisies on Aug 24, 2023 -- less than 10 years from now!

Even alcoholic emphysemics I have known have done better than that!

But the shock I felt was instructive. Faced with the possibility of having only a decade of two of life was not a happy feeling. But have I changed the languorous pace of chasing my dreams of being writer and songwriter? Not just yet.

I don't need Tikker to constantly remind me of life's fragility and evanescence. Once a year on Ash Wednesday will do fine. But there is that worried part of me that, I guess, worries about -- what? No longer being part of this wonderful world? No longer enjoying family and friends? Not having made my mark on the world? I confess that I look at photos of famous people -- like Twain, Wilde and even Hitler -- and compare my small achievements against theirs at the same age. There is time yet to fulfill my God-given mission on Earth, but the opportunities are fading. Whether I have 10, 17 or 23 years left in me, the chances are becoming fewer to leave something more behind than a box full of bones.

And that's worth thinking about.

Flirting with Bill O'Reilley's "Killing Jesus"

I picked up "Killing Jesus" a couple of months ago, but couldn't bring myself to read it. Billo's reputation as a Fox bully and conservative mouthpiece was part of the reason. What if he said really crazy stuff about Jesus and his time? What if his book was a transparent attempt to make money by appealing to the biases of his enormous audience? What if the book was actually good?

With that much baggage, I never managed to crack the cover.

Yesterday, knowing I had an interest in the topic, a coworker buttonholed me to tell me he had read the book. It was eye-opening, he said. Not having done any serious reading about Jesus (aside from hearing the readings at Mass) since 6th grade, he was excited to learn that Jesus was not likely born in the year 0, that he was not a carpenter in the sense we understand the term, and that Jews in the first century, a year after a loved one had died, gathered up the bones and placed them in an ossuary. Hmm. Perhaps Billo is imparting valuable information after all.

Today, I ran across an article in the NCR titled "The High Cost of Getting Christian History Wrong," by Bill Tammeus. Seems that Billo was slipping some questionable perspectives into the pages of the book. Not wrong necessarily, but he wrote with far more certainty than the sources can support.

Another example of O'Reilly's penchant for stating flatly what is uncertain is his account of King Herod's slaughter of the innocents, the order to murder all boys 2 years of age and under in Bethlehem so as to kill the next "king of the Jews," Jesus.

The estimates of the number of babies killed -- if, indeed, this event ever took place -- have ranged from as many as 64,000 to as few as six or seven. The lower number is more credible, and at least O'Reilly winds up in that range by saying Herod murdered "more than a dozen infants." But he writes as if there's no doubt about the event or the number.

Gone from Billo's account is any discussion of whether Matthew is writing history (no mention of the slaughter is mentioned in other histories of the period) or something else. To Billo, apparently, the story's appearance in the Bible is enough to certify that it is 100% true -- not just symbolically or allegorically, but historically as well.

To give the devil his due, I have decided to read the book after all. If only (given the book's popularity, based on how hard it is to get a copy from my library system, it is wildly popular) to respond intelligently to those who have read it.

There's little harm in increasing the knowledge of people thirsty to learn. But here's what I am afraid of: once certain religious memes get going, it's hard to stop them. The certainty that some people have that Jesus was nailed through the wrists is such one legend that won't die. No matter that there is no archaeological evidence to support it and scant scientific evidence, people continue to believe it wholeheartedly. Even some new crucifixes reflect this historical "fact."

Maybe we'll get lucky, and Billo's certainties won't infect the popular imagination the same way. Expect a review in the nearish future.

A Christmas Tree story

By the Sunday afternoon before Christmas, young Husband and Wife realized that it was "now or never" to fetch a Christmas tree. So after New Baby's post-lunch nap, they strapped him into the mini van's car seat and headed off to the pick-your-own lot, the place that advertised the farm-fresh, down-home experience of cutting your tree the "traditional" way. Naturally, it was the coldest and windiest day of the year. Not to mention that the snow lay deep from a recent storm. As they turned into the farm's lot, Husband and Wife found themselves facing hills and fields that looked like a World War I battlefield. The snow was dimpled with craters where trees had already been cut. Here and there, a stray trunk poked out of the snow, its ragged bottom limbs clawing skyward in a plaintive plea against the bitter wind.

"It's looking grim," Husband opined, surveying the scene while draped over the steering wheel. "Maybe we'd better try again tomorrow."

"Uh-uh, " replied Wife. "I'm not coming out into this wintry hell again. Besides, it'll be dark by the time work lets out."

Beyond the battlefield, a few lines of trees were visible in the graying and pinking light of the onrushing sunset. Husband considered the twenty-minute hike up to the stand, plowing a path for wife and child in the gloom through thigh-deep snow. He could just imagine their nature magazine boots filling with snow, roots grabbing for shins, hidden rocks ready to hurl them onto their faces. He then remembered his gloves and hat lying atop New Baby's changing table back at home. His warm, comfortable home.

"Honey, this isn't going to work out," he said, hopelessly.

"Well, it's either this or Paymart."

He recall the furious arguments about buying an artificial tree at Paymart -- she for and he against. Ever the idealist, Husband was opposed to the mega store's global politics. But he harbored an even deeper aversion to having the same kind of "fake" tree that Mom and Dad had for their fake Christmases -- complete with their very real perennial holiday cat fights. A real tree was a subconscious assertion that his family life would be different from theirs. But now, Husband was as stuck as a tree stick frozen into pond ice. He couldn't move forward to the trees he could see, and he couldn't face the prospect of a Paymart tree in his living room.

With stinging ears, burning cheeks and a sinking feeling in his stomach, he scanned the area for alternatives. And there it stood. Back by the cashier, the hot cocoa stand and the tree shaking machine, he saw it, perfectly silhouetted against the deepening twilight, like the inspiration for a Christmas card.

"That's it."

Wife, with snow-suited New Baby strapped onto her belly like a five-pointed starfish, gave him a quizzical sidelong glance, then trudged off after him as he headed across the lot to the tree.

The tree was about five feet tall, and had been inserted into a metal tube too big for it. It flopped to the side and shivered in the brisk wind. Husband grabbed the tree and held it upright. He twisted it back and forth, apprising it like a trophy polo pony or newly-landed game fish.

"It's  kind of brown, don't you think?"

"Just a few dead needles," he replied.

"The trunk is all twisted."

"It's straight at the top," he said, squinting at the tree's crown.

"This side is completely bare."

"We'll put that side against the wall."

"Are these scorch marks?"

Husband continued to apprise the tree. Then, lifting it from the stand, he stamped it once on the frozen ground. A shower of dead needles fell.

"It's perfect."

He held it awkwardly in front of him and headed toward the cashier. Wife, whether from an aversion to public squabbling are an intuitive sense of what the moment called for, followed.

"Give me the keys," she said. "I'm going to warm the van."

A few minutes later, after talking the owner down from his $50 asking price (the tree was brown, half-bare and twisted, after all. And where those scorch marks?) Husband toddled off with the tree in an awkward hug, his face poked by the stiff needles. Fumbling with cold-stiffened, needle-pocked fingers, he tied the tree sloppily to the car roof with knots no more sophisticated than those used to tie his boots. He tested for fastness by tugging the tree from side to side. It moved freely, flopping like a newly-caught trout on the ice, loosening the already-loose cords.

"Good enough."

He eased himself into the van and felt the merciful hot air on his numbed ears and frost-stung fingers. New Baby was asleep. A mix of light holiday music was playing on the radio. His wife passed over a warm cup of cocoa.

 "Are you sure it's going to stay up there? We have some highway driving to do," she asked.

"Absolutely," replied Husband. "We'll use the slow lane."

And off they went, making it home in one piece, with the tree hardly dragging along the road at all by the time they got there. Whatever dead needles hadn't blown off on the highway were knocked off in the kitchen and dining room when the tree was dragged through the house. The bare side fit perfectly against the wall where the couch once sat. Strung with lights, decorated with cheap balls (Paymart happened to be on the ride home), and topped with a lighted star, the tree didn't look half bad. And when the family came down on Christmas morning -- what with the smells of coffee and baby formula, and the sounds of cooing and ripping paper -- that dressed-up gnarled wreck of a tree looked down on what for all the world looked like a traditional Christmas.

Based on a true stories.