Living Sermon

Who am I to get up in front of a church full of people to preach? What right do I have to offer any word of counsel, instruction, or exhortation? Those questions go through my mind nearly every time I step into the pulpit. And so does the anwer: It has to do with vocation, with the reality that God has called me to preach the gospel, not that I have any right to preach, or even any choice in the matter. And every once in a while, I have the sense that the Holy Spirit is trying to get my attention, and is asking me, "OK Frank, do you really believe this stuff? Are you willing to put self behind your words and DO something about this? Is it just words or is it the Word?'

I had an experience like that on Sunday.

Using the text from Genesis, Sunday morning I preached at Cristo Salvador on the text¨It is not good for a person to be alone,¨ I spoke not only about Jesus´ words regarding marriage and divorce, but also about the church as a community where we learn the meaning of not being alone. It was an important lesson, and I stressed the connection between St. Peter´s in Freehold, NJ and Cristo Salvador in Santiago, DR. We are not alone, but together, praying for one another, working together for God´s purposes.

Just words, or the Word?

After service, I went on a Pastoral visit. The young boy who had been selling coconuts with his uncle reappeared in the church with his two young cousins. (I later learned that he actually had several other cousins in the church, plus a younger sister, but I did not catch the connections until later in the day.) I say reappeared because he had been absent the day before at catechism class, and Fr H had his doubts about whether this youngster was going to be back. Turns out that one of the reasons he was selling coconuts in the street was so that the uncle could take his time away from work to drink.

So it was a pretty desperate situation, and it felt to me as if I needed to go forward with some kind of plan for this boy, otherwise he would never get to school, never learn to read, never again know the kind of experience of support and love that the church community could offer. And the cycle of poverty would continue for him. So I told him that I wanted to speak with his grandmother and the uncle with whom he lived.

So after service, I headed off with him ( his name is Victor Manuel) to speak with his family members. The house, well, the shack, where he lives was quite a distance from the church, but a number of the other children knew the location, and offered to accompany me. Fr H stayed behind because he felt it would be too far for him to manage with his advanced age. So he sent Papolito, the guy who cleans the church, as his emissary. Papolito´s son Andris is about the same age as Victor Manuel, and Fr. H has been making a special effort to watch over Andris, who is a charming , enthusiastic, and energetic youngster. Papolito knows personally that his son is benefitting from the advantages of being involved in church and beings watched over by the members of his community. He might not be able to articulate it, but Papolito (and his wife) are anxious to see their two children escape the life of ignorance and poverty that has kept them trapped.

So off we went, Fr. Frank, Papolito, and about a dozen children, walking the streets and back alleys of a poor barrio. We must have been quite a sight: an American priest in black clerical collar (in that heat!), another adult from the neighborhood, and a dozen kids ranging in age from a toddler to a 14 year old. Once they understood that I wanted to visit Victor Manuel´s family, all of the children wanted me to visit their homes as well. And they were not about to take ¨maybe next time,¨ let alone ¨no¨ for an answer.

It was quite a long walk to the home where Victor Manuel´s family resides. Avoiding potholes and the occasional car, we followed the steep and winding streets for a while before heading down a path. The further we got from the street, the more dilapidated the housing became. The neighborhood is ribboned with streams and creeks, so we crossed a number of makeshift bridges. All the while the children were trying to get a turn to hold my hand. I felt like the pied piper. Or some celebrity surrounded by teeny bopper groupies.

You can see in the photo above the shack where Victor Manuel´s family resides. I have never before in my life seen or been in such a place. Cement floor, no door, bare wooden walls through which light -- and I should imagine, rain and wind -- entered. Very little furniture -- a couple of plastic chairs, a few old wooden ones, a table -- that was all. Windows were simply holes cut into the walls to allow for air and light. In a conversation with the grandmother, the uncle, and a number of assorted relatives who crowded the front room of the shack, we struck a deal. My church and I from the US would provide enough money for Victor Manuel´s fees, clothes, and shoes as long as he remained in school, and as long as he continued to attend catechism class and church. I estimate the cost of this on most months will be $25 or less. (How often I WASTE $25 -- on a shirt I´ll never wear, food that spoils before it gets eaten, a restaurant meal when I could have eaten at home...) I´m hoping to develop some kind of long-range plan for our church´s relationship with Victor, maybe one that could involve some of the children. Fr H will be the one to see that Victor Manuel (and his family) keep their end of the bargain.

That should have been the end of the visit, but the grandmother had explained that she wanted to go the church herself, but was not well enough. So I closed with a prayer, with all of us laying hands on her. Then I took the snapshot you can see above of the large family group gathered outside the home. Victor Manuel is the boy in the center, wearing a white polo shirt.

The pied piper and his groupies did not head immediately back to the church, however, but each of the children wanted be to visit their home and meet their family members. All of the houses were (slightly) better than the one in which Victor Manuel lived, although none would merit any status other than ´shack´for us. This was an ¨up close and personal¨ view of third world poverty for me.

The last home we visited was that of Papolito, where I was greeted by his lively and energetic wife, who rarely leaves the home because of a physical disability that impedes her her ability to navigate the steep streets and the distance to the church. Their house was quite literally falling apart. They showed me a wall that was in the process of separating itself from the rest of the house, and the water from storm runoff that seeps beneath the concrete slab on which the shack is built. The other picture above is of Papolito, his wife Dora, and their son Andris.

The church is the community where we learn the meaning of ´not alone.´ It is the family of Christ where we begin to understand that we are connected, one to another. It is brothers and sisters in the faith, welcoming me into their small and simple homes with a shy smile and expressions of thanks for coming.

Driving me back to my apartment, Fr. H mused that the poor are sometimes more ready to respond wholeheartedly to the gospel, because other than hope they have nothing else.