“ ‘Have salt in yourselves’ ” (Mark 9:50).
End of the month, and end of the first 15 days in Bolivia. Today was probably the first day where I phoned it in at some moments.
For example, this morning I came down to breakfast after morning prayer and a shower. Usually, the brothers have finished their breakfast and gone, but often there are one or two left I can greet and converse with briefly. This morning all the brothers had left, but there were two visitors unknown to me, a Franciscan friar and a nun whose congregation I did not know. I didn’t know if they were guests here or just passing through. At that moment I found myself thrown off-guard: three perfect strangers. I thought, I’m a guest here, too, and I don’t feel able to welcome them. So I sat scrupulously buttering my roll, avoiding eye contact, hoping not to be spoken to … but I was. I could not understand them fully, but I pretended to understand less than I did to keep the conversation to a minimum. Not my proudest moment, I confess. An opportunity lost.
Then, at Maryknoll, we had the feast of the Comadres to honor the solidarity of the women who study and work here. We had the same elements of food, dance, and music as we did for the Compadres last Thursday. The male students were asked to write coplas for the roasting of the women, and I did. I wrote two, in fact, for staff members. I also asked both of my profesores to let the organizers know that I was willing to play the bombo, as one of the female students did last week. Well, as it turned out, there were no significant roles for the men; we did not sing or dance or make music for the women. This time there were hired musicians to play las chacareras and sing our coplas. Except they didn’t use the coplas I wrote. That, plus no bombo for Brother. I was miffed. I ate my corn-cheese tamale with bitterness in my heart. I offered my talents, but my talents were buried. Phooey!
During afternoon classes I felt languid and made no effort to hide my yawns. (It could have been the tamale.) I found some relief at the third hour of classes. We made our first field trip. On alternate Thursdays we make cultural excursions throughout the city. We boarded one of the trufi-taxis to head downtown, a (mis)adventure in itself. These cabs have no passenger seat belts and not enough headroom for gringos close to six feet in height. My neck hurts. An afternoon torrent flooded many downtown streets, so we arrived late to the historic churches we toured in haste. But tour them we did. I hope to write about the Metropolitan Cathedral, Templo Santo Domingo, and the Franciscans’ own Templo San Francisco in an upcoming post.
When we finished touring Templo San Francisco—gracias, Fray Jorge, for letting us in—and I said goodbye to Profesor Óscar and my classmate Joshua, the Maryknoll seminarian, I returned to the cloister. I yelled at Carmelo, the convent dog who was yapping at me as he has every day since I got here, and flopped down in my room.
All this is to say that my salt lost a little of its savor today. It’s one thing to reach the limits of your knowledge and your energy. It’s another thing to hold back. The former needs no apology. The latter has no excuse. I will ask God to refresh my salt. And I will pledge to do better tomorrow.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Con Nosotros
“ ‘Whoever is not against us is for us’ ” (Mark 9:40).
It’s Wednesday, which means it’s the day for our weekly conference on cultural topics at the Maryknoll Mission Center. On this day I skip lunch, the main meal at the convent, to arrive early, at 11 a.m., at the language school for the conference. (I envy the students in morning classes and can’t wait until my classes are moved from the afternoon to the morning.)
Anyway, the topic today was Carnaval, as we continue to study and participate in this festive season in Bolivia. The guest lecturer gave a presentation about the origins of Carnaval as practiced in another Bolivian city, Oruro, located to the southwest of Cochabamba. It predates the arrival of the Spanish and lies with the native peoples known as Urus. The Urus developed their own creation myth to explain the origin of their environment. According to the legend, Wari, a powerful but malign spirit, resented the Urus for worshipping the sun as a god, and venerating Aurora, the daughter of the sun. Unable to conquer Aurora, Wari sent one gigantic monster after another to afflict the Urus and destroy them. These monsters included a viper, a toad, a lizard, countless ants, and finally a condor. But every time, there appeared a woman robed in white, an Inca princess known as ñusta, to defeat the monster and save the people. Variously, she cut off their heads or choked them and converted them into the rocks and sands that constitute the landscape of Oruro. In the end, Wari was banished to the depths of the mountains, never again to threaten the peaceful, sun-worshipping Urus.
Later, after the arrival of the Spanish and the spread of Christianity, the Inca princess ñusta was identified with Mary, the Mother of God, as the Virgin of the Socavón in Oruro.
There arose a dance called the Diablada to recount the legend of Wari and the Urus. The people wear masks to depict Wari and the monsters from which the Urus were saved. The dance, too, was converted to a dance in honor of the Virgin of the Socavón; Wari was identified with the devil; and the afflicting monsters with the seven deadly sins, all so as to educate the people in the triumph of good over evil. Many other dances in honor of La Virgen, as well as the customs of the native peoples, have developed in the two centuries since Bolivia’s independence. And the processions and parades have multiplied and lengthened. In the 21st century, UNESCO has recognized Carnaval in Oruro as “a masterpiece of oral and intangible heritage of humanity.”
As we learned about the history of Carnaval in Oruro and the evolution of its originating myth, I thought about Jesus’ words to the disciples in today’s Gospel reading from Mark. The disciples were resentful because another person who did not belong to their group was casting out demons in Jesus’ name, too. Jesus refused to forbid the other person from casting out the demons, “for no one who works a miracle in my name can soon after speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us” (Mark 9:39-40). As the priest who celebrated Mass this afternoon at Maryknoll said, light is light, no matter what the source. Whether one honors ñusta or the Virgin of the Socavón, it is the creating, saving, healing power of a living God that is being venerated. And it is in this respectful spirit that I acknowledge the tradition of Carnaval in Oruro.
It’s Wednesday, which means it’s the day for our weekly conference on cultural topics at the Maryknoll Mission Center. On this day I skip lunch, the main meal at the convent, to arrive early, at 11 a.m., at the language school for the conference. (I envy the students in morning classes and can’t wait until my classes are moved from the afternoon to the morning.)
Anyway, the topic today was Carnaval, as we continue to study and participate in this festive season in Bolivia. The guest lecturer gave a presentation about the origins of Carnaval as practiced in another Bolivian city, Oruro, located to the southwest of Cochabamba. It predates the arrival of the Spanish and lies with the native peoples known as Urus. The Urus developed their own creation myth to explain the origin of their environment. According to the legend, Wari, a powerful but malign spirit, resented the Urus for worshipping the sun as a god, and venerating Aurora, the daughter of the sun. Unable to conquer Aurora, Wari sent one gigantic monster after another to afflict the Urus and destroy them. These monsters included a viper, a toad, a lizard, countless ants, and finally a condor. But every time, there appeared a woman robed in white, an Inca princess known as ñusta, to defeat the monster and save the people. Variously, she cut off their heads or choked them and converted them into the rocks and sands that constitute the landscape of Oruro. In the end, Wari was banished to the depths of the mountains, never again to threaten the peaceful, sun-worshipping Urus.
Later, after the arrival of the Spanish and the spread of Christianity, the Inca princess ñusta was identified with Mary, the Mother of God, as the Virgin of the Socavón in Oruro.
There arose a dance called the Diablada to recount the legend of Wari and the Urus. The people wear masks to depict Wari and the monsters from which the Urus were saved. The dance, too, was converted to a dance in honor of the Virgin of the Socavón; Wari was identified with the devil; and the afflicting monsters with the seven deadly sins, all so as to educate the people in the triumph of good over evil. Many other dances in honor of La Virgen, as well as the customs of the native peoples, have developed in the two centuries since Bolivia’s independence. And the processions and parades have multiplied and lengthened. In the 21st century, UNESCO has recognized Carnaval in Oruro as “a masterpiece of oral and intangible heritage of humanity.”
As we learned about the history of Carnaval in Oruro and the evolution of its originating myth, I thought about Jesus’ words to the disciples in today’s Gospel reading from Mark. The disciples were resentful because another person who did not belong to their group was casting out demons in Jesus’ name, too. Jesus refused to forbid the other person from casting out the demons, “for no one who works a miracle in my name can soon after speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us” (Mark 9:39-40). As the priest who celebrated Mass this afternoon at Maryknoll said, light is light, no matter what the source. Whether one honors ñusta or the Virgin of the Socavón, it is the creating, saving, healing power of a living God that is being venerated. And it is in this respectful spirit that I acknowledge the tradition of Carnaval in Oruro.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Recibir
“ ‘Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me’ ” (Mark 9:37).
I can only describe today as a regular day. It felt normal to be where I am and doing what I am doing. It is as I hoped it would be, nearly two weeks into life in Bolivia.
Now that I am settled in, I hope to begin noticing more things, receiving more signals, appreciating more of the life here in its fine-grain detail. For instance, I begin to notice the way the indigenous women braid their hair, I notice the hats and skirts they wear, and I notice how they nurse and tote their children. Faces that once looked all alike begin to show forth their differences. So do the voices. I can close my eyes at the dinner table and make out Fray Bladimir’s laugh, Fray Gabriel’s deep bass, and Padre Kasper’s Polish accent. I can close my eyes at church and hear Fray Freddie read the intercessory prayers or Fray Jorge lead the congregation in song. And theirs are not the only voices unique to my ears. The parishioners at Templo San Francisco, thee vendors at La Cancha, the beggars on the street—they add their harmonies to the joyful, sorrowful, glorious song of life.
I am finding a sense of direction. I can now distinguish the buses from the trufi-taxis, and I can tell which buses get me where I want to be and which don’t. I know to stand from the south balcony of the convent cloister to sneak a peek at the mountains. I know which ways to crane my neck when I am walking to keep the mountains always before me. And though I know I will get lose again and again and need to ask for help to find my way, a mental map is forming. There is more orientation than disorientation.
Being saturated in a different environment, I am more aware of when I am paying attention and when I am not. For example, I notice that when Padre Kasper is preaching the homily at Mass, if I start thinking about anything else except the words proceeding from his mouth, I get nothing, I fall off the horse, and the horse runs away. If I put out all other thoughts and concentrate on his speech, then I can make out some of it. I can get away with not paying full attention to Padre Juan Carlos, because his rhetorical style is very clear, commanding, and easy to follow. But I do even better with comprehension when I stop thinking and listen only to him. You can’t sail two streams at the same time. I can think of other examples where I comprehend my surroundings better when I am fully focused—say, while dodging Cochabamba traffic! All this is to say that I am observing how observant I am, and I hope that being in Bolivia improves my attention so that it is commensurate with my intention, which is to receive Christ in the people, places, and things that are now his ambassadors.
I can only describe today as a regular day. It felt normal to be where I am and doing what I am doing. It is as I hoped it would be, nearly two weeks into life in Bolivia.
Now that I am settled in, I hope to begin noticing more things, receiving more signals, appreciating more of the life here in its fine-grain detail. For instance, I begin to notice the way the indigenous women braid their hair, I notice the hats and skirts they wear, and I notice how they nurse and tote their children. Faces that once looked all alike begin to show forth their differences. So do the voices. I can close my eyes at the dinner table and make out Fray Bladimir’s laugh, Fray Gabriel’s deep bass, and Padre Kasper’s Polish accent. I can close my eyes at church and hear Fray Freddie read the intercessory prayers or Fray Jorge lead the congregation in song. And theirs are not the only voices unique to my ears. The parishioners at Templo San Francisco, thee vendors at La Cancha, the beggars on the street—they add their harmonies to the joyful, sorrowful, glorious song of life.
I am finding a sense of direction. I can now distinguish the buses from the trufi-taxis, and I can tell which buses get me where I want to be and which don’t. I know to stand from the south balcony of the convent cloister to sneak a peek at the mountains. I know which ways to crane my neck when I am walking to keep the mountains always before me. And though I know I will get lose again and again and need to ask for help to find my way, a mental map is forming. There is more orientation than disorientation.
Being saturated in a different environment, I am more aware of when I am paying attention and when I am not. For example, I notice that when Padre Kasper is preaching the homily at Mass, if I start thinking about anything else except the words proceeding from his mouth, I get nothing, I fall off the horse, and the horse runs away. If I put out all other thoughts and concentrate on his speech, then I can make out some of it. I can get away with not paying full attention to Padre Juan Carlos, because his rhetorical style is very clear, commanding, and easy to follow. But I do even better with comprehension when I stop thinking and listen only to him. You can’t sail two streams at the same time. I can think of other examples where I comprehend my surroundings better when I am fully focused—say, while dodging Cochabamba traffic! All this is to say that I am observing how observant I am, and I hope that being in Bolivia improves my attention so that it is commensurate with my intention, which is to receive Christ in the people, places, and things that are now his ambassadors.
Monday, February 25, 2019
Gracias
“Before all other things wisdom was created” (Sirach 1:4).
Up to this point in this chronicle I have not mentioned by name some of the people who make up my life in Cochabamba. By way of giving thanks to God for them as they show forth the grace, power, and wisdom of God for me through their good works, let me introduce a few of them to you.
Brother Leo, who is a permanently professed lay brother in residence at Convento San Francisco. He is the economo, meaning he is in charge of the finances of the household and many if not all of the temporal needs of the friars. He is one of the two friars who met me at the airport, and he conveyed me safely to the convent in his truck. He has answered all my questions about the household, obtained items I needed, showed me where to find other things, and told me when and where to gather for prayer, meals, and social hours (convivencia). He does all this cheerfully, with never-failing good humor.
Padre Tomás, who is a professor of theology at the Catholic University of Bolivia in Cochabamba (Universidad Católica Bolivia, Facultad de Teología San Pablo). He is the other friar who retrieved me at the airport. We corresponded by e-mail for months before my arrival (he is from the United States and understands English). He secured the letter of invitation I needed from the Franciscans to secure my visa to enter Bolivia. He has stopped randomly by my room to check up on me, giving me directions to the Maryknoll Mission Center and to La Cancha, and reminding me not to drink the water!
Diana, the weekday cook at the convent, and Rosario, the weekend cook. These are the women who prepare lunch and dinner daily for the 15 friars in residence and for the guests. They know I am a relaxed vegetarian and are pleased to make accommodations. Everything they make—soups, vegetable dishes, egg dishes, grains, starches—is delicious. Rarely do I leave anything they prepare unfinished. Diana, in addition to meeting my dietary preferences, manages my thus far unpredictable school schedule. There have been days when I had to skip lunch. There have been days when I had to eat lunch early. I talk to Diana the day before, and everything is all right with her. Diana and Rosario are my strongest, surest lifeline to good health during my stay. I will remember them in my prayers forever.
Kitty Schmidt, the coordinator of the language program at Maryknoll. She has worked at Maryknoll in the language program in one capacity or another since the 1990s. She is for me a motherly presence, showing kindness and expressing interest in my adjustment and progress. She is most generous in giving her time when students have questions or concerns. Her door is always open. More than an administrator or even a nurturer, she is the animator of the school, handing on its tradition of celebration of cultures, egalitarianism in relationships, and joy in mission.
Profesores Osvaldo and Óscar, currently my tutors at Maryknoll. They are my instructors for another two weeks before I rotate to other tutors. Osvaldo is jolly, enthusiastic, and complimentary, always providing positive reinforcement for me. Óscar is sincere, sober, and thoughtful, and he is determined to push me to formulate more complex grammatical constructions, free of errors and with correct pronunciation. These are my trainers. With them and with the other instructors I will encounter in the future, I will be pushed toward the limits, and with their help and God’s, I will break those limits.
Padre Juan Carlos, the guardian of the fraternity at Convento San Francisco. He wrote the letter of invitation that Padre Tomás procured for me. As the guardian he has given me the inestimable blessing of living in this historic, beautiful, serene oasis in the middle of downtown Cochabamba. He has given me all the brothers of this fraternity as my host family during this sojourn. And, though this was not intentional, he helps me listen to the language and understand it better. When he leads prayers in the convent chapel or celebrated Mass in the church, he speaks very slowly with a sonorous voice. It is the music I hoped I would hear.
This is mainly a community of simply professed friars in temporary vows; the convent is a house of formation. The brothers study philosophy and theology. All of them wish to become priests after perpetual profession of vows. When they are not in classes or studying, they do house chores, cleaning and maintaining the convent and church. They engage in pastoral ministries on Saturdays and Sundays. Still they gather for three times of prayer daily: morning prayer, evening prayer, and night prayer, with some variations, like the rosary or adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, on some evenings. They gather for meals three times daily. They gather three nights a week for movies, sports, or games. In word or deed, they have showed me a handful of mustard seeds of kindness.
Fray Freddie and I have sat together watching the other brothers play soccer on the convent’s concrete multipurpose court. We have talked in basic Spanish about many things. Sometimes he asks me how to say some things in simple English, and I oblige him.
Fray Bladimir showed me how to use the washing machine in the lavandería, even though I thought I knew what I was doing. (I needed to add more detergent and more water for my load.) His laughter carries the spirits of the whole fraternity. He, too, would like to learn some English words and phrases.
Fray Jorge (the younger; there are two) leads the music ministry on many evenings during the celebration of Mass at the church. He was one of the first brothers to strike up a conversation with me after my arrival. His gift of song helps me understand the language and appreciate its poetry and beauty.
Fray Itamar is a young, good-natured brother who has showed me courtesy and curiosity in where I am from and what I am doing. Equally courteous and well-mannered is Fray Rodrigo, who is something like the mayor or dean among the student friars. Like the others, he has expressed interest in me and the Capuchins. He has asked about two of my brothers, Scott and Paul, who also lived at Convento San Francisco while studying at Maryknoll last summer.
One final bouquet, for now, to a woman selling fruit drinks on the eastern frontier of La Cancha who, when I was lost and needed directions, helped me find my way back to Calle 25 de Mayo, the street where the convent is. I don’t know her name, but I thank her.
Good people, thank you, one and all.
Up to this point in this chronicle I have not mentioned by name some of the people who make up my life in Cochabamba. By way of giving thanks to God for them as they show forth the grace, power, and wisdom of God for me through their good works, let me introduce a few of them to you.
Brother Leo, who is a permanently professed lay brother in residence at Convento San Francisco. He is the economo, meaning he is in charge of the finances of the household and many if not all of the temporal needs of the friars. He is one of the two friars who met me at the airport, and he conveyed me safely to the convent in his truck. He has answered all my questions about the household, obtained items I needed, showed me where to find other things, and told me when and where to gather for prayer, meals, and social hours (convivencia). He does all this cheerfully, with never-failing good humor.
Padre Tomás, who is a professor of theology at the Catholic University of Bolivia in Cochabamba (Universidad Católica Bolivia, Facultad de Teología San Pablo). He is the other friar who retrieved me at the airport. We corresponded by e-mail for months before my arrival (he is from the United States and understands English). He secured the letter of invitation I needed from the Franciscans to secure my visa to enter Bolivia. He has stopped randomly by my room to check up on me, giving me directions to the Maryknoll Mission Center and to La Cancha, and reminding me not to drink the water!
Diana, the weekday cook at the convent, and Rosario, the weekend cook. These are the women who prepare lunch and dinner daily for the 15 friars in residence and for the guests. They know I am a relaxed vegetarian and are pleased to make accommodations. Everything they make—soups, vegetable dishes, egg dishes, grains, starches—is delicious. Rarely do I leave anything they prepare unfinished. Diana, in addition to meeting my dietary preferences, manages my thus far unpredictable school schedule. There have been days when I had to skip lunch. There have been days when I had to eat lunch early. I talk to Diana the day before, and everything is all right with her. Diana and Rosario are my strongest, surest lifeline to good health during my stay. I will remember them in my prayers forever.
Kitty Schmidt, the coordinator of the language program at Maryknoll. She has worked at Maryknoll in the language program in one capacity or another since the 1990s. She is for me a motherly presence, showing kindness and expressing interest in my adjustment and progress. She is most generous in giving her time when students have questions or concerns. Her door is always open. More than an administrator or even a nurturer, she is the animator of the school, handing on its tradition of celebration of cultures, egalitarianism in relationships, and joy in mission.
Profesores Osvaldo and Óscar, currently my tutors at Maryknoll. They are my instructors for another two weeks before I rotate to other tutors. Osvaldo is jolly, enthusiastic, and complimentary, always providing positive reinforcement for me. Óscar is sincere, sober, and thoughtful, and he is determined to push me to formulate more complex grammatical constructions, free of errors and with correct pronunciation. These are my trainers. With them and with the other instructors I will encounter in the future, I will be pushed toward the limits, and with their help and God’s, I will break those limits.
Padre Juan Carlos, the guardian of the fraternity at Convento San Francisco. He wrote the letter of invitation that Padre Tomás procured for me. As the guardian he has given me the inestimable blessing of living in this historic, beautiful, serene oasis in the middle of downtown Cochabamba. He has given me all the brothers of this fraternity as my host family during this sojourn. And, though this was not intentional, he helps me listen to the language and understand it better. When he leads prayers in the convent chapel or celebrated Mass in the church, he speaks very slowly with a sonorous voice. It is the music I hoped I would hear.
This is mainly a community of simply professed friars in temporary vows; the convent is a house of formation. The brothers study philosophy and theology. All of them wish to become priests after perpetual profession of vows. When they are not in classes or studying, they do house chores, cleaning and maintaining the convent and church. They engage in pastoral ministries on Saturdays and Sundays. Still they gather for three times of prayer daily: morning prayer, evening prayer, and night prayer, with some variations, like the rosary or adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, on some evenings. They gather for meals three times daily. They gather three nights a week for movies, sports, or games. In word or deed, they have showed me a handful of mustard seeds of kindness.
Fray Freddie and I have sat together watching the other brothers play soccer on the convent’s concrete multipurpose court. We have talked in basic Spanish about many things. Sometimes he asks me how to say some things in simple English, and I oblige him.
Fray Bladimir showed me how to use the washing machine in the lavandería, even though I thought I knew what I was doing. (I needed to add more detergent and more water for my load.) His laughter carries the spirits of the whole fraternity. He, too, would like to learn some English words and phrases.
Fray Jorge (the younger; there are two) leads the music ministry on many evenings during the celebration of Mass at the church. He was one of the first brothers to strike up a conversation with me after my arrival. His gift of song helps me understand the language and appreciate its poetry and beauty.
Fray Itamar is a young, good-natured brother who has showed me courtesy and curiosity in where I am from and what I am doing. Equally courteous and well-mannered is Fray Rodrigo, who is something like the mayor or dean among the student friars. Like the others, he has expressed interest in me and the Capuchins. He has asked about two of my brothers, Scott and Paul, who also lived at Convento San Francisco while studying at Maryknoll last summer.
One final bouquet, for now, to a woman selling fruit drinks on the eastern frontier of La Cancha who, when I was lost and needed directions, helped me find my way back to Calle 25 de Mayo, the street where the convent is. I don’t know her name, but I thank her.
Good people, thank you, one and all.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Igualmente
“ ‘Do to others as you would have them to do you’ ” (Luke 6:31).
After morning prayers and meditations, and while waiting my turn to do laundry—my adventure for the day— another pause.
A few days ago I was gushing about the glorious thunderstorm that replenished the earth and my soul, and this was after the evening and day without water to bathe. A day or two later, I picked up Los Tiempos, one of the Cochabamba newspapers, to practice reading. And I read about how the Rio Rocha had swollen, and how those who make a living at subsistence farming on the campos were apprehensive about the ongoing rainy season, and how many of their crops have been ruined, and how many of their flooded homes were damaged or destroyed. At this hour, for these multitudes who live at the mercy of Sister Mother Earth and Sister Rain, grace is the strong and steady gaze of Brother Sun.
I retract nothing of what I said about the beauty of that display of nature awakening my parched soul to God’s amazing grace. To the contrary, I relate this dispatch because it deepens and intensifies the urgency of the summons of that holy storm to go out and get drenched in grace. Then, in turn, one may satisfy the thirst of those who do not get to drink from the cup of salvation.
The signs of the times begin to sharpen before my eyes and, yes, my ears. At the church one evening, I see someone reproach a mother whose child is lying on the pew and fidgeting. I chuckle until a woman sitting behind me tells me the child has autism. On my walks to the language school, I see the small women sitting on the sidewalks scraping up coins from the rest of us. Their dark, weather-worn faces, unsmiling, under wide-brimmed sombreros; their wrinkled, dirty, but colorful clothing; their outstretched arms and open hands following you as you pass them haunt me. They speak Aymara, Guaraní, or Quechua—all I know is it’s not Spanish. I do not know what they are saying when they see me, but of course I do. “You see me hungry, thirsty, homeless, sick, and imprisoned. What are you going to do?”
Dear God, what can I do? What can I do for others that will be even remotely equal to what you, through your holy ones, have done for me? Yes, yes, I know now that I can give from my own poverty—indeed, this is the ordinary way to render the gifts of God. But how am I going to do it now? Thus I do not speak only of what is to be done—I have mentioned the opportunities for Maryknoll’s language students to do the works of mercy at hospitals and orphanages and other places—but also of the means and the manner. Often this is where I get hung up. Take this cry of the poor away from me, God. I can’t serve these people—I don’t know their language. I can’t comfort these mourners—I never lost what they lost, never had what they had. I can’t work with these people; I don’t like them and can’t relate to them, and they never thank me for anything.
A word from God: Baloney. The Gospel today brings back Jesus’ challenge and promise: no one who dares to love will be denied the means to love. Give graciously and you will receive graciously. In this divine economy there is equality. Above all, trust in the gifts you have already received (and given again). Let these be a sign and source of confidence that you have loved others, you can love others, and you will love others: friends and enemies, rich and poor, saints and sinners, everywhere, equally, abundantly.
After morning prayers and meditations, and while waiting my turn to do laundry—my adventure for the day— another pause.
A few days ago I was gushing about the glorious thunderstorm that replenished the earth and my soul, and this was after the evening and day without water to bathe. A day or two later, I picked up Los Tiempos, one of the Cochabamba newspapers, to practice reading. And I read about how the Rio Rocha had swollen, and how those who make a living at subsistence farming on the campos were apprehensive about the ongoing rainy season, and how many of their crops have been ruined, and how many of their flooded homes were damaged or destroyed. At this hour, for these multitudes who live at the mercy of Sister Mother Earth and Sister Rain, grace is the strong and steady gaze of Brother Sun.
I retract nothing of what I said about the beauty of that display of nature awakening my parched soul to God’s amazing grace. To the contrary, I relate this dispatch because it deepens and intensifies the urgency of the summons of that holy storm to go out and get drenched in grace. Then, in turn, one may satisfy the thirst of those who do not get to drink from the cup of salvation.
The signs of the times begin to sharpen before my eyes and, yes, my ears. At the church one evening, I see someone reproach a mother whose child is lying on the pew and fidgeting. I chuckle until a woman sitting behind me tells me the child has autism. On my walks to the language school, I see the small women sitting on the sidewalks scraping up coins from the rest of us. Their dark, weather-worn faces, unsmiling, under wide-brimmed sombreros; their wrinkled, dirty, but colorful clothing; their outstretched arms and open hands following you as you pass them haunt me. They speak Aymara, Guaraní, or Quechua—all I know is it’s not Spanish. I do not know what they are saying when they see me, but of course I do. “You see me hungry, thirsty, homeless, sick, and imprisoned. What are you going to do?”
Dear God, what can I do? What can I do for others that will be even remotely equal to what you, through your holy ones, have done for me? Yes, yes, I know now that I can give from my own poverty—indeed, this is the ordinary way to render the gifts of God. But how am I going to do it now? Thus I do not speak only of what is to be done—I have mentioned the opportunities for Maryknoll’s language students to do the works of mercy at hospitals and orphanages and other places—but also of the means and the manner. Often this is where I get hung up. Take this cry of the poor away from me, God. I can’t serve these people—I don’t know their language. I can’t comfort these mourners—I never lost what they lost, never had what they had. I can’t work with these people; I don’t like them and can’t relate to them, and they never thank me for anything.
A word from God: Baloney. The Gospel today brings back Jesus’ challenge and promise: no one who dares to love will be denied the means to love. Give graciously and you will receive graciously. In this divine economy there is equality. Above all, trust in the gifts you have already received (and given again). Let these be a sign and source of confidence that you have loved others, you can love others, and you will love others: friends and enemies, rich and poor, saints and sinners, everywhere, equally, abundantly.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
La Cancha
On my tenth day in Bolivia, I went to the market. Well, yes and not exactly. I needed some hygiene items and some bathroom cleaning supplies. And though I could have obtained them two blocks from the convent, I decided to walk several blocks south to the place called La Cancha, the much-heralded popular market. Actually, it’s not accurate to call it a place. La Cancha is like a market of markets. The folks at the language school estimate it encompasses over 50 blocks, and that sprawl may be a conservative estimate. It is bounded to the west by the intercity bus terminal, as well as a hill, Colina San Sebastian, and a cemetery. To the north it is bounded for about nine blocks by a major thoroughfare. To the east is another thoroughfare running down a good six big blocks or more. The market stretches southward through a former train station and consumes all the territory, funneling down eventually. I’m telling you what the maps show me, for in truth I barely penetrated this mega-market, having got no further than one or two blocks past the northern frontier.
I’ve seen photos of the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I’ve been to the Tenement Museum and received an impression of how densely packed that neighborhood was on market days and, really, any given day. Well, I suppose that what I saw at the edge of La Cancha is today what the Lower East Side was all those years ago. Holy moly! No apparent traffic laws need apply here. Everyone is a small business owner. Everyone is selling everything. Everyone has a space from which to sell: tents, kiosks, booths, carts, galerias, sidewalks, pavilions. Who is a licensed vendor and who simply hangs a shingle and gets going? Who knows? In Cochabamba, who cares? Artisanal crafts, new clothing, old clothing, festival clothing (it is Carnaval), shoes, cosmetics, household products (I found most of my hygiene and bathroom needs), baby products, furniture (I passed three blocks of mattress stores on the way to La Cancha), musical instruments, cell phones and electronics, computers and printers, TVs, radios, CDs and DVDs, a galaxy of games and toys, a universe of produce and meats and grains and hot foods and beverages and baked goods, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves … the mind reels and the eyes drown. Cliché time: I was literally stopped in my tracks by the volume and density of commercial activity.
I am told by a friar that you could wander La Cancha for a week and not see everything. I am further told that, though I was brushed back in this first encounter, don’t give up hope. Keep plowing through the thickest thickets of the open-air markets until you reach the much broader plazas of La Cancha, with indoor venues, and where the aisles are wider—where there are actually aisles and not six inches of crumbling sidewalk between you and the street. And the vendors have much more space in which to spread out. I have a lot of free time on Sunday, and no need to make urgent purchases. So I will keep the bolivianos and my (useless) cell phone at home, take a breath, imagine that I am Dante (O Virgil, where art thou?) and descend once more, without despair, into La Cancha until its chaos reveals its beauty—until what looks like the Inferno yields to a more benign Purgatory.
I’ve seen photos of the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I’ve been to the Tenement Museum and received an impression of how densely packed that neighborhood was on market days and, really, any given day. Well, I suppose that what I saw at the edge of La Cancha is today what the Lower East Side was all those years ago. Holy moly! No apparent traffic laws need apply here. Everyone is a small business owner. Everyone is selling everything. Everyone has a space from which to sell: tents, kiosks, booths, carts, galerias, sidewalks, pavilions. Who is a licensed vendor and who simply hangs a shingle and gets going? Who knows? In Cochabamba, who cares? Artisanal crafts, new clothing, old clothing, festival clothing (it is Carnaval), shoes, cosmetics, household products (I found most of my hygiene and bathroom needs), baby products, furniture (I passed three blocks of mattress stores on the way to La Cancha), musical instruments, cell phones and electronics, computers and printers, TVs, radios, CDs and DVDs, a galaxy of games and toys, a universe of produce and meats and grains and hot foods and beverages and baked goods, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtledoves … the mind reels and the eyes drown. Cliché time: I was literally stopped in my tracks by the volume and density of commercial activity.
I am told by a friar that you could wander La Cancha for a week and not see everything. I am further told that, though I was brushed back in this first encounter, don’t give up hope. Keep plowing through the thickest thickets of the open-air markets until you reach the much broader plazas of La Cancha, with indoor venues, and where the aisles are wider—where there are actually aisles and not six inches of crumbling sidewalk between you and the street. And the vendors have much more space in which to spread out. I have a lot of free time on Sunday, and no need to make urgent purchases. So I will keep the bolivianos and my (useless) cell phone at home, take a breath, imagine that I am Dante (O Virgil, where art thou?) and descend once more, without despair, into La Cancha until its chaos reveals its beauty—until what looks like the Inferno yields to a more benign Purgatory.
Friday, February 22, 2019
Revelación
“Jesus said, ‘Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you’ ” (Matthew 16:17).
A pause this morning between preparations for classes. Jesus says Peter’s confession of the Messiah, the Son of God, comes from God and not from the people around him. And Peter is blessed because his knowledge of Christ was revealed by God and not by others. And I am trying to harmonize this understanding of revelation through God alone with the understanding that God became human, the Word became flesh, and now in Christ risen and glorified, everything that lives and that breathes, human beings and all creatures, can reveal the living God. I wonder about it this morning as I give thanks for the beauty of God through the beauty of Bolivia, natural and cultural; the goodness of God through the goodness of the brothers, the language school community, and the people; the truth of God through the grammar and poetry of Spanish; and the love of God through the love from so many dear ones, a love that takes me by surprise and lately leaves me stunned.
The best I can come up with is that grace is leading me surely more and more into the company of the lovers and knowers of God. It’s not that I have left “the world,” the flesh and blood of merely human communities that cannot signify of themselves that which is holy. Rather it is that I am being led gently beyond that unperceiving, unrevealing world to the people and places where one can sense with the spiritual sense the holy signs of God’s love that are always around us. Who knows what myriad of signs and wonders are occurring at any hour when the bread and wine are consecrated at the altar? Who knows but that the flora in this cloister garden genuflect at the altar of the earth, while we genuflect at the altar of God?
Peter could not apprehend the secret of life on his own. Jesus chose him, loved him, and led him to light and truth, beauty and grace. So God alone did reveal something new to Peter, but because all of Peter was taken up by Christ, it was not without Peter’s humanity that God in Jesus revealed something new. Thus not by Peter’s human nature, but not without his human nature. In the company of Christ, Peter can see and hear and speak truly of all that is holy.
The friars of this convent begin and conclude each hour of the divine office with this prayer of St. Francis taken from his Testament: “We adore you, most holy Lord Jesus Christ, here and in all churches of the world; and we bless you, because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world.” As they recite this prayer they genuflect before the tabernacle. It is a gesture I make willingly, a ritual I hope forms my posture to the world. For, like Peter, I feel I have been picked up and led into a place where I can see, hear, and speak of new things in heaven and earth with grace, beauty, and love.
A pause this morning between preparations for classes. Jesus says Peter’s confession of the Messiah, the Son of God, comes from God and not from the people around him. And Peter is blessed because his knowledge of Christ was revealed by God and not by others. And I am trying to harmonize this understanding of revelation through God alone with the understanding that God became human, the Word became flesh, and now in Christ risen and glorified, everything that lives and that breathes, human beings and all creatures, can reveal the living God. I wonder about it this morning as I give thanks for the beauty of God through the beauty of Bolivia, natural and cultural; the goodness of God through the goodness of the brothers, the language school community, and the people; the truth of God through the grammar and poetry of Spanish; and the love of God through the love from so many dear ones, a love that takes me by surprise and lately leaves me stunned.
The best I can come up with is that grace is leading me surely more and more into the company of the lovers and knowers of God. It’s not that I have left “the world,” the flesh and blood of merely human communities that cannot signify of themselves that which is holy. Rather it is that I am being led gently beyond that unperceiving, unrevealing world to the people and places where one can sense with the spiritual sense the holy signs of God’s love that are always around us. Who knows what myriad of signs and wonders are occurring at any hour when the bread and wine are consecrated at the altar? Who knows but that the flora in this cloister garden genuflect at the altar of the earth, while we genuflect at the altar of God?
Peter could not apprehend the secret of life on his own. Jesus chose him, loved him, and led him to light and truth, beauty and grace. So God alone did reveal something new to Peter, but because all of Peter was taken up by Christ, it was not without Peter’s humanity that God in Jesus revealed something new. Thus not by Peter’s human nature, but not without his human nature. In the company of Christ, Peter can see and hear and speak truly of all that is holy.
The friars of this convent begin and conclude each hour of the divine office with this prayer of St. Francis taken from his Testament: “We adore you, most holy Lord Jesus Christ, here and in all churches of the world; and we bless you, because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world.” As they recite this prayer they genuflect before the tabernacle. It is a gesture I make willingly, a ritual I hope forms my posture to the world. For, like Peter, I feel I have been picked up and led into a place where I can see, hear, and speak of new things in heaven and earth with grace, beauty, and love.
Thursday, February 21, 2019
Desafiar
It is summer changing into autumn in Bolivia. The harvest is coming in. And Carnaval is well under way here. It is a celebration rooted in indigenous Andean customs. This is the time when the people give thanks to Mother Earth (Pachamama) for the blessings of a good harvest and pray for harmony, peace, and tranquility in their homes and society.
With Carnaval comes parades, feasting, dancing, and all sorts of merriment. It will continue all the way until Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. (Think of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, also a season of unbridled festivity.) We will have our own Carnaval at the Maryknoll Mission Center next Friday.
But we got a taste, literal and otherwise, of some Carnaval customs today at the language school.
This day, the penultimate Thursday before the conclusion of Carnaval, is the celebration of Compadres. Its origin lies in the comradeship between fathers and godfathers, whose bonds were solidified in their mutual care for the father’s child. It has developed into a day of revels for men, who eat and drink the rich fare of traditional Bolivian cakes, fruits, meats, and beverages. The women attend to the men. The following Thursday, the feast of Comadres, reverses the scenario, and the men attend to the women, whose own solidarity is feted.
Our Compadres celebrations at Maryknoll began with the customary practices. The women brought the men cinnamon-flavored drinks and meat sandwiches (I had a cheese-filled empanada). They wrapped a ribbon around our necks and then gave each of us a collar, a necklace strung with puffs of harina. Then there were a few rounds of circle dancing and handkerchief dancing to guitar and bombo legüero (an Argentinian drum).
After this, the women had their opportunity to desafiar, or subvert, the male sex and the cultural codes of masculinity. They sang numerous coplas, or verses, teasing the men, and playfully cutting each of them down to size. No man escaped his moment of humiliation. When my turn came, all the women, surrounding me, dancing back and forth, sang
El hermano Antonio es nuestro el más nuevito (2x)
Pero hoy no lo salva ni San Francisquito (2x)
(According to my teachers, roughly translated: Brother Anthony is our newest one/But today St. Francis will not save him.)
I must have blushed as deeply as I ever have.
It’s curious. I enjoyed the teasing part most of all, because I’ve attempted, over the last 20 years in my religious seeking, to leave behind the conventional cultural codes forming male behavior. Being served, receiving ribbons and necklaces, made me uncomfortable. But it seemed the Bolivian women enjoyed all of it equally—the waiting on the men as well as their turn to tweak some noses.
Want to see the celebration? Have a look.
Next Thursday, for the Comadres celebration, I would like to try my hand at the bombo. It’s probably the best way for me to bring an offering to the merriment. I enjoy setting a rhythm to which others can move.
Cantar cantaremos, bailar bailaremos. Estos carnavales bien la pasaremos.
With Carnaval comes parades, feasting, dancing, and all sorts of merriment. It will continue all the way until Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. (Think of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, also a season of unbridled festivity.) We will have our own Carnaval at the Maryknoll Mission Center next Friday.
But we got a taste, literal and otherwise, of some Carnaval customs today at the language school.
This day, the penultimate Thursday before the conclusion of Carnaval, is the celebration of Compadres. Its origin lies in the comradeship between fathers and godfathers, whose bonds were solidified in their mutual care for the father’s child. It has developed into a day of revels for men, who eat and drink the rich fare of traditional Bolivian cakes, fruits, meats, and beverages. The women attend to the men. The following Thursday, the feast of Comadres, reverses the scenario, and the men attend to the women, whose own solidarity is feted.
Our Compadres celebrations at Maryknoll began with the customary practices. The women brought the men cinnamon-flavored drinks and meat sandwiches (I had a cheese-filled empanada). They wrapped a ribbon around our necks and then gave each of us a collar, a necklace strung with puffs of harina. Then there were a few rounds of circle dancing and handkerchief dancing to guitar and bombo legüero (an Argentinian drum).
After this, the women had their opportunity to desafiar, or subvert, the male sex and the cultural codes of masculinity. They sang numerous coplas, or verses, teasing the men, and playfully cutting each of them down to size. No man escaped his moment of humiliation. When my turn came, all the women, surrounding me, dancing back and forth, sang
El hermano Antonio es nuestro el más nuevito (2x)
Pero hoy no lo salva ni San Francisquito (2x)
(According to my teachers, roughly translated: Brother Anthony is our newest one/But today St. Francis will not save him.)
I must have blushed as deeply as I ever have.
It’s curious. I enjoyed the teasing part most of all, because I’ve attempted, over the last 20 years in my religious seeking, to leave behind the conventional cultural codes forming male behavior. Being served, receiving ribbons and necklaces, made me uncomfortable. But it seemed the Bolivian women enjoyed all of it equally—the waiting on the men as well as their turn to tweak some noses.
Want to see the celebration? Have a look.
Next Thursday, for the Comadres celebration, I would like to try my hand at the bombo. It’s probably the best way for me to bring an offering to the merriment. I enjoy setting a rhythm to which others can move.
Cantar cantaremos, bailar bailaremos. Estos carnavales bien la pasaremos.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
De la Mano
“He took the blind man by the hand” (Mark 8:23).
After the rough slog of the first day of classes Tuesday, God and the city of Cochabamba were gracious and merciful. I returned to the Franciscan convent and was able to shower. Later in the evening, a tremendous thunderstorm broke, sending a sizzling rain. The thunder thumped my heart. The lightning illuminated the cloister garden and brought sparkle to the raindrops. The air freshened with the scent of a cooling night. Oh, it was beautiful to see and to hear. My interior water tank was replenished to overflowing. And I wanted to stand at the balcony of the cloister for hours to watch the garden get saturated, if only I did not need the sleep.
And so after a good evening meal, a better night’s sleep, and a gentle morning of workbook exercises, I set forth today for the language school fully renewed, walking the roads with lightness and feeling like a voyager ready to go the long distance.
Students with afternoon classes (like me) have longer days than the students with morning classes when mandatory plenary activities are scheduled, as they usually are, in the morning. For example, today is Wednesday, and every week at 11 o’clock there is a lecture in Spanish on one of various cultural, social, political, or religious topics. Today, one of the Maryknoll Mission Center staff members gave a simplified history of the Catholic Church in Bolivia. It was simplified in details and in language. As the lecture got underway I could process a few words here, a few words there. As the lecturer continued, I began to hear more words at a time in sequence and make the meaning. About a half hour into the talk, I realized that I was now in fact hearing every word and processing whole ideas, paragraph-sized! I felt like the blind person that Jesus healed, who went from seeing people as if they were trees walking to seeing people distinctly as they were. Praise God! Granted, I had an outline of the lecture (in Spanish) in front of me, and the lecturer used a slideshow with his presentation. But the point is that through all the helps, all the guiding hands given, my ears were opened little by little until they were doing as much work as my eyes were already able to do. I will accept this as another little miracle on the way to better communication skills.
During his homily at the noon Mass at the Maryknoll Mission Center chapel, the priest reminded us in very simple terms that the journey to healing and wholeness is a process, and it occurs in stages. With trust in the Holy One who continually offers a helping hand to us, we too can reach out, be led beyond the places and circumstances that confine us, and come gradually to our fullest, liveliest selves. This is our salvation.
After the rough slog of the first day of classes Tuesday, God and the city of Cochabamba were gracious and merciful. I returned to the Franciscan convent and was able to shower. Later in the evening, a tremendous thunderstorm broke, sending a sizzling rain. The thunder thumped my heart. The lightning illuminated the cloister garden and brought sparkle to the raindrops. The air freshened with the scent of a cooling night. Oh, it was beautiful to see and to hear. My interior water tank was replenished to overflowing. And I wanted to stand at the balcony of the cloister for hours to watch the garden get saturated, if only I did not need the sleep.
And so after a good evening meal, a better night’s sleep, and a gentle morning of workbook exercises, I set forth today for the language school fully renewed, walking the roads with lightness and feeling like a voyager ready to go the long distance.
Students with afternoon classes (like me) have longer days than the students with morning classes when mandatory plenary activities are scheduled, as they usually are, in the morning. For example, today is Wednesday, and every week at 11 o’clock there is a lecture in Spanish on one of various cultural, social, political, or religious topics. Today, one of the Maryknoll Mission Center staff members gave a simplified history of the Catholic Church in Bolivia. It was simplified in details and in language. As the lecture got underway I could process a few words here, a few words there. As the lecturer continued, I began to hear more words at a time in sequence and make the meaning. About a half hour into the talk, I realized that I was now in fact hearing every word and processing whole ideas, paragraph-sized! I felt like the blind person that Jesus healed, who went from seeing people as if they were trees walking to seeing people distinctly as they were. Praise God! Granted, I had an outline of the lecture (in Spanish) in front of me, and the lecturer used a slideshow with his presentation. But the point is that through all the helps, all the guiding hands given, my ears were opened little by little until they were doing as much work as my eyes were already able to do. I will accept this as another little miracle on the way to better communication skills.
During his homily at the noon Mass at the Maryknoll Mission Center chapel, the priest reminded us in very simple terms that the journey to healing and wholeness is a process, and it occurs in stages. With trust in the Holy One who continually offers a helping hand to us, we too can reach out, be led beyond the places and circumstances that confine us, and come gradually to our fullest, liveliest selves. This is our salvation.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
No Hay Agua
“He said to them, ‘Do you still not understand?” (Mark 8:21).
Jesus knows I do not yet understand many things, despite the signs of God’s love surrounding me everywhere all the time.
This morning I had my interview with the language program coordinator. She determined that it is more appropriate to place me in an intermediate-level class. Therefore, my schedule will be altered temporarily. I will have classes from 1 to 5 p.m. on weekdays for the next two weeks, beginning today. After March 1, when several students complete their studies, everyone will attend morning classes, 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. For the six-week course, I will be coupled with one other student, who is a seminarian with the Maryknoll Fathers from Kenya. The coordinator tells me we will make a good balance in the classroom: he is unafraid to say anything in Spanish, correct or incorrect, whereas I speak less but speak precisely.
I hope I have the stamina to make it to five o’clock these next two weeks. And I’m really tired today. I did not sleep much last night because I was preoccupied with the inconvenience of having no water. As best as I could piece it together, because of fire department activity, the city had to shut off or empty the convent’s water tank or something like that. Last night, when I asked one friar how long the water would be cut off, he said an hour at most. Well, after a restless night worrying about it, the water remained turned off at sunrise. See—what’s the use of worrying? Another takeaway: a cold shower is better than no shower. Not to have the basic convenience of water has hit me like a slap in the face. But this is normal, the language program coordinator said. Memo to the ugly American: Hello, poverty, I guess.
I’m more tired feeling than angry. But I don’t feel too sociable right now, and not only because I feel grubby and fear my odor might give offense. “The mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine’ ” (John 2:3). Well, at least they had some water! I suppose my interior water tank is getting near empty again, for the first time since I arrived almost a week ago. And there’s four hours of intermediate-level language immersion ahead every day for the next two weeks in the afternoon, when I usually lose my first wind but don’t yet catch the second wind. Oh well. On the one hand I am pleased to have been told I am at a more advanced level of proficiency. On the other hand, it does raise the stakes. Time to be pushed to the limit. Do I want to go there? “Yes?” I answer, because I can’t quite put a period or exclamation point there today. But we’re going forward anyway. I’ve seen too many signs of God’s favor to turn back. Yes, Jesus, I do not understand the signs. I will therefore go forward anyway.
Jesus knows I do not yet understand many things, despite the signs of God’s love surrounding me everywhere all the time.
This morning I had my interview with the language program coordinator. She determined that it is more appropriate to place me in an intermediate-level class. Therefore, my schedule will be altered temporarily. I will have classes from 1 to 5 p.m. on weekdays for the next two weeks, beginning today. After March 1, when several students complete their studies, everyone will attend morning classes, 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. For the six-week course, I will be coupled with one other student, who is a seminarian with the Maryknoll Fathers from Kenya. The coordinator tells me we will make a good balance in the classroom: he is unafraid to say anything in Spanish, correct or incorrect, whereas I speak less but speak precisely.
I hope I have the stamina to make it to five o’clock these next two weeks. And I’m really tired today. I did not sleep much last night because I was preoccupied with the inconvenience of having no water. As best as I could piece it together, because of fire department activity, the city had to shut off or empty the convent’s water tank or something like that. Last night, when I asked one friar how long the water would be cut off, he said an hour at most. Well, after a restless night worrying about it, the water remained turned off at sunrise. See—what’s the use of worrying? Another takeaway: a cold shower is better than no shower. Not to have the basic convenience of water has hit me like a slap in the face. But this is normal, the language program coordinator said. Memo to the ugly American: Hello, poverty, I guess.
I’m more tired feeling than angry. But I don’t feel too sociable right now, and not only because I feel grubby and fear my odor might give offense. “The mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine’ ” (John 2:3). Well, at least they had some water! I suppose my interior water tank is getting near empty again, for the first time since I arrived almost a week ago. And there’s four hours of intermediate-level language immersion ahead every day for the next two weeks in the afternoon, when I usually lose my first wind but don’t yet catch the second wind. Oh well. On the one hand I am pleased to have been told I am at a more advanced level of proficiency. On the other hand, it does raise the stakes. Time to be pushed to the limit. Do I want to go there? “Yes?” I answer, because I can’t quite put a period or exclamation point there today. But we’re going forward anyway. I’ve seen too many signs of God’s favor to turn back. Yes, Jesus, I do not understand the signs. I will therefore go forward anyway.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Escuela
This was my first day at the Maryknoll Mission Center Language Program. Today was the orientation, conducted by the coordinator of the language program.
The preliminaries included a tour of the school facilities, a presentation of the class format (two or three students per class, four hours daily), and meeting fellow students. We received a tentative class schedule as well. But this is subject to change after I have a placement exam Tuesday morning. Once the coordinator conducts an interview with me to assess my language skills, I may be moved into another class more appropriate for my level of proficiency. Having heard my introduction to the students in passable Spanish at the coffee break, the coordinator says I will likely need to be placed in a different class than the one she had in mind. She thinks, contrary to the written questionnaire I submitted to the school a few months ago, that I am not a beginner. We will find out tomorrow.
If I am transferred to another class, it may change my schedule significantly. Instead of classes from 8 in the morning to noon, I may need to attend classes from 1 to 5 p.m. But it would not be a permanent assignment. Courses are six weeks, and they change at mid-term, with new tutors rotating in. This means that a course that begins as morning class could shift to an afternoon class, and vice versa. I may be re-tooling my weeks with some frequency. So stay tuned, friends—what is true today will change tomorrow.
Much of this morning was devoted to commonsensical things.
We talked about how to stay healthy in Bolivia. Don’t drink the water! Drink only bottled water or purified water. Don’t eat food sold by street vendors unless you trust them to sell clean foods and beverages. Don’t use ice! Choose restaurants carefully. Choose menu items carefully. Do not eat lettuce or strawberries at restaurants—you just cannot be assured that they have been properly disinfected. That said, diarrhea is normal. But beware when symptoms persist, for you could have a bacterial infection or, worse, a parasite. Whatever you do, don’t self-medicate! Seek a doctor. Also, avoid dogs. Strays are everywhere on these streets. Rabies is a risk not worth taking. Do not pet any dog you do not know. Make no eye contact with them. If a dog threatens you, make like you are picking up a stone (or better, pick up an object) like you were going to hurl it at the dog. (Forgive me, Saint Francis.)
The preliminaries included a tour of the school facilities, a presentation of the class format (two or three students per class, four hours daily), and meeting fellow students. We received a tentative class schedule as well. But this is subject to change after I have a placement exam Tuesday morning. Once the coordinator conducts an interview with me to assess my language skills, I may be moved into another class more appropriate for my level of proficiency. Having heard my introduction to the students in passable Spanish at the coffee break, the coordinator says I will likely need to be placed in a different class than the one she had in mind. She thinks, contrary to the written questionnaire I submitted to the school a few months ago, that I am not a beginner. We will find out tomorrow.
If I am transferred to another class, it may change my schedule significantly. Instead of classes from 8 in the morning to noon, I may need to attend classes from 1 to 5 p.m. But it would not be a permanent assignment. Courses are six weeks, and they change at mid-term, with new tutors rotating in. This means that a course that begins as morning class could shift to an afternoon class, and vice versa. I may be re-tooling my weeks with some frequency. So stay tuned, friends—what is true today will change tomorrow.
Much of this morning was devoted to commonsensical things.
We talked about how to stay healthy in Bolivia. Don’t drink the water! Drink only bottled water or purified water. Don’t eat food sold by street vendors unless you trust them to sell clean foods and beverages. Don’t use ice! Choose restaurants carefully. Choose menu items carefully. Do not eat lettuce or strawberries at restaurants—you just cannot be assured that they have been properly disinfected. That said, diarrhea is normal. But beware when symptoms persist, for you could have a bacterial infection or, worse, a parasite. Whatever you do, don’t self-medicate! Seek a doctor. Also, avoid dogs. Strays are everywhere on these streets. Rabies is a risk not worth taking. Do not pet any dog you do not know. Make no eye contact with them. If a dog threatens you, make like you are picking up a stone (or better, pick up an object) like you were going to hurl it at the dog. (Forgive me, Saint Francis.)
We talked about how to stay safe. Thievery is common in the city. Wear a backpack. Conceal your valuables. Stow valuables in zippered pockets. Better yet, do not carry valuables with you. Never carry your passport, but carry a photocopy. Never offer your passport to anyone purporting to be police—the Bolivian police do not ask for your passport or make random stops on individuals walking or driving or sitting in public spaces. Beware of scammers (we went through several scenarios). We learned where not to go, or when not to go somewhere.
We talked about cultural norms, too. Time is relative in Bolivia; a party announced to begin at 5 p.m. begins at 6 o’clock. Do not wear shorts. Always wear your shoes, even indoors. Do not rest your feet on the furniture. Do not throw toilet paper in the toilet; the pipes here are too narrow, so every bathroom has a basket for waste paper. Hand items to other people; do not toss an item to someone (this is very disrespectful).
We also talked about getting around and getting to city landmarks. Now I know which buses to take from Convento San Francisco to the school (the old red buses marked A or 3V), and how much to pay (1.5 bolivianos). Now I know about La Cancha, the 50-block open-air market several blocks to the south of the convent. Now I know about Cristo de la Concordia, a pilgrimage site with an enormous statute of the Christ of Peace, accessible by cable car or by ascent of a great many steps (I will visit during Lent and write more about it, I hope).
From the commonsensical to the institutional, we learned a few things about Maryknoll Mission Center. I encourage you to explore social media as well as Maryknoll Mission Center’s website for a summary of all its programs. The Maryknoll priests, brothers, sisters, and lay missioners have served Latin America for over 75 years. They have been teaching languages in Cochabamba since 1965. Through total immersion, both cultural and linguistic, they teach Bolivians and foreigners Spanish, Quechua, and Aymara. The aim is not merely language acquisition. The goals are missionary formation, intercultural solidarity, “horizontal” human relationships, and personal and social transformation. Weekly plenary assemblies feature guest speakers who talk about various aspects of Bolivian culture, politics, religion, and society. Field trips through the city and country are a regular part of the course—our learning is contextual and equips us to really live out our lives in Spanish. There are also volunteer opportunities at hospitals, orphanages, safe homes, and elder care homes where we may serve and grow in our cultural and language proficiency.
To follow in the footprints of the many Capuchin friars who have been formed here for Spanish-language apostolates is a distinct honor, an amazing privilege, and a charge to keep. I’m feeling proud and happy to be here representing the Capuchins in this undertaking. Brothers, I won’t let you down!
Time now to switch gears, recollect, and offer thankful prayers in anticipation of the things to come at the school and the friary.
We talked about cultural norms, too. Time is relative in Bolivia; a party announced to begin at 5 p.m. begins at 6 o’clock. Do not wear shorts. Always wear your shoes, even indoors. Do not rest your feet on the furniture. Do not throw toilet paper in the toilet; the pipes here are too narrow, so every bathroom has a basket for waste paper. Hand items to other people; do not toss an item to someone (this is very disrespectful).
We also talked about getting around and getting to city landmarks. Now I know which buses to take from Convento San Francisco to the school (the old red buses marked A or 3V), and how much to pay (1.5 bolivianos). Now I know about La Cancha, the 50-block open-air market several blocks to the south of the convent. Now I know about Cristo de la Concordia, a pilgrimage site with an enormous statute of the Christ of Peace, accessible by cable car or by ascent of a great many steps (I will visit during Lent and write more about it, I hope).
From the commonsensical to the institutional, we learned a few things about Maryknoll Mission Center. I encourage you to explore social media as well as Maryknoll Mission Center’s website for a summary of all its programs. The Maryknoll priests, brothers, sisters, and lay missioners have served Latin America for over 75 years. They have been teaching languages in Cochabamba since 1965. Through total immersion, both cultural and linguistic, they teach Bolivians and foreigners Spanish, Quechua, and Aymara. The aim is not merely language acquisition. The goals are missionary formation, intercultural solidarity, “horizontal” human relationships, and personal and social transformation. Weekly plenary assemblies feature guest speakers who talk about various aspects of Bolivian culture, politics, religion, and society. Field trips through the city and country are a regular part of the course—our learning is contextual and equips us to really live out our lives in Spanish. There are also volunteer opportunities at hospitals, orphanages, safe homes, and elder care homes where we may serve and grow in our cultural and language proficiency.
To follow in the footprints of the many Capuchin friars who have been formed here for Spanish-language apostolates is a distinct honor, an amazing privilege, and a charge to keep. I’m feeling proud and happy to be here representing the Capuchins in this undertaking. Brothers, I won’t let you down!
Time now to switch gears, recollect, and offer thankful prayers in anticipation of the things to come at the school and the friary.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Jardín
Blessed are those who trust in God;
God will be their trust.
They are like a tree planted beside the waters
that stretches out its roots to the stream:
It does not fear heat when it comes,
its leaves stay green;
In the year of drought it shows no distress,
but still produces fruit.
Jeremiah 17:7-8
I’m no writer for National Geographic, but I will bring my powers of journalistic observation to bear on what I see in the friars’ cloister garden, here at Convento San Francisco.
We have here a quadrangle divided into four quarters.
In the center is a fountain whose pool is shaped like a quatrefoil and a column with two basins, one stacked on top of the other. The water spouts from the top basin and runs over into the second basin in which plants are thickly packed and trickles from there into the pool where lily pads float and fish swim. I don’t know the species, so I’ll simply call them tigerfish and catfish and fish-fish because that is what they resemble, and those are the names that come to mind.
Stone paths proceed from the fountain to the edges of the quadrangle, forming the four quarters. A stone path lines the perimeter. Various potted plants rest under the cloister arcades. Many of them are palms. A few of them are cactuses. Some of these are small and spindly, and others broad, flat, and tall. One curves out of its pot like an elephant’s trunk. Then there are the other succulents, which resemble cactuses but are not, and which take so many shapes, the likes of which I have never seen before! Some of them are positively extraterrestrial to my eyes. It’s hard to describe these.
Now, a look within the garden. Most to my liking are the fruit trees, so I will begin with them.
In the northwest quarter, in the very corner, is a lemon tree, with a few ripe ones on the ground yielding a mild scent. Toward the middle of the same quarter is a tree bearing a fruit called chirimoya, which looks like a pine cone. Right here it is appropriate to share this link about Bolivian fruit so you can see what I mean. Other trees in this quarter throw shade.
In the northeast quarter we have an orange tree in the corner. Two trees down below it is an apple tree. In between the two stands a tree with fruit that looks like a cross between an apple and a tomato. Maybe it’s just another kind of apple tree? I don’t know. Near the fountain in the interior of this quarter is a tree with fruit called achacha or achachairu, whose fruit looks like a red or pink Christmas tree ornament hung upside down. Another tree is in an island in the center of this quarter, ringed by snowy white shrubs and other greenery.
In the southwest quarter is another achacha tree, as well as two trees I could not quite identify. Maybe one of them is a pacquio or pachio tree, but I am not sure. The fruits are fewer and not yet ripe on these trees.
There are no fruit trees in the southwest quarter. Rather, what dominates is a landscape featuring a statue of Saint Francis depicting the legend of his taming the wolf of Gubbio, who had terrorized the townspeople until Francis made peace between the wolf and the people. The statue is surrounded by palms of a few varieties, roses, and tall trees reaching two stories high. At the feet of Francis and the wolf is a pool with lily pads. More roses line the path from due east to the fountain and to the southern edge of the garden. A line of reedy plants guards the southern edge of this quarter.
Everything lies on a carpet of green, green grass.
The other stone paths from the fountain to the north, south, and west are lined with shrubs with yellow leaves and green highlights in the center of them. The snowy white shrubs I mentioned before circle the fountain and some lampposts in the quarters.
Finally, there are three trellises, each of them ten-foot-tall arches, at the center of the western, southern, and eastern perimeters. Vines thickly entwine the trellises. They bear orange tube-shaped blooms and wine-red petals. At first I thought they could be related to the national flowers of Bolivia, but on closer inspection I see they are not.
In the garden it is bright and vibrant all day long, even when it is cloudy. When it is sunny all the colors come out even more.
I wish I had the horticultural knowledge of one of my Capuchin brothers! He could tell me the names of what I am describing to you. But I hope this description shows you what I can see. However, if I have not succeeded, have a look at this article.
God will be their trust.
They are like a tree planted beside the waters
that stretches out its roots to the stream:
It does not fear heat when it comes,
its leaves stay green;
In the year of drought it shows no distress,
but still produces fruit.
Jeremiah 17:7-8
I’m no writer for National Geographic, but I will bring my powers of journalistic observation to bear on what I see in the friars’ cloister garden, here at Convento San Francisco.
We have here a quadrangle divided into four quarters.
In the center is a fountain whose pool is shaped like a quatrefoil and a column with two basins, one stacked on top of the other. The water spouts from the top basin and runs over into the second basin in which plants are thickly packed and trickles from there into the pool where lily pads float and fish swim. I don’t know the species, so I’ll simply call them tigerfish and catfish and fish-fish because that is what they resemble, and those are the names that come to mind.
Stone paths proceed from the fountain to the edges of the quadrangle, forming the four quarters. A stone path lines the perimeter. Various potted plants rest under the cloister arcades. Many of them are palms. A few of them are cactuses. Some of these are small and spindly, and others broad, flat, and tall. One curves out of its pot like an elephant’s trunk. Then there are the other succulents, which resemble cactuses but are not, and which take so many shapes, the likes of which I have never seen before! Some of them are positively extraterrestrial to my eyes. It’s hard to describe these.
Now, a look within the garden. Most to my liking are the fruit trees, so I will begin with them.
In the northwest quarter, in the very corner, is a lemon tree, with a few ripe ones on the ground yielding a mild scent. Toward the middle of the same quarter is a tree bearing a fruit called chirimoya, which looks like a pine cone. Right here it is appropriate to share this link about Bolivian fruit so you can see what I mean. Other trees in this quarter throw shade.
In the northeast quarter we have an orange tree in the corner. Two trees down below it is an apple tree. In between the two stands a tree with fruit that looks like a cross between an apple and a tomato. Maybe it’s just another kind of apple tree? I don’t know. Near the fountain in the interior of this quarter is a tree with fruit called achacha or achachairu, whose fruit looks like a red or pink Christmas tree ornament hung upside down. Another tree is in an island in the center of this quarter, ringed by snowy white shrubs and other greenery.
In the southwest quarter is another achacha tree, as well as two trees I could not quite identify. Maybe one of them is a pacquio or pachio tree, but I am not sure. The fruits are fewer and not yet ripe on these trees.
There are no fruit trees in the southwest quarter. Rather, what dominates is a landscape featuring a statue of Saint Francis depicting the legend of his taming the wolf of Gubbio, who had terrorized the townspeople until Francis made peace between the wolf and the people. The statue is surrounded by palms of a few varieties, roses, and tall trees reaching two stories high. At the feet of Francis and the wolf is a pool with lily pads. More roses line the path from due east to the fountain and to the southern edge of the garden. A line of reedy plants guards the southern edge of this quarter.
Everything lies on a carpet of green, green grass.
The other stone paths from the fountain to the north, south, and west are lined with shrubs with yellow leaves and green highlights in the center of them. The snowy white shrubs I mentioned before circle the fountain and some lampposts in the quarters.
Finally, there are three trellises, each of them ten-foot-tall arches, at the center of the western, southern, and eastern perimeters. Vines thickly entwine the trellises. They bear orange tube-shaped blooms and wine-red petals. At first I thought they could be related to the national flowers of Bolivia, but on closer inspection I see they are not.
In the garden it is bright and vibrant all day long, even when it is cloudy. When it is sunny all the colors come out even more.
I wish I had the horticultural knowledge of one of my Capuchin brothers! He could tell me the names of what I am describing to you. But I hope this description shows you what I can see. However, if I have not succeeded, have a look at this article.
Saludos
Wednesday, February 13
My itinerary tells me I have crossed 2,482 miles from New York City to Bogotá, Colombia. In another twelve hours and more than a thousand miles, I will be in La Paz, Bolivia. A layover, five and a half hours, and 165 miles more, and then I will be in Cochabamba, Bolivia. There, I will take up again the dreams and journeys I undertook four and a half years ago in Ocotepeque, Honduras. But, in truth, the dreams are different. The journeys are different. The traveler is different. Things have changed in the same brother. They are changed and they are different so that I may better follow the beloved Son, Jesus Christ, who Scripture attests is the same yesterday, today, and forever. I feel aware of the long journey already done and the long journey yet to come. Six weeks five years ago in Central America as prelude to six months in South America for the rest of my life. Do I understand? Do I know the meaning of this journey for me, for others? I sought to be sent out, to say “Yes,” to say “I repent,” to say “let us repent.” Now I am being sent. Now I am saying Yes. Now I am doing and preaching penance. I understand and I don’t. Here comes a cup I have never seen before, filled with a drink I do not know. Now I am to raise this cup and drink it. I vowed to do so before all God’s people. There is no turning back. The journey goes forward.
Thursday, February 14
Today, I am 4,000 miles away from the people who have loved me the longest and who love me best. But it hardly seems like 4,000 miles when they are dwelling in my heart.
This is a time of formation, as my first years as a Capuchin were, too; only now I am a Capuchin brother for life and this is continuing education, continuing formation.
And what is there to chronicle today? To be brief: the end of a 27-hour transit, most of it awake and more than half of it done by waiting in airport terminals. We journey even when we wait. Perhaps that waiting is the most important part of it all, when the soul catches up to the peripatetic body and says, “Yes—now, remember.”
I have not suffered from the elevation. I breathed deeply during the layover in La Paz (altitude: 11,942 feet) and benefited both from good medicine and the gift of the Spirit given in other people's petitions. My mild headache came more from lack of sleep. Well, I have had breakfast, a nap, lunch, and a shower, and I feel human. I have even felt so bold as to converse with the friars. A very good sign.
Friday, February 15
I am awake after an afternoon in which my only achievement was to commit to memory the Angelus prayer in Spanish. I found a rendition of it on the Internet, copied it by hand, and slipped the paper into my breviary. If it does not conform precisely to the formula the friars use, at least it is close to it.
Prior to this good work, this morning I took a stroll north from the convent through a public park, well-tended with sculptured gardens of all manner of trees, plants, and flowers. I was proud of myself when, upon returning after the church closed for the siesta, I figured out how to let myself in to the cloister using every key I have been given. And I know that if I were stuck, I could ask for help if I needed it.
And just like that, the day is done. Now it is a half-hour of silence, then evening prayer and Mass in the church, then dinner, then recreation, maybe sports or maybe games. Perhaps I will participate by observing. My ministry now is to observe everything, while God through Jesus Christ sighs a sigh of loving concern and says, “Be opened.” This is my duty of delight—I enjoy observing—and it is my salvation. May I repeat this labor faithfully, slowly, every day of these six months and let God make of me whatever, whoever it is God desires of me. Do this well, dear God.
Saturday, February 16
Jesus said, “My heart is moved with pity” (Mark 8:2). And I am one of the many for whom Jesus showed compassion as time and again he breaks the bread and multiplies the riches I could not see in my poverty. Patiently, he waits for me to bring the seven meager loaves, or my even more meager share of them. No matter how much I doubt, I am given an abundance of food and drink, leaving from my place of desolation full and content.
I can report that in these initial days, living among the cheerful brothers in this convent, I can speak much more than I expected was possible. The listening is more difficult, but even in this labor I am cultivating more fruit than anticipated. Things are happening, and I feel that the language is beginning to live in me. Doors are unlocking, and the Spirit of tongues is whistling in. Dear God, do not let the whistling, onrushing of your Spirit cease! Not now, when I embark on this journey with unusual confidence.
As it was yesterday and Thursday, my schedule is very light. This has been very good for the adjustment. I can focus on little things, like remembering the names and faces of the student friars and other friars in residence. I can go about the courtyard, wandering through the cloister garden, wondering about the names of the plants and fruit trees and making a mental picture to share with others. Most worries have melted away. My only mild anxiety is about getting to Maryknoll using the local buses or taxis (trufis). The traffic does intimidate me! I want to travel safely.
The only other uncertainty is how my personal time will become absorbed, as my studies begin on Monday. On weekdays, my day is spoken for from rising at about 5:30 a.m. (if I want to get a shower in before morning prayer) to the end of classes at noon, and from there to the end of lunch at 1:30 p.m. In the evening my time is also spoken for from 6 p.m. (meditation) through evening prayer, Mass, dinner, and night prayer to 9:30 p.m. From 2 to 6 p.m. I will have homework and studies. When, then, can I luxuriate in the interior world, the space where I daydream now with God, at home in the Spirit?
Sunday, February 17
An answer to the question left hanging the day before:
I can “luxuriate” in the interior world, the space where I daydream with God, on Sunday morning. Because the student friars have pastoral ministries throughout the morning and daytime, there is no common schedule except for the mid-day and evening meals. So this leaves me free to recite morning prayer as slowly and intentionally as I wish. And using the lectionary text as my source for centering prayer within morning prayer, I can find myself hiding blissfully in God. And so it was this morning, with a later rising and longer period of meditation than I have done at any time except on private retreats at Glastonbury Abbey. Whatever homework may come or cultural encounters may present themselves, I wish never to be so busy as not to have at least one day a week (more than one, please God) to enter into a deep rest, wide awake, in God.
This extended moment of rest is also the product of my seeming disadvantage. I cannot read Spanish with comprehension at nearly the speed I do in my native tongue. This forces me to proceed slowly and carefully. With these friars setting the pace for common prayer, it is slow enough that I can decode the texts. But when reciting the divine office in private, I can go even slower than them, like a monk chanting in choir or in his cell. And mere information gives way to meaning gives way to understanding and wisdom. How good this is! Of course, I should like to pick up the pace and come to decode and interpret more quickly: I see my studies at Maryknoll as like a training, a regimen to build speed, strength, and endurance as well as tone. But in the meantime I will accept the slowness or weakness of my comprehension and dwell on the words as they gradually reveal the Holy One who authors them and inscribes them onto my heart.
I may have a friar accompany me to Maryknoll on Monday. Bless you for showing me the way.
My itinerary tells me I have crossed 2,482 miles from New York City to Bogotá, Colombia. In another twelve hours and more than a thousand miles, I will be in La Paz, Bolivia. A layover, five and a half hours, and 165 miles more, and then I will be in Cochabamba, Bolivia. There, I will take up again the dreams and journeys I undertook four and a half years ago in Ocotepeque, Honduras. But, in truth, the dreams are different. The journeys are different. The traveler is different. Things have changed in the same brother. They are changed and they are different so that I may better follow the beloved Son, Jesus Christ, who Scripture attests is the same yesterday, today, and forever. I feel aware of the long journey already done and the long journey yet to come. Six weeks five years ago in Central America as prelude to six months in South America for the rest of my life. Do I understand? Do I know the meaning of this journey for me, for others? I sought to be sent out, to say “Yes,” to say “I repent,” to say “let us repent.” Now I am being sent. Now I am saying Yes. Now I am doing and preaching penance. I understand and I don’t. Here comes a cup I have never seen before, filled with a drink I do not know. Now I am to raise this cup and drink it. I vowed to do so before all God’s people. There is no turning back. The journey goes forward.
Thursday, February 14
Today, I am 4,000 miles away from the people who have loved me the longest and who love me best. But it hardly seems like 4,000 miles when they are dwelling in my heart.
This is a time of formation, as my first years as a Capuchin were, too; only now I am a Capuchin brother for life and this is continuing education, continuing formation.
And what is there to chronicle today? To be brief: the end of a 27-hour transit, most of it awake and more than half of it done by waiting in airport terminals. We journey even when we wait. Perhaps that waiting is the most important part of it all, when the soul catches up to the peripatetic body and says, “Yes—now, remember.”
I have not suffered from the elevation. I breathed deeply during the layover in La Paz (altitude: 11,942 feet) and benefited both from good medicine and the gift of the Spirit given in other people's petitions. My mild headache came more from lack of sleep. Well, I have had breakfast, a nap, lunch, and a shower, and I feel human. I have even felt so bold as to converse with the friars. A very good sign.
Friday, February 15
I am awake after an afternoon in which my only achievement was to commit to memory the Angelus prayer in Spanish. I found a rendition of it on the Internet, copied it by hand, and slipped the paper into my breviary. If it does not conform precisely to the formula the friars use, at least it is close to it.
Prior to this good work, this morning I took a stroll north from the convent through a public park, well-tended with sculptured gardens of all manner of trees, plants, and flowers. I was proud of myself when, upon returning after the church closed for the siesta, I figured out how to let myself in to the cloister using every key I have been given. And I know that if I were stuck, I could ask for help if I needed it.
And just like that, the day is done. Now it is a half-hour of silence, then evening prayer and Mass in the church, then dinner, then recreation, maybe sports or maybe games. Perhaps I will participate by observing. My ministry now is to observe everything, while God through Jesus Christ sighs a sigh of loving concern and says, “Be opened.” This is my duty of delight—I enjoy observing—and it is my salvation. May I repeat this labor faithfully, slowly, every day of these six months and let God make of me whatever, whoever it is God desires of me. Do this well, dear God.
Saturday, February 16
Jesus said, “My heart is moved with pity” (Mark 8:2). And I am one of the many for whom Jesus showed compassion as time and again he breaks the bread and multiplies the riches I could not see in my poverty. Patiently, he waits for me to bring the seven meager loaves, or my even more meager share of them. No matter how much I doubt, I am given an abundance of food and drink, leaving from my place of desolation full and content.
I can report that in these initial days, living among the cheerful brothers in this convent, I can speak much more than I expected was possible. The listening is more difficult, but even in this labor I am cultivating more fruit than anticipated. Things are happening, and I feel that the language is beginning to live in me. Doors are unlocking, and the Spirit of tongues is whistling in. Dear God, do not let the whistling, onrushing of your Spirit cease! Not now, when I embark on this journey with unusual confidence.
As it was yesterday and Thursday, my schedule is very light. This has been very good for the adjustment. I can focus on little things, like remembering the names and faces of the student friars and other friars in residence. I can go about the courtyard, wandering through the cloister garden, wondering about the names of the plants and fruit trees and making a mental picture to share with others. Most worries have melted away. My only mild anxiety is about getting to Maryknoll using the local buses or taxis (trufis). The traffic does intimidate me! I want to travel safely.
The only other uncertainty is how my personal time will become absorbed, as my studies begin on Monday. On weekdays, my day is spoken for from rising at about 5:30 a.m. (if I want to get a shower in before morning prayer) to the end of classes at noon, and from there to the end of lunch at 1:30 p.m. In the evening my time is also spoken for from 6 p.m. (meditation) through evening prayer, Mass, dinner, and night prayer to 9:30 p.m. From 2 to 6 p.m. I will have homework and studies. When, then, can I luxuriate in the interior world, the space where I daydream now with God, at home in the Spirit?
Sunday, February 17
An answer to the question left hanging the day before:
I can “luxuriate” in the interior world, the space where I daydream with God, on Sunday morning. Because the student friars have pastoral ministries throughout the morning and daytime, there is no common schedule except for the mid-day and evening meals. So this leaves me free to recite morning prayer as slowly and intentionally as I wish. And using the lectionary text as my source for centering prayer within morning prayer, I can find myself hiding blissfully in God. And so it was this morning, with a later rising and longer period of meditation than I have done at any time except on private retreats at Glastonbury Abbey. Whatever homework may come or cultural encounters may present themselves, I wish never to be so busy as not to have at least one day a week (more than one, please God) to enter into a deep rest, wide awake, in God.
This extended moment of rest is also the product of my seeming disadvantage. I cannot read Spanish with comprehension at nearly the speed I do in my native tongue. This forces me to proceed slowly and carefully. With these friars setting the pace for common prayer, it is slow enough that I can decode the texts. But when reciting the divine office in private, I can go even slower than them, like a monk chanting in choir or in his cell. And mere information gives way to meaning gives way to understanding and wisdom. How good this is! Of course, I should like to pick up the pace and come to decode and interpret more quickly: I see my studies at Maryknoll as like a training, a regimen to build speed, strength, and endurance as well as tone. But in the meantime I will accept the slowness or weakness of my comprehension and dwell on the words as they gradually reveal the Holy One who authors them and inscribes them onto my heart.
I may have a friar accompany me to Maryknoll on Monday. Bless you for showing me the way.
Words From Bolivia
Greetings from Cochabamba, Bolivia. Over seven years ago I began this blog as a chronicle of my initial formation into religious life with the Capuchin Franciscan friars. I succeeded in sharing the first two years of my formation, postulancy and novitiate. After I made first profession of vows in July 2013, life got busy as I entered theological studies. So the blog ceased. I made my perpetual profession of vows in October 2016. Life remained busy, and the blog remained silent.
Since then I have devoted myself to occasional journal writing, usually while on retreat. Also I kept a journal for six weeks when I stayed with the Capuchins in Central America for six weeks of cultural immersion in June and July 2014. These journals were of a more spiritual nature, and I kept them private.
Now I am beginning six months of cultural and language immersion in Bolivia and living in a Franciscan community in Cochabamba. I would like to share my experiences again in the form of a public diary, as I did when I was a friar in initial formation. The truth is that women and men in religious never cease being formed, because the Holy Spirit is always at work in us. So, if you will indulge me, let me show you how I see the Holy Spirit at work in me and in the people I meet and in the circumstances of daily life here.
Lest I get overly ambitious, I will pledge to post weekly at this time only. We will see if I have the time and energy to do more. We shall see.
May God always be with you in all things. I wish you peace and everything good.
Since then I have devoted myself to occasional journal writing, usually while on retreat. Also I kept a journal for six weeks when I stayed with the Capuchins in Central America for six weeks of cultural immersion in June and July 2014. These journals were of a more spiritual nature, and I kept them private.
Now I am beginning six months of cultural and language immersion in Bolivia and living in a Franciscan community in Cochabamba. I would like to share my experiences again in the form of a public diary, as I did when I was a friar in initial formation. The truth is that women and men in religious never cease being formed, because the Holy Spirit is always at work in us. So, if you will indulge me, let me show you how I see the Holy Spirit at work in me and in the people I meet and in the circumstances of daily life here.
Lest I get overly ambitious, I will pledge to post weekly at this time only. We will see if I have the time and energy to do more. We shall see.
May God always be with you in all things. I wish you peace and everything good.
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