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.