Saturday, July 27, 2019

Santa Cruz

Good things come to those who wait … don’t they? Well, good enough or not, let’s backtrack to Santa Cruz.

At quarter after two last Friday, July 19, Brother Scott and I were sitting side by side in the terminal at the Cochabamba airport. Less than two hours later, we were on the ground at Aeropuerto Viru Viru, outside the city of Santa Cruz. Padre Jimmy, our Capuchin brother, received us and took us to the parish and friary of Our Lady of Guadalupe in a residential zone of the city. 

Prior to arrival I was wondering what our very own brothers in religion had prepared for us. Would our Capuchin brothers have an itinerary for us, or would we be free to do whatever we wanted? The advantage of shadowing the friars was that we would never be at a loss for things to do. The disadvantage would be that the friars speak Spanish, so our accompaniment would be hard work. The advantage to being on our own would be that we could go anywhere and do what we choose. The disadvantage would be that we would miss the opportunity to immerse ourselves in the life of the friars. 

Ultimately, we struck a balance, both touring with our brothers and taking time for ourselves. 

We were met by hot and windy air in Santa Cruz, where the climate remains subtropical through winter. The timing of our trip was fortunate, because we missed the arrival of surazo, the antarctic air that on occasion blows in from the south. No, our weather was just shy of muggy, a little stifling for me after weeks of little to no humidity in Cochabamba. But having descended now to sea level in Santa Cruz, with no mountains in sight, there was no trouble breathing (not that I have had difficulties in Cochabamba). All the variety of climate and geography in one compact country! For this I will miss Bolivia. 

That Friday afternoon, Brother Scott and I greeted with a profusion of gracias our Capuchin hosts: Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael, a lay brother. All three friars are of Peruvian extraction: they and seven other Capuchins of the Province of Peru have made Bolivia their mission. The Capuchin presence in Bolivia is so humble and small—the first friars arrived only in 2007—that the territory is not even a custody of Peru, but what they call a delegation. In olden times we would have called it a commissariat. Padre Jimmy is the delegate minister for the ten Capuchins in Bolivia. There are almost 70 Capuchins in the Province of Peru, I recall Padre Francisco telling me. In a week, they will hold their provincial chapter at their spirituality center in Lima. I wish them every blessing as they prepare to elect their provincial council and make decisions about their overall mission. 

From the moment we arrived, we felt blessed by the company of these three friars. Regardless of the differences in culture, nationality, race, and language ability, they treated us like fellow Capuchins; they treated us like brothers. And it is right and just that we felt welcomed like Capuchins immediately. We would have, and we have, treated them likewise. On several occasions when I was living at Holy Cross Residence in midtown Manhattan, we hosted Bro. Hugo Mejia of Peru, a former member of the Capuchins’ general council, which governs the global fraternity of 10,000 brothers. I can say truly that we showed Brother Hugo quality hospitality and genuine care. From him I received the same sense of congeniality and fraternal warmth that I felt from Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael. Whatever else can be said about the Capuchins, let it be said firmly that we know how to welcome people, especially our brothers in religion, who have come long distances to be received as guests in Christ’s name. 

Back to that Friday afternoon: an impromptu preprandial arose after Brother Scott and I put down our bags in the friary. We drank guaraná soda and water and munched on roasted peanuts and fava beans as we chatted. Padre Francisco brought more nuts when we all but consumed what there was. We had meditation and evening prayer in the church. Back in the friary, after we watched the evening news in Spanish, Padre Jimmy brought in pizza and we chatted freely some more over soda, wine, and alcohol-free chicha. Padre Francisco also offered me guiso and rice to make sure the vegetarian was well-fed. 

On Saturday morning, July 20, the fiftieth anniversary of the moon landing, a miracle of human technology and human spirit, I experienced two minor miracles. First, I rose early enough to join the Capuchins at 6:30 a.m. morning prayer; second, I understood the majority of Padre Jimmy’s homily at 7 a.m. Eucharist. I suppose I slept well enough despite the heat of Santa Cruz; vivid dreams wove in and out of the half-awake moments. After breakfast Padre Jimmy took us to the center of Santa Cruz, driving through the city rings or anillos to get us to the heart of town. 

Where did we go that morning? Padre Jimmy took us to the metropolitan cathedral of San Lorenzo (the deacon and martyr of ancient Rome, not the Capuchin doctor of the church whose feast was Sunday, July 21). This is the second church to stand on the main plaza of the city, having been built in 1915. We climbed the bell tower and heard the chimes at close range at quarter to eleven. Before that ascent, we visited the cathedral museum for free, thanks to the status we enjoy as religious brothers (forgive us, God in heaven, for taking advantage of privilege). A thief would covet the silver sacramental vessels and sacred objects of every liturgical use imaginable. We saw priceless monstrances inlaid with precious stones, like emerald, amethyst, and garnet; we saw processional candle holders; we saw crowns for Mary and Jesus and chalices and tiny spoons of precious metals. We saw brocaded vestments that would smother the hardiest folk under the weight and heat. We saw a chasuble Pope John Paul II wore to celebrate Mass during his apostolic visit in 1988—a second-class relic; we saw papal thrones on which Pope Francis sat during his apostolic visit in 2015—a second-class relic someday? We saw portraits of archbishops gone by and the tomb of the last archbishop of Santa Cruz, Julio Terrazas Sandoval, who was also a cardinal. Have a look here for more images of the cathedral.

After the cathedral we drove to the city intersection where a public garden had been converted to a permanent stage, where Pope Francis celebrated Mass before nearly one million people. I was pleased that this dais forever blocks the view of an enormous Burger King restaurant. Brother Scott was amused that Pope Francis vested and processed from the Burger King, made an impromptu sacristy that day. And the word became hamburger? After a stop to refill the car with ethanol, Padre Jimmy took us to a new condominium, Atlantis Towers, the tallest residential complex in town, still under construction, and found someone with an elevator key to convey us to the 18th-floor rooftop so we could get an aerial view of the city. Capuchins are into elevation! 

Then, back to the friary for a little lunch with Padre Francisco and Fray Rafael. I made just a little conversation. The touring did not make my body tired, but my mind was a little fatigued. Although I did not need the nap, I lay down for an hour that afternoon after midday prayer and some spiritual reading. It was a quiet afternoon in which Brother Scott and I rested. Gradually, through the warm and windy afternoon, I came to a still point. I wrote a few lines of poetry. I wanted to open my soul to God. 

Late that afternoon, Padre Jimmy was celebrating a baptism in the church with a large extended family. As soon as it was concluded, the friars assembled in the sanctuary for evening prayer. Eucharist was at 7:30 p.m., and although I attended Mass that morning, I returned again that evening to listen to Padre Francisco preach. It was a late evening meal after Mass and early to bed in the hope of gaining the luxury of nine hours of sleep. 

The next day, Sunday, July 21, was greeted with brisk winds from the north. I rose on time for 6:30 a.m. morning prayer. Afterward I ate the same breakfast of instant oatmeal, a banana, banana cake, and tea. Then I showered and freshened up and spent some time in meditation and poetry writing before the 10 a.m. Mass, the principal celebration of Eucharist at Our Lady of Guadalupe. I reflected on the Gospel narrative of sisters Mary and Martha of Bethany. I felt distant from Martha, because I feel no compulsion to work, and I fell at the feet of Jesus with Mary. Dear God, I prayed, let me feel the perfect joy of your love in your word and your bread from heaven once again. This time, let your love change me. Or maybe I was not so distant from Martha. I have worked; I have done my chores. I acknowledge some but not all of the chores of la vida cotidiana. Too much work is make-work, useless work. And I tell Martha there is no use to all that work, and I bring her with me to the feet of Jesus, with Mary waiting. And perfect joy appears or Mary of Magdala or all the women who have loved Jesus with a pure but broken heart. 

While I stayed at Our Lady of Guadalupe for the 10 a.m. Mass, Brother Scott went to the 8:30 a.m. Mass at the Chapel of Christ Risen, a satellite of the parish. It pleased me that there is a chapel dedicated to the risen Christ somewhere in Bolivia, somewhere in Latin America, where most churches close the book of the Gospels after Good Friday. 

After Eucharist, we said goodbye to Padre Jimmy, who was in the middle of giving a weekend retreat to catechists of the parish, and drove on with Padre Francisco to the semi-rural town of Minero, built on the backs of sugar cane cutters. There, Padre Ivica, a Bosnian by birth whose family took refuge in Croatia during the Balkan wars of the 1990s, drove us to the campo of Pueblo Nuevo, one of more than twenty base communities affiliated with the Parish of San Isidro Labrador. We saw mud huts no larger than your bedroom for families of eight. We saw dogs and roosters roaming the rough (and I mean rough) dirt roads. Your backbone will slip if you keep driving these roads, as our Capuchin brothers must do to reach these communities for liturgical services once or twice a month. If it rains, all bets are off; the roads become impassable. There is electricity on some blocks, but only some. The workers are internal migrants from Cochabamba and Oruro and other places from the west of Bolivia. Brother Scott and I agreed: we had found the poor heart and soul of Bolivia, and it is poor indeed; but somehow it seemed proud, too. This poverty felt different from the poverty I saw in rural Honduras at this time five years ago. That poverty felt sticky, sickly, a little sinister. This poverty felt provisional, clean, even sufferable. Maybe I have bought in too much the optimism of the Evo Morales regime: the country is standing up on its own feet and preparing to make great strides. Maybe it is, and maybe my hope is justified. There will be responsible development; there will be a democratic socialism to safeguard the promised prosperity for the common people. I hope, but the Gospel also teaches me to be realistic, not to be an idolater, and not to put my trust in princes. I will put my trust in the Christ who has moved our Capuchin brothers of Peru to pitch tent with their Bolivian sisters and brothers on this warm and fertile soil. 

Prior to this excursion we first had a banquet of a lunch with the fraternity: Padre Ivica, Padre Rolando, and Fray Ronal. The fourth friar, Padre Antonio, was on vacation in Peru. We also toured the grounds of the Parish of San Isidro Labrador, including the church, whose construction was financed by Unagro, the sugar refinery that turns tons of cane into alcohol as well as table sugar. We met two lay women who serve as Franciscan volunteers in the parish and saw the house under construction for the entire community of lay Franciscan volunteers. 

After our afternoon of much activity, Brother Scott and I came to rest in the terminal of Aeropuerto Viru Viru, then the cabin of the airplane that took us back to Cochabamba. Adios, Santa Cruz. Adios, hermanos. We were treated well and very well by the Capuchins, who made as much time as they could out of their Martha-like schedules to feed us and show us their lives, their homes, and their ministries. Like Mary, they put us at the feet of Jesus in their world. My gratitude goes to God for Padre Ivica, Padre Rolando, and Fray Ronal of Minero; and Padre Jimmy, Padre Francisco, and Fray Rafael of Santa Cruz. If, like their Peruvian brother Hugo Mejia, they travel to the United States, they have a home with us. I will make it my personal mission to extend to them the same hospitality they have extended to their brothers in America. 

That is plenty for today. Have a restful weekend, good readers. 

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