Before in Tila Chiapas, MX, Parroquia San Mateo, I’ve been an
intermittent ayudante-observador for a span of 14 years. Esta vez ando en medio de ellos – this time I
walk in the midst of them. Back and
forth each day of the Novena, enveloped in the processions between barrios y iglesia,
I walk pray take a few fotos, and find myself looking over heads of many {seldom
elsewhere my vista} and most of us all at my same level, in this moving sea of
believers. Short strong young men in the
lead carry the image of the black crucified Christ [Jan. 15th, the
day we celebrate Martin Luther King]. Whole
families surround and proceed the holy image, carefully step by step marching
adorned with their best dress, or sometimes t-shirts, and flowers
everywhere. The oldest smallest women
carry the tallest banners.
It’s a daily visitation pilgrimage—in the morning down to a
barrios’ host household, in the evening returning to the parish’s ancient
sanctuary at the peak of this small city.
The accounts testify to a miracle here 300 years ago. A life-size image of the crucified Christ had
been thrown out, abandoned, and when re-discovered and a commitment made to
restore, was miraculously made completely new in shining black beauty
overnight. The people believe Jesus
wants to be near them, and so they come as close as possible up the stairs
behind the altar to touch his feet if they can, to be healed of their cares and
offer their promesas. As a church they pray for the justice that
will re-unite the broken world-wide community of rich and poor. The roots go deep, as there was a Mayan
plaque on the site well before the conquistadores came and the church was
built. Their confirmed family faith in
Jesus continues their love for their mountain communities.
Mayan plaque from Tila, now enshrined in parish yard of the neighboring town of Bachajon
I see many faces that look at me now in the crowds at mass
in the homes and streets, smiling recognition from back through these
years. One Juan Incino comes up to
behind church to say we took a photo together four year ago—he is one of the
traditional Chol dancers—wizened face of many lines, white rough cut suit,
woven belt. I begin to recollect and it
pleases us both. Later they have to
cover their homespun clothes with visqueen plastic cut from a large roll. It’s raining but they’ll dance on in religious
procession.
Traditional Chol dancers make ready for procession in rain
Padre Heriberto’s sermon praises the youth group [such groups
thriving amazingly in most Chiapas churches] and they are there at the start of
the main mass of the day with gritos-chants protesting-praying over the deaths
of their fellow students. 43 murdered
and disappeared, no bodies yet found, in the state of Michoacan, far away yet
close to their hearts. Those students
were in a college that promoted social justice, city of Ayotzinapa, and
presumably got in the way of the local government linked to narcotraficos. Our drug habits have taken a terrible toll on
Mexico. Our youth group cries out as
they process in down the main aisle lead by a spirited young woman:
Somos el futuro, de Latinoamerica.
Somos estudiantes, porque nos asesinaron?
The names and faces of the murdered students appear on
posters all over the inside church walls, continually prayed for. The assassinations happened last September,
hundreds of miles away from Tila. How
many of us have ever before heard of Ayotzinapa?
Young handsome assistant pastor Padre Bernabe preaches the
next day, inviting all without the gravest of sin to communion, including those
who have been excluded in the past because of church marriage legal
problems. They’ve already opened the
doors to those in need of the healing real presence of Jesus. Are personal sexual problems more grievous
than those who put money and power before their God they ask?
Ermundo stops me in the
street—heard I was here again announced at mass—eager to ask me theological
questions about how he can come closer to God.
He has a list of ten or more detailed questions in his notebook. Gracias a Dios he only asks a few, and they
all point to the above. Trying to be
attentive, but not really the authority, I answer—read each Gospel slowly from
beginning to end as a prayer, over weeks or months if you need, and there meet
Jesus. Too many read the Gospel in snippets,
as if sound-bites. Its one of the same
messages I give to the young men potential fathers-to-be who come to our Blue
Water Pregnancy Care Center—to become closer to Jesus, who resolves the dilemmas.
esus Hernandez Perez. I see this three day old child in the arms of his young mom and dad, not in the clinic but in the sacristy waiting for mass to begin. He hasn’t taken the breast at all since birth, only a couple of sips from a dropper, and in a quick exam I note his skin has no bounce, he doesn’t react well—dehydration—and I feel a cyst-like object in his abdomen. They’ve been both to clinic and the poorly staffed clinic here in town. He is a twin, the other one doing well. With Padre Bernabe we pray all together, and they promise to go that day to the hospital in Yajalon, 30 miles distant. We’ve yet to hear how he’s doing, if he’s still alive.
There is so much to do in a
place like this far away from one’s home.
My experience in medicine gives me something to contribute, and I share
this with Pancho, who has been here before me, lives in a local village, grew
up speaking Chol, and will be here long after the line of outside helpers. It takes an effort for me to translate some
of the Mexican medicines and diagnosis into my idiom {and has been on every
visit} but something good is accomplished each time. The Dispensario Chol will be a little bit
better, at the very least from our compatible medicines that made it through
customs once again miraculously. The
Mexican government insists its people need no medical help. Pancho is a physician assistant, as I have
been, though there’s no comparable certification available to him. He was well trained by a young Dr.
Demostenes, another Chiapaneco, who with his family spent 13 years in Tila
helping to organize the Dispensario, and a whole system of health promoters out
in the mountain comunidades.
A younger Pancho, with Abelardo one of the promoteres from out in the comunidades, at the Dispensario Chol--part of San Mateo parish in Tila
My constant work while on
these journeys, as I believe it is for any visitor-helper in foreign countries,
is to understand the language, and what’s going on. It’s a puzzle always needing a new piece,
vocabulary, grammar, plain old comfortable comprehension when it can be
had. Difficult especially in groups when
everyone else is at their own speed. It’s
{their word} a rompe-cabezas. One’s head
tires of the effort. The only real
solution is to live in country from many months to years {and there, removed as
much as possible from other English speakers}.
So a word to the wise—study, practice, read as much as you can. The weapon of the peacemaker is to learn a
foreign language. The weapon of the
soldier is the gun. Be a
peacemaker. Get in training.
There is more hope in these
mountains now than when I was here 14 years ago in a time of deep army
dominated armed conflict. Justice is
slowly gaining ground. Padre Heriberto,
gran luchador [local champion of the struggle] para La Justicia, has our
Pregnancy Care Center t-shirt—justice and respect for life are indispensable to
each other. Gracias a Dios, God is with
us, and speaks to us in the faith of these indigenous people who care for the
earth, and want to help us heal and conserve God’s creation.
Many clear mountain streams run through the comunidades de Municipio Tila
Water color and illumination by Kathy Brahney
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