Joseph R. Veneroso MM

Celebrating the Christmas vigil Mass for the Korean-American community in Queens, New York, I was waxing eloquent about the mystery of the Incarnation – God becoming human – when from somewhere in the congregation an infant had the audacity to cry. Loud.

Embarrassed, the mother excused herself and slouched apologetically toward the door, the child wailing all the louder as they went. I stopped in mid-homily. From the pulpit I asked the mother to stop and return to her seat. “A newborn baby sound more like the fist Christmas than anything I am saying,” I said.

That was 10 years ago. No one, including me, remembers what profound message I spoke that night, but people in the community still recall the time a priest welcomed a baby’s crying in church.

Every year, Christmas sneaks up on us unawares, as if the date were a surprise. We never have enough time to send all the cards, buy and wrap all the gifts, and still get the tree trimmed – too many interruptions. Like a baby crying.

But Christmas is about the ultimate, divine interruption. When God interrupted human history, a baby’s cooing and crying heralded the Good News. A wet, messy birth, with umbilical cord and placenta I have yet to see portrayed in any Nativity scene. Sanitized salvation.

In our busy lives, Christmas does not offer a peaceful time for reflection; it complicates our routine with even more things to do. Likewise, God did not draw us out of our situation, but rather joined us in the messiness of life. If God takes our human nature so seriously, shouldn’t we?

Rather than feeling frustrated and stressed at this time of year, perhaps we need to unwrap this Christmas gift: finding God through interruptions.

SALAMAT SA MARYKNOLL

By Richard Deats

Richard Deats, a lifelong peace activist in the Fellowship of Reconciliation and author of many peace books, writes to warn us of the great threats tour environment which are around the corner if not already upon us. This particularly relevant to us here in the Philippines where attempts are being made to introduce genetically engineered plants as the Philippine Government is considered to be a soft target by the companies who want to do this. Richard Deats is a longtime friend of the editor of Misyon.

I lived in the Philippines from 1959 to 1972 and was part of an antiwar group there that called itself American for Peace in Indochina. We did research, we wrote open letters, we talked to members of the U.S. Armed Forces coming to the islands for rest and recreation, we met with the U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines, and we picketed the U.S. Embassy on Roxas Boulevard in Manila every month. With our homemade signs, my wife, Jan, and I, and our two young sons, Mark and Stephen, joined twenty or so others in vigils to stop the war in Vietnam. Thich Nhat Hanh, exiled Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk, stayed in our home during his Manila visit, and I organized speaking engagements for him, as well as a press conference.

Agent Orange

Thousands of other Americans, at home and abroad, were engaged in similar activities. The growing movement against the war finally became a critical mass strong enough to bring it to an end.

But the legacy of the war continues today. And a particularly horrible part of that legacy is the continuing impact of Agent Orange on the land and water of Vietnam, as well as upon the Vietnamese and Americans who were exposed to this poisonous chemical.

Chemical Warfare

In the course of fighting the war in jungle and mountainous terrain, the U.S. decided to defoliate the landscape in order to better locate the well-hidden Viet Cong. From 1962 to 1970 the U.S. Air force sprayed millions of gallons of herbicides, including Agent Orange, over the country, destroying all vegetation below. Farmland was sprayed too in order to destroy food sources for “the enemy”. The herbicides were then sprayed from boats and trucks to complete the job. This diabolical use of biological and chemical warfare was pursued despite the objections of members of the scientific community, including many Nobel laureates. The Pentagon rejected all concerns about the harmful environmental and health effects of such widespread use of highly toxic chemicals.

President Nixon finally called for a halt to the use of Agent Orange in 1970. By then the damage had been done. Its extent is still being discovered a quarter of a century later.

Deadly Consequences

Tens of thousands of U.S. veterans have contracted a host of Agent Orange-related illnesses, such as various forms of cancer and Hodgkin’s disease. The impact has been far more devastating in Vietnam itself, where the populace has had to live on lethally contaminated land – land where crops and all life forms have buried within them the time bombs of deadly chemicals. Although the passage of years has lessened the contamination, the many thousands affected, along with many of their damaged offspring, are an enormous burden.

Herein lies a grim reminder of the diabolical and lunatic nature of warfare heightened by our sophisticated technology and scientific wizardry. We waged war on the land and the people of Vietnam. Affected American veterans of the war won a class-action lawsuit to finally get compensation for what they suffered.

But the U.S. has turned a deaf ear to the legacy of Agent Orange’s impact on Vietnam, which has suffered most of all.

Against Mother Nature

Seemingly impervious to the tragic lessons of history, we continue to wage war on the earth and her people. We only need to look at the massive military operations in Iraq, Serbia, and Kosovo, where the U.S. used deleted uranium to achieve “victory”. Long after these wars, depleted uranium remains in soil and water to do its deadly work, a silent weapon of mass destruction.

Need for vigilance

The U.S. stands almost alone among the nations of the world in its refusal to sign the treaty banning landmines. Our revival of the discredited Star Wars boondoggle and our refusal to ratify the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty are jarring indications of our continued embrace of policies that endanger the whole web of life. The need for bold and vigorous peace and environmental movements that will put these issues on the national agenda has never been clearer.

The Great Law of the Six Nations Iroquois Confederacy states: “In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.” In this, let’s inject “seventh generation thinking” into our national deliberations.

By Bro. Anthony T. Pizarro CICM

Brother Anthony Pizarro is a missionary intern based in the Parish of Saint Abraham in Dakar,Senegal, a society with 95% Muslim population.  Below, Bro.  Anthony shares with us the ordeal of the whole crew (all Filipinos) of a ship stranded in Senegal and how he and his fellow missionaries came together to offer support.

September 2001, Dakar, capital of Senegal. Fr. Fred Pinuela, my fellow CICM, received a phone call from the captain of a cargo ship which docked in the port of the city.  He was requesting for a Mass for the crew.  After giving his consent, Fr. Fred arranged that I deliver the homily.  The following Sunday we drove to the port and were received by the crew.  The captain, an elderly, fine gentleman, led the crew in the traditional mano po.  Then we were given a briefing by the chiefs of the vessel regarding their problem:  the crew were technically arrested and the ship detained for already a month after their ship rammed into a fishing vessel. A court trial was to start in a few days; their employer and the insurance agency have literally abandoned them and the crew have not received their salaries for several months already.  Their personal finances were already in the red and consequently their families back home in the Philippines are already in financial predicament.

In trying times we pray

After the briefing, we proceeded to the control room for the Mass.  We prayed, sang and celebrated the Eucharist. I gave a personal sharing about not losing hope, of holding on to God firmly in spite of the problems.  It was a sharing aimed to boost the morale of the group facing a cruel storm in a foreign land.  The Mass was followed by counseling and sharing among the members of the crew who enthusiastically opened up and shared with us their stories, troubles and cares.  Then we feasted on a meal specially prepared by the group, a barrio fiesta style with Filipino dishes.  There was drinking, singing with the karaoke, joking and exchanging of stories.  The night came to a happy close.  With the problem that they were facing we made our promise to be always and able for whatever assistance they might need.

When the going gets tougher

The court trial started with much delay and, of course, dragged to months – no thanks to the complicated bureaucracy and the corruption of the judicial system of the country.  Day in and day out the captain and some of the men were either in the court, in the lawyer’s office, or communicating with their agencies in Manila or in London.  In the meantime, the failing health of the team, their security problem and worsening financial problems took their toll.  A few were detained in the port, the goods on the ship stolen by the brigands, credits were high and some met serious health problems that required hospitalization.  Having been abandoned by their employer and their insurer, the International Maritime Trade Union (IMTU) tried to mediate between the two parties. It took months and several initial court orders to somehow settle the worsening problems.

You can count on us, your kababayans

I, with Fr. Fred, Sr. Yolanda Cunanan FMM and Mrs. Marilyn Marchand, the Honorary Filipino consul, formed a support group.  Sr. Yolanda visited the crew once in a while to give spiritual direction and counseling.  She even assured the hospitalization of a member who turned seriously ill. Mrs. Marchand was always available for paperworks and diplomatic mediations. Fr. Fred and I continued our regular visits and masses for the group, each visit which usually lasted for several hours was spent mostly in listening and counseling, of just being with and for them.  Our support group also found the pooling of our meager financial resources to somehow help the crew in their daily needs.  On their fourth month in the dock, 16 of the crew were given the signal to go home – without salaries.  The six chiefs of the ship were requested to stay while waiting for the final decision of the court and the eventual arrival of the relief.  Everybody had the same prayer:  Sana makauw na kami bago mag-Pasko. Sana.”  The court trial continued in an agonizing pace.

Goodbye, dear Captain

Then a strange twist in the story of the remaining six happened.  One morning, the captain was found lying in the dock, just beside the ship, bathed in blood. Initial theory pointed to a case of robbery and murder.  Meticulous investigations by the police later showed that nothing was stolen and it was a clear case of suicide; the captain jumped to his death.  The remaining five, and we the support group, were shocked upon learning of his death.  The captain, a prayerful, respectful, dignified, fine and just man committed suicide.  The big question was of course why?  Pressures from the ship company, the toll of the trial of their case, desperation, and personal and health problems could have been the probable causes.  Shocked and terrified, the five remaining members still had to undergo procedural investigations that lasted for almost a week.  It was an exhausting and draining investigation.

Light at the end of the tunnel

Weeks later the police clearance for the five was released.  The court came out with a clear decision favoring the liberation of the crew from their contracts and the auctioning of the ship and its content for the indemnity of the workers.  The meeting between the representative of the IMTU, the relief group and the Filipino crew took place.  In the meeting I served as the translator from French to English and Filipino and vice-versa.  An agreement was finalized, the green light for their departure for home was finally given.

Life is beautiful

The night before their final flight, we held a simple farewell party for them and offered a prayer for the soul of the captain.  One of them shared his realization: “Life, in spite of all its trials and pains, is still beautiful!  Hope keeps it going.”  It was a remark that illustrated the very essence of our missionary life, I thought.  The theology of hope profoundly summarized after a concrete experience.

It was a prayerful and sad parting.  We shared some food, drinks and we even managed to sing out some tune for their late dear captain.  They were very thankful for the help, support, company and specially the inspiration we shared with them.  Their unhappy saga in Senegal came to an end.  They went home a few days before Christmas, filled with new hope.

By Fr. Patrick Hurley MSSC

Why do I write on this topic?  Because I was requested to do so by the good managers of Misyon magazine.  I told them frankly that I could answer their request in a few lines.  But they insisted it must be more than a “few lines” so I will try to expand the simple story of my missionary vocation to more than a few lines.

My parents were elementary teachers in a small faraway village in the southern part of Ireland.  I was number three in a family of ten – seven boys and three girls.  As there were no local high schools in that area, our parents had to sacrifice to send us all to boarding schools, about one hundred and forty kilometers from home.  I had only two teachers in my elementary education – my mother and my father.

First vocation in the family

When the oldest boy, Dermot, graduated in high school, he decided to join the Columban missionary society which at that time was mostly preparing priests for the Chinese mission, to a country with few Christians and which had the biggest population in the world.  Dermot was the oldest in a family of ten and a topnotcher in his class.  My parents made no objection to his decision.  He was ordained in 1944 and died in the Fiji mission in 1999.

My own, secret plan

When my graduation day came, my parents were anxious about my own plan.  Various possibilities were mentioned – engineering, horticulture, etc.  But I had already decided two years earlier, that I would follow my brother in China.  But that was my secret till graduation time.

Naturally, most would say that I was following in the footsteps of my older brother in choosing the same religious missionary group.  But actually, that was not the real basis of my vocation.  Let me explain…

Conviction

In June 1940, when I was about midway in secondary education, an alumnus from our school, Fr. Jerry Piggot, who was already a Columban Father working in China, came to our school and gave us a talk on the mission, specially his own mission in China.  He gave us the usual talk about life on the mission and about God’s plan, the mission of Christ and His instructions to His apostles to go and teach His message to all people.  He mentioned the huge population in China, who never heard the Good News of Christ.  He did not say it was an easy life.  He even expressed the hardships and problems of a foreign missionary in China in the first half of the twentieth century.  So, to make a long story short, I well remember saying to my friend that evening, “I am going to be a missionary inChina.”

I was followed in the Columban family by my younger brother and sister, Fr. Gerry and Sr. Catherine.

Missionary motive

I thank the late Fr. Jerry Piggot for my Columban missionary vocation.  That seed was planted sixty-two years ago – June 1940.  So, it was a sudden and definite decision.  I believe I was following the steps of the Columban co-founder, Bishop Edward Galvin, who wrote to his mother before he left forChina and said, “I am leaving for China this morning.  Oh, how I hate that name.  But I am going for Christ’s sake and to save souls that are dearer to Him than the whole world.”  So, like our founder, I still hold that “saving souls” is central to my vocation.

Instant call

Incidentally my older brother told me many years later, “I was praying in our small village church and a decision suddenly entered my mind which said, ‘I will enter the Dalgan Seminar of the Chinese missionary society’.”  This was also an instant vocation call.

So, about forty of us, all high school graduates, entered the new (and beautiful) seminary in September 1942 and about twenty of us were ordained in December 21, 1948.  Our class was divided by our superior general – nine to Japan and ten to the Philippines.  A few did further studies.

Rerouting

You may ask, if I joined the Columban Fathers for China, how is it that I have been over fifty years in the Philippines and never saw China?  The answer is simple and sad.  After we were ordained and ready for the Chinese mission in 1949, the communist government in China closed its doors to all missionaries.  All the older Columban missionaries there were expelled from China.  Only our dead Columban brothers rest there now.

An interesting point is that though we were assigned to our mission in July 1949, the first available boat we could get was the following February 1950.  Nearly all the boats and liners were resting at the bottom of the sea due to World War II.  We eventually arrived in Manila in April 1950 after a thirty-day trip in a large cargo ship through the Pacific Ocean – San Francisco toManila.

Toothpick appointments

Another interesting point is that when we arrived in Manila, the local superior was absent and he told the bursar, Fr. Tom Connolly, to appoint us as follows: five to Mindanao and five would stay in Luzon.  So Fr. Tom made his own plan for appointments.  He got ten toothpicks, cut five in half and held the ten ends sticking out between his thumb and forefinger.  “Now, boys,” he said.  “Come and pull a toothpick – long ones go to Mindanao and half toothpicks stay in Luzon.”  We all obeyed and no objections were raised to this unique way of making clerical appointments.  Incidentally, and by coincidence, today, fifty-two years later, the five long toothpick men in Mindanao have passed on and the five short toothpick men are still alive.

Road to Negros

When the Columbans opened the new Philippine mission in Negros, three of the Luzon men were included in the pioneer group of ten priests, and that is how I came to Negros in 1950.  So my vocation in Negros was only for about fifty-two years and I have been assigned in many parishes in this present Diocese of Kabankalan during those fifty-two years.

Basis for vocation

Talking about religious vocation, may I add here the following – when a person, male or female, comes to me to discuss their possible vocation to the religious life, I always explain to them that the basis for such a life is in the three vows – obedience, chastity and poverty.  If they understand the meaning of these vows and are willing to follow same, I give them my blessing.

I will finish by thanking God, for calling me to this life.

By Peggy Stinnet

Many who knew her would say my mother was a saintly woman long before that day when she left this world to journey to her heavenly home. She was an ordinary woman according to most standards, but now, reflecting on her life as something complete, I see what she did was quite extraordinary. This the defining moment of the most personal kind of evangelization, when heaven and earth finally meet revealing to us the perfect diamond that lies beyond our humanness.

My mother looked for no recognition for what she considered her daily duties. She found pride in a clean home, her children and, most importantly, the love of her husband. As far back as I can remember, my mother taught me about God primarily by her example. I can remember as a child going late at night with her to perpetual adoration and sitting next to her in the dark church. On those evenings it was hard for me to separate her from the church in which we sat. She took us to confession on Saturday afternoons, heard our prayers in the evening, and always reminded us to pray for the poor souls who had no one to pray for them.

Mother’s Vocation

My mother had a special gift of assessing any situation and seeing who was in the greatest need.  She often attended to those needs by a dinner invitation, freshly baked pie or a phone call.  She taught by example, showing us children that we needed to be Christ-like to others by our actions.  While at times she too struggled, deep within her I saw the grace that allowed her to carry her own personal crosses and fulfill the vocation to which she was called.

Ailing tree

Through the years as her children grew and left home, my mother’s sense of purpose dwindled, and she struggled to find her place in the world.  She was always supportive and encouraging as we began our new lives, but she seemed empty inside, like a tree that had borne fruit only to die itself.  Her heart was pierced as she watched her children experience heartaches in ways that she had been lucky enough to avoid.  Mom became quiet, withdrawn and to our surprise her health began to fail her.  No one could quite understand the change that was taking place but we knew our mother was no longer the same.  Her outgoing personality gave way to a quiet, more subdued nature, and before long two strokes forever changed the mother we had once known.

Through months of rehabilitation she fought back, regaining some of her mobility, but the voice that prayed with us and taught us our life lessons was silenced. When my mother lost her speech, a stillness came over our family like the calm after a storm. It was hard for us to comprehend this difference. Instinctively we continue to converse with her, waiting for the response that never came. If this was hard for us, I know it was even harder for Mom. She tried sometimes to speak but only ended up exhausted by the effort.

Be still

It was during these times that I began to see a transformation take place in her.  While many of the things she had learned to depend on during her life were being taken from me, God in His great providence was giving her in her time of silence an interior voice only He could hear.  I recalled the words of Scripture being spoken to the depths of her heart:  “Be still and know that I am God.” (Ps 46:10)

True Love

My father, an extraordinary minister of the Eucharist, would bring her Holy Communion as often as possible, uniting her with the Lord she remembered from those dark, quiet nights so long ago.  God made her dependent on us, allowing us an opportunity to give back to her, and for the first time in her life she was able to receive.  I watched as grace unfolded before my eyes.  I saw my father minister to my mother, caring for her in a complete and beautiful way.  He taught us the true meaning of the word love as it radiated through his every action and fell upon her as delicately as rain on fragile flower.  The Sacrament of Matrimony took on a new meaning to me as I watched the supernatural bringing them both to a new level of love that was truly a mystical experience.

Ready to go

“Like a thief in the night” (1 Thess 5:2), the time the Lord had so gently prepared us for finally came.  No one is ever really ready to say goodbye to those he loves, but watching our Mother suffering enabled each one of us to say the same prayer:  “When her place is ready, Lord, take her home.”  One day she stopped eating, and soon she could no longer tolerate even the liquids we tried to coax down her throat.  Her eyes showed her weariness and desire to no longer fight the body that had given up long ago.  When Dad brought her Communion that day and she could no longer swallow it, we knew then that the Lord was ready to unite Himself with Mother in a more perfect way.  This was our comfort in the difficult days ahead—that our prayers were being answered, and her place was ready.

We chose a gravesite near the woods in a cool, shady spot, like Mom used to choose to set up the camper for family vacations. We knew in our hearts this had little meaning except to comfort those of us left behind. We saw our mother being purified before our very eyes, daily growing more dependent on God and less on what the world offered.

Her Fulfilled Mission

In her final hours her nine children kept vigil at her bedside.  We slept together under the same roof, comforting each other and praying the rosary as we used to do when we were little.  I thought about that rosary and how her life mirrored those meditations.  She was obedient to God, giving life to each of us, teaching us and trusting our Heavenly Father when we were lost.  She agonized, gave totally of herself, carried the cross and was now dying to the life she had known.

As we prayed the glorious mysteries, my mother became radiant to me, not in the earthly sense but through the eyes of faith. I knew that our Lord, his Mother, and even the poor souls in purgatory that we prayed for – that great communion of saints – were present. She was seeing them for the first time and at the same time realizing the gift that had been given to her. Her simple life was part of a glorious divine plan that lasts through generations and into eternity.

Final Rest

My mother passed through this world and into her eternal home as quietly as she used to close the door on a sleeping child.  In the days that followed she spoke to us with a new voice – one that was made perfect through her purification.  I believe my mother is a saint, not by what she did but what God accomplished through her “yes”.

Mother’s job on earth is complete, but her role in the life beyond has just begun. For a mother can never rest until her children are safely home in the arms of their Heavenly Father.

Salamat sa THIS ROCK

During the dictatorship of General Pinochet in Chile thousand of victims were tortured. But once Pinochet was arrested, Tito Tricot, a victim of the regime, got the courage to confront a man who had carried out Pinochet’s orders and he wrote him this letter.

I have often wondered what has happened to you. Maybe you take your grandchildren to the town square on Sunday to listen to the local band. Have you ever wondered how many children never got to know their parents because you killed them? I do not think so, because you were a raging animal when you beat me and forced me to take off my blindfold. “Don’t you ever forget my face,” you said, “because I am the one who is going to kill you.”

I have never forgotten you, because torturers like you have names. They marry and have children. They go home after raping defenseless women. That’s why you must be worried now that your general has been arrested in London, because for the first time in 25 years you find yourself on the defensive.

How little we know about the School of the Americas where our officers are trained by the US army. They were taught that the prisoner should be dehumanized, treated as scum. That was the aim of the heat, the light, the blows, the noise, the submersion in filthy water, the shouting, the screaming all day and all night long. I never thought I could shiver in the middle of a hot night. But I did: it was electricity. The explosion of colors blinds you, then you only see shadows and silhouettes.

You wanted names and places, phone numbers and weapons. I could give you only long screams. There was a form of protection behind the dirty and smelly hood that covered my head. Some cried out of impotence, some out of pride, some out of fear. That’s why I will despise you forever. Not only because of my constant headaches, blackouts, aching bones and horrific memories, but for my sisters and brothers, those you beat so badly they could not walk, those you raped so violently they could hardly breathe. Where did the disappeared go? Do they smile? Do they dance? Do they plant trees? Where are they?

I do not expect the military to answer – they have not done it for 25 years. Gen. Pinochet once said that prisoners were buried two to a coffin in order to save space and money. His son has said that those who were killed were simply beasts. Yes, as beasts we were treated on Sept. 11, 1973, when we were forced on to the floor of state trucks with prisoners piled on top of each other. We were thrown into a ship, a floating concentration camp, the first of a series of camps and prisons I would be held in over a number of years.

You lived well on all the money and belongings you stole from your victims. You wore their clothes, hung their paintings on your walls. But you could never steal our dreams. There is a beautiful Nicaraguan song where the victim of repression tells his torturer: my revenge will be your children’s right to school and flowers. When you find it impossible to stare at people out of utter shame, my revenge will be to offer you these hands once mistreated. Me? I’m afraid I can’t sing.

Salamat sa Lladoc

By Fr. Joey Ganio Evangelista, CICM

I was among the first CICM team to be sent to Mozambique – a former Portuguese colony in Southeast Africa. We are working in the central part, in the Diocese of Chimoio. For some weeks I stayed in a village 15 kms south of Gondola town. The purpose of my stay was to learn Chiuteé, a local language, and introduce me to the Auteé tribe culture. It was very interesting to live with an African family in the bush. Every time I look back at the time I spent there, the short weeks that seemed to stretch into eternity, I always remember a blue cup.

I arrived in Ingomai in the afternoon of 20 June 2001. The hut that the Christian community was building for me wasn’t finished yet and so I had to sleep in the machessa of the family of Senhor Antonio Melo. A machessa is a round, half-open hut that serves as the receiving area where they welcome visitors. I could barely sleep that first night in that machessa. The cold night breeze seemed to penetrate my sleeping bag and annoyingly caress my back. Every time I stuck my noose out of the sleeping bag, I could feel cold air rush up my nostrils piercing like a million tiny needles as I inhaled.

Temperature shock

The next day, I woke up to the very cold winds that Ingomai is well known for during the winter season. I jumped out of my sleeping bag and put on my t-shirt, sweater, jacket, trousers, socks and shoes as quickly as I could, although not necessarily in that order. I didn’t make a new time record putting on my clothes. I couldn’t. I fell down while putting on my trousers. As I got out of the hut, all eyes were on me: Senhor Melo, his wife, Fatima, and their children. The trouble I had putting on my trousers obviously announced that I was already out of “bed”. We exchanged morning courtesies that I was to use for the rest of my mornings in Ingomai. “Good morning.” “Did you sleep well?” “Yes, I slept well. I hope you did, too.”

Well, honestly, I barely slept a wink because of the cold but I didn’t know how to say that in Chiuteé and even if I did I wouldn’t have said it anyway. I didn’t want to worry my hosts unnecessarily. I just had to wrap myself better the next time.

Language barrier

From the corner of my eye, I saw Senhora Fatima carrying a basin of water. She came in front of me in a half-kneeling, half-sitting position. She was telling me something but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Thinking that she was greeting me again, I started greeting her good morning and telling her that I slept well. I thought I responded correctly because she had a lovely smile on her face. I presumed that she was pleased that I had a good rest. Senhor Melo came to the rescue explaining in Portuguese that his wife was telling me that she had brought me warm water and that I could already wash if I wanted to. Trying not to look embarrassed, I rushed to the machessa, grabbed my towel and toothbrush and went behind the hut to wash.

Something about the cup

There in the basin was a blue cup. The cup was made of plastic. It wasn’t obviously brand new although certainly not very old. From the scratches and stains both inside and outside the cup, one thing was sure, it was well used. Its blue color was also beginning to fade. I scooped some water out of the basin with the cup to brush my teeth. As I brought the cup to my mouth, I smelled a strange odor. It wasn’t revolting at all but it wasn’t pleasant either. I couldn’t figure out what that smell was. I could recognize the smell of plastic that had been often used but there was something else and I didn’t know what it was. I brushed my teeth anyway, only this time my brushing had a new flavor and it sure wasn’t mint.

First Breakfast

I chatted with Senhor Melo while waiting for breakfast. After an hour or so, her youngest daughter informed us that breakfast was ready. As I entered the hut where we were to eat breakfast, something on the table gave me a pleasant surprise. Just beside my plate was the same blue cup that I had used earlier, only this time it was filled with tea! I suddenly realized what made up one of those odors of the blue cup. At least that solved part of the mystery. Breakfast was boiled yam and tea. The yam was surprisingly good. It tasted better than I thought; it didn’t taste plain at all. It was the salt that made it tasty, I suppose. I remember eating every bit of my share and helping it go down with tea from the blue cup.

Special treatment

I wasn’t permitted to help in any of the house chores no matter how hard I tried to convince them. At first, I thought the reason was because I had just arrived and that they still considered me a visitor. I suppose they have always considered me a visitor because until the last day with the family I never was allowed to do any work. The only work I remember doing was looking after the huts every time everyone was in the fields. I suppose my being a priest was the reason why I wasn’t allowed to help around the house as well as in the fields. This made me wonder sometimes what they really thought of priests.
Faraway neighbors

The morning of my first day I spent just walking around the surrounding area trying to get an idea of what the place looked like. The place of Senhor Melo is a kilometer away from the main road. Each household has at least three huts, namely a hut called motorika, where the grains are stored and which also serves as a kitchen, another hut where the family sleeps and the machessa. The bigger the household, the more huts it has. The nearest neighbor is Senhor Melo’s brother, Francisco, who lives 400 meters away from each other. The households are far away are far away from each other because their fields surround each family, so if a family has a larger area of land, the farther away their neighbors are.

Solar Eclipse

Just before midday, Senhor Melo and his family began covering their windows and doors with blankets; it was the day of the solar eclipse. The government had made an information campaign warning people not to look directly at the eclipse without the proper glasses as this could cause irreparable damage to the eyes. The campaign was done so well that they succeeded in scaring every man, woman and child in Ingomai. Hours before the eclipse, many families had all shut themselves in their huts, fearing that if anyone stepped out of the house she or would immediately be struck blind. As the eclipse began I found myself all alone standing outside the hut. Senhor Melo didn’t care whether I stayed in or out, that was my business according to him, but he didn’t allow anyone from his family to step out of the hut. The eclipse was beautiful! I witnessed the day quickly turn dark. After some minutes, I saw the world filled with light again. It was an eerie feeling experiencing the sudden drop of temperature and the almost instantaneous quieting of the animals, only to come back to life again when the sun reappeared. Too bad Senhor Melo and his family were too scared to witness one rare moment of nature’s breathtaking exhibition of beauty.

Three-wall bathroom

At the end of the day, just as the sun was setting, Senhor Melo told me that my bath water was waiting for me in the bathroom. The bathroom is a small square area with only three walls made of dry grass. The grass walls are about 1.5 meter high, it has no roof and the side without a wall is facing the empty grassland behind our huts. I was uneasy the first time I took a bath. I kept glancing behind me every time I heard a noise, which was often just birds, or the goats galloping by. During that first bath I had another pleasant surprise. Floating in my pail of warm bath water was the same blue cup. I didn’t need to examine nor smell it to know that it was the same cup I used for brushing my teeth and for my tea. It was comforting to see something familiar in that strange bathroom.

Well, it was certainly a big help so I could pour water on my body to get the dust off. A pail of water is not much for a bath but with the blue cup I was able to make the most of that pail of water.

Gradual Discovery

For the rest of my stay, that blue cup had always been there from sunrise to sunset. After some time, I began to think that it was ‘my’ cup that the family was making available for my exclusive use. Well, that wasn’t really the case. As the days turned into weeks, I began to see my blue cup in places other than my washbin, the breakfast table and my pail of bath water. Sometimes I saw Senhora Fatima using it while cooking; she used it to get water from a pail and pour it into the cooking pot. There were times when I saw her give the two youngest children in the family, Mateu and Paulo, their bath using my blue cup.

Family use

I also saw my blue cup being used in the strangest of situations – hut building. One day, I was watching the women and children put mud between the sticks of what would become the walls of the hut of Mbiya, the grandmother. They were having fun doing this, often laughing and teasing each other. They were kind enough to let me in the small hut and watch Fernando, Senhor Melo’s second son, make the mud wall from the inside. As soon as my eyes were adjusted to the dim light, I started looking around and lo and behold, my blue cup was on the pile of mud Fernando was using to make the wall! I found out that he was using the blue cup to scoop water to mix with dirt to make mud. From that time on I finally stopped wondering why that cup smelled so strange. More importantly, it dawned on me that the blue cup wasn’t my cup after all; it was “our” cup – the family’s cup!

I am now back in Gondola. I must admit that I still don’t speak Chiuteé fluently but I have become more sensitive to the ways people do things around here. One thing is sure, though, I will never forget my blue cup.

By Jennifer Chan

Jennifer Chan is a Columban lay missionary assigned in Fiji. Here she shares with us what it is like to live in an “elephant house”.

It’s true! Home is an elephant house for me and my fellow lay missionary, Cynthia, for 11 months now. This unique, architectural wonder is called a ctesiphon (pronounced as tesifon, a type of thin-shell catenary-curved concrete building). My parish priest told me it was patterned after the low-cost housing in Iraq. Back in the late fifties, Columban Father Dermot Hurley built several ctesphons and ours is the lone surviving elephant house in Suva. Its historical value is increasing and becoming an unusual conversation piece of both locals and foreigners alike.

Interesting mix

I like our elephant house. It is off-white, with cavernous walls and igloo-like structure. It is beautiful and amusing to behold. You would never guess this small house has two bedrooms, a small kitchen, toilet and bath in one, plus a comfortable sitting room! Just perfect for Cynthia and me. What’s more, we have very friendly neighbors of different faiths within our compound – there’s Mrs. Singh, our Indian landlady who is a professed atheist; her daughter Kirti, a baptized Anglican; and Sofia and her family who are devout Muslims. And add us to that picture – two Filipino Catholics and you’ve got a veritable mix of inter-faith living!

Silent Witness

Our humble abode has played host to numerous parishioners, priests, even an occasional theft or two. And it has been privy to some bouts of homesickness; sometimes echoing the muffled cries and sniffles of a frustrated missionary; at other times bouncing off its walls is the pure, unadulterated joy of laughter which makes this journey of ours worthwhile.

Piece of my heart

Ah, yes. Me and the elephant, we’ve grown quite fond of each other. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. And if it’s true that home is where the heart is, then I’ll definitely be leaving a huge part of mine in Fiji.

It is our delight to introduce to you this new section in Misyon-Our Hideaway. A venue for the youth to express themselves and to share with our readers their mind, their heart and their soul. We are inviting you – students and young professionals – to drop by Our Hideaway and let us know how you are doing.

Lilies in the Field

By Leopoldo Zerrudo, Jr.

She smiled as I entered the hospital ward where she lay terminally ill of leukemia. I had been hesitant to visit her, fearing I would find her in great pain and misery. So I was greatly relieved to see her in good spirits, reaching out to me and to my companions as she whispered words of appreciation for all the kindness she had been receiving from the Columban Companions in Mission (CCIM) of which she was a member.

Mission promoters

Sonia Bacunawa was a founding member of the CCIM group established by Fr. Donal O’Hanlon in Manila in 1993. The group is comprised of some 25 young professionals who participate actively in the missionary work of the Columban Fathers. They have developed a deep spirituality and sense of mission in the Church. In addition to assisting in the mission awareness appeals, during Sunday Masses in Metro Manila, they divide themselves into six groups and conduct outreach activities for abused and abandoned children and for young inmates at the National Penitentiary in Muntinlupa.

Heaven’s usherette

Sonia had a special love for children. She excelled in reaching out to them, bringing them closer to God and building their self-esteem in the process. She had a particularly profound influence on a group of young street boys that she used to gather together regularly in Sta. Mesa.

Too soon to die

When Sonia became seriously ill, she had no family to take care of her. Her only sister lived in faraway Leyte and had a young family of her own. I wondered why God had not shown his care for Sonia by healing her. I prayed for a miracle to happen. Several times, I asked God to give me a sign that He truly existed and that He really loved all His creatures, especially Sonia, by healing her. She was only 43 and based on her dedication to life and her mission I felt that she had many more lives yet to be touched.

Foster family

But God, in His infinite wisdom and mystery, never granted my petition. Sonia passed away the day after my visit. But with her leaving, she left me a precious legacy: When I witnessed the love and concern that our group lavished on her, I realized that after all God is indeed a God who takes care of all His creatures.

Beautiful lily

The members of the CCIM were all touched by Sonia’s faith and courage in her suffering. That day when she bade us goodbye, we were gathered around her hospital bed. She was thanking us for being there for her, for the love and kindness showered upon her. “You are all beautiful!” she said. But she was even more beautiful. With the peace and love she radiated, she’s like a lily blooming in a field.  

 

Home alone for Christmas

By Elymel Garcia

A few days before Christmas, my uncle came to our house to bring us the sad news of my grandfather’s death. Immediately the whole family packed up to leave for Hinoba-an, a seaside town in the south of Negros, a four-hour drive along the coast away from Bacolod City. But I had to be left alone to look after our house. My mother said they would be back after a couple of days to prepare for the Christmas celebration.

Most awaited occasion

On Christmas Eve, I was very excited for their arrival, excited for the family to gather for the Noche Buena. It is the most special and important part of the year for me because of that sense of deeper love and oneness that binds the whole family together as we share the meal and exchange gifts.

Left Alone

Alas they never came and Christmas Eve was almost over. I started worrying as to what happened and getting frustrated because I couldn’t contact them in Hinoba-an, a faraway town where there were still no telephone connections. How could I ever celebrate Christmas without my family? I felt so lonesome and deprived

thinking that all the rest of the neighborhood were beginning their yuletide fun as they gathered for Noche Buena while I was all alone in the house, sulking to myself and counting my misfortunes.

Then a group of young carolers roused me from my wallowing. I got up and opened the door to give them some candies. They sang a couple of jolly Christmas jungles and with their warm, cheerful smile, they thanked me fro my kindness and reminded me to have a “Merry Christmas!”

Glitz and glitter

After the carolers left me alone again, I felt embarrassed at myself suddenly realizing how wrongly I got the meaning of Christmas. For me it meant partying and exchanging gifts with my family and friends, going to Simbang Gabi, and giving some coins to a beggar to add to it the spirit of giving. After all, it is this way for most of the people around the world these days. Christmas is defined in the glamour and glitter of gifts and parties and I was suddenly ashamed to admit that I, too, was guilty of this.

My best gift

This may sound so melodramatic of me but in this experience I have discovered a new meaning for Christmas: A King came down from His Heavenly throne to be born in a manger, giving to us the gift of His love and salvation. And I have been taking these gifts for granted by dwelling on what the world has to offer which oftentimes leaves me discontented.

For the first time in many Christmases that came and went, I was able to examine myself, know Him much better and be grateful to Him for the many things He has been blessing me with which I was just beginning to see.

P.S. My family came a few days after Christmas. There was some problem with the date of the funeral so they were not able to come home as promised. Well, better late than never.

By Fr. Cathal Coulter MSSC

The Columban Missionaries were founded nearly one hundred years ago.  Well, not quite.  The co-founder, John Blowick, later recalled the first night the young students – offering their life for the mission to China – gathered together for prayer and how they read a passage from the Gospel which would be the guiding light of all missionaries.

Eighty-four winters have passed since the first group of young Columbans gathered for evening prayer in the old Dalgan, the first Columban home. There was no electricity, no heat. Seven priests and eighteen students sat a few chairs, some packing cases and boxes in a room lit by candles and oil lamps. In later years, John Blowick, the founder, would recall how he looked around and could see the whole Society, all twenty-five of them, all young men, all under fifty.

John Blowick himself, ordained in 1903, described January 29, 1918 as a “cold, bleak sort of day”. There were many questions and lots of uncertainties and the wind blowing across Lough Corrib may have been cold. But the enthusiasm and the fire in the hearts of those young men launched the Society of St. Columban.

By the light of flickering candles, passages from the gospel of John were read.

During the supper, Jesus – fully aware that he had come from God and was going to God, the Father who had handed everything over to him – rose from the meal and took off his cloak.  He picked up a towel and tied it around himself.  Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet and dry them with the towel he had around him.

After he had washed their feet, he put his cloak back on and reclined at the table once more.  He said to them “Do you understand what I just did for you?  You address me as “Teacher” and “Lord”, and fittingly enough, for that is what I am.  But if I washed your feet – I who am Teacher and Lord – then you must wash each other’s feet.  What I just did was to give you an example.  As I have done, so you must do.

I solemnly assure you, he who accepts anyone I send accepts me, and in accepting me accepts Him who sent me. (John XIII 2-5; 12-15; 20)

These words of Our Lord read at the first night prayer of the young Columban Society still speak to us and tell us the spirit in which all missionaries, priests, sisters or lay must serve.

By Declan Walsh

For many years now a vicious war is in progress in Sudan, a country situated in north Africa.  The Islamic government in the capital Khartoum, in the north, is determined to subdue the mainly Christian south.  Snatching slaves has become part of the war.  Christians throughout the world have been outraged and have tried to buy the slaves back … but this has opened the door to unscrupulous people to make a lot of money.  Read on …

The slave redemption makes for powerful human drama. A line of women and children emerging from the African bush. A slave trader in front, wrapped in the white robes of an Arab. And before them, waiting with a bag of money at his feet, is a white, Christian man. The procession halts under the shade of a tree. There is discussion, then money changes hands. Suddenly the trader gives a nod, the slaves walk free and there are cries of joy as families are re-united. Freedom, at last.

Or so they thought

Who could fail to be stirred by this emotional sight?  Thousands of black African southern Sudanese have been enslaved by vicious militiamen from the mainly Arab and Muslim north.  For the past seven years, Christian Solidarity International (CSI) has been buying back, or “redeeming” the slaves, for US$50 a head.  The highly publicized redemptions have touched millions of hearts – and wallets – across the world but particularly in the United States.  Celebrities and politicians have chained themselves to railings in protest.  Pop stars have given free concerts.  Little girls have given their lunch money.  But there is another side to the redemption story.

Elaborate scam

According to aid workers, missionaries and even the rebel movement that facilitates it, slave redemption in Sudan is often an elaborate scam.  Some genuine slaves have been redeemed – nobody can say how many – but in other cases, the process is nothing more than a careful deceit, stage-managed by corrupt officials.

It seems like a noble cause. The Sudan People’s Liberation Army (SPLA), a group of anti-government rebels, has been at war with the Khartoum government, an extremist Islamic regime, since 1983. The rebels control most of the south; government forces hold the north. In its prosecution of the war, the government – a notorious human-rights abuser – has revived slavery. Arab militiamen are encouraged to destabilize frontline rebel-held villages by looting, murdering and snatching women and children away to a life of slavery in the north.

The real story

To combat this terrible human trade, Christian Solidarity International arranges for Arab traders to buy the slaves and secretly walk them through the bush to safe villages in the rebel-held south.  The CSI plane lands, the money is paid and the slaves walk free.  Or so it appears.

In reality, many of the “slaves” are fakes. Rebel officials round up local villagers to pose for the cameras. They recruit fake slavers – a light skinned soldier or a passing trader – to “sell” them. The children are coached in stories of abduction and abuse for when the redeemer, or a journalist, asks questions. Interpreters may be instructed to twist their answers.

The money, however, is very real. Christian Solidarity International can spend more than $300,000 during a week of redemptions at various bush locations. After their plane takes off, the profits are divided up – a small cut to the ‘slaves’ and the ‘trader’ but the lion’s share to local administrators and SPLA figures. One commander is said to have earned enough from the profits of slavery to buy 40 wives. Other officials living in faraway Nairobi or Europe have allegedly built houses or financed businesses. A well-intentioned endeavor has been subverted in Africa’s greatest, and most lucrative, theatre performance.

Oblivious redeemers

English Baroness Caroline Cox, who sits in the House of Lords, was among the original redeemers, but the trade has been dominated by the Swiss-based CSI, which has bought the ‘freedom’ of more than 64,000 slaves since 1995.  It denies being duped.  “The money involved is well publicized,” says John Eibner, the American who has been the driving force behind redemption.  “But we have our own mechanisms in place to ensure there is no fraud.”  CSI is in the process of introducing fingerprinting and video-identification systems for redeemed slaves.

However, members of the anti-government rebels, which plays a key role in every redemption trip, say otherwise. “The racket is there, right from the top,” admits official SPLA spokesman, Samson Kwaje. “The money comes from those American kids. But who gets the cheque?”

Suspicions

It’s a question that few can answer with certainty.  But what is sure is that the warning signs have been there for years.  Within the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, whispers of suspicion have swelled into a chorus of criticism in recent years.  Acrimonious rows have broken out and accusations of profiteering leveled at the individuals.  Outside the rebel ranks, aid workers have been puzzled.  It seems almost incredible that tens of thousands of abducted civilians could cross a dangerous frontline undetected by government forces.  Moreover, aid workers north of the line saw no evidence of large movements south, and their colleagues in the south saw no sudden demand for extra food or medicines by redeemed slaves.  Put simply, the numbers didn’t add up.  And yet no questions were asked.  The dollars rolled in and the redemptions continued.  The last one was in December.

That slavery exists in Sudan is not in doubt. Since time immemorial the southern Dinka pastoralists have fought with their Arab neighbors to the north. In battles over grazing land, warriors from both sides would raid cattle, women and children from each other. Later, some slaves could be returned, in exchange for an agreed upon number of cattle. Organized slave trading died out during the British colonial period but with the advent of war in 1983, it was deliberately revived by the Khartoumgovernment in response to the SPLA insurgency. It armed the Murahaleen, a ruthless horseback Arab militia, and charged them with protecting a military train that cuts through rebel territory to the garrison town of Wau.

Shocking reality

Shocked by the re-emergence of this brutal practice, Christian Solidarity International threw its weight behind the redemption of southern slaves in the mid-1990s.  Under Eibner, it arranged for northern “traders” to smuggle lines of slaves into the rebels’ territory.  There, CSI would negotiate a price – usually $50, more recently $33 – for the unfortunate slaves.  Scores of journalists were brought along to witness the exchange.  In the United States, with its black population and heritage of slavery, it touched a raw nerve.  The campaign gripped the public imagination and hasn’t let go since.  From stockbrokers to school kids, millions of dollars have been raised for redemption.  Slavery became a fundraising phenomenon, and Sudan is the most high-profile African cause in the U.S.since apartheid.

From a distance

But outside observers of redemption do not, and cannot, see everything.  The entire operation is controlled by the anti-government rebels, which provides communications, transport and interpreters, and it is conducted in great secrecy.  Christian Solidarity International says this is necessary for security reasons – it fears the government will bomb it – but this makes it extremely difficult for outsiders to drop in unannounced on a redemption.

One exception is Fr. Mario Riva. An Italian missionary, Fr. Riva lived in Bahr el Ghazal, the frontline province where most of the fighting and slave redemption takes place, for more than 40 years. He retired two years ago. In the late 1990s, Fr. Riva stumbled across a CSI redemption between the towns of Marial Bai and Nyamlell.  The Comboni Father was like any other Western observer, but with one crucial difference – he knew the Dinka people, and their language, as his own.

Deception

John Eibner was standing under a tree with a group of slaves, some of whom Fr. Riva recognized as his own parishioners.  “The people told me they had been collected to get money.  It was a kind of business,” he recalls.  A rebel official was translating between Eibner and the slaves.  “The white man would ask one thing and they would translate something different to the people,” he says.  For example, says Fr. Riva, Eibner would ask if a slave had been held in captivity.  The official would translate the question as “Have you suffered in the war?”  The villager emphatically reply in the positive.  Then the translator would tell Eibner that the man had been abducted by Arabs, treated inhumanly and was grateful to CSI for saving his life.

However, Fr. Riva said nothing at the time, fearing retribution from the rebel soldiers. “I was very upset. I could not stay at the redemption,” he says. One nurse with a European aid agency witnessed a first-time redemption by a small American Christian group – not Christian Solidarity International – in late 1999. “They brought the kids to be redeemed to a clearing under the trees. I knew two of them by name,” she says. “They were wearing our feeding center bracelets. And the logistician recognized the Arab guy as someone from the district who worked with the SRRA (the Sudan Relief and Rehabilitation Association, the rebels’ relief coordination wing).” The Americans, who were filming the redemption, did not notice. The nurse wanted to speak out but her colleague told her to keep quiet. “He said, ‘There are guys here with guns. Let them give the money if they want,’” she recalls.

Christian Solidarity International has been publicly challenged on the effects of redemption. The United Nations children’s agency UNICEF started a row when it suggested that redemption encourages further slave raiding. Despite the multiplicity of warning signs, CSI has accelerated the redemption process in the past two years. Planes chartered by CSI have regularly touched down inBahr el Ghazal, bringing medicine, food and hundreds of thousands of dollars. More than 50,000 slaves have been redeemed in this period.

The savage war between North and South Sudan continues. The attempts to liberate slaves have been genuine even though unscrupulous people have taken advantage of it, create ‘fake’ slaves and make money. That is the way with so many good causes in life, so we have to be vigilant and try to continue those good causes as we struggle to eliminate the abuse and the scandals.

Paris, 1789

Why should we hold back our dream?  Just a few years ago many would have said it was impossible for us to challenge the King.  Now we are being told to be modest in our aspirations, that we are impatient and unrealistic.  But we refuse to take only one step at a time – we are running towards the sun.  Our demands may never be met, but the fire of our impatience is unending: we cannot live at ease in a world where these things are not possible. *

Abolish slavery in the Americas

And anywhere else it exists.  What is claimed as ‘an economic necessity’ now will one day be a source of shame.

Grant universal suffrage

Yes, we do mean universal.  Not just landowners or householders but peasants and artisans, women as well as men.

Guarantee women’s equality

Women must not only be able to vote, they must receive equal pay when they do the same work as men.  No husband should be able to beat his wife or impose his will upon her.

End imperial domination

America’s successful battle for independence from the British should serve as inspiration for the world: for Spain’s colonies in the Americas to rise up and claim their freedom.

Deliver free education for all

All children should be taught to read and write, to raise their eyes to the sky instead of having their noses rubbed in the dirt.  There should be a school in every village, every neighbourhood, with no fee to be paid on the door.

Offer healthcare for all

Leeches should no longer be the preserve only for the rich.  There should be hospitals and doctors enough for every sick child, every aged peasant.

Provide running water

Every house should have its own pump, every citizen a means of disposing of their own waste.

Promote peace in Europe

The nations of Europe are forced to war with their neighbours every few years over the petty disputes and covetousness of princes.  One day they will sit down in the same councils and see their kinship more clearly than their enmity.

Develop safe and speedy transport

There will come a time when great machines will carry people together from city to city so that the need will no longer exist for each individual to have their own horse.

Hold humanity sacred

There must come a time when all the powers in the world make themselves subject to a vision of what is true and just, a declaration of the rights of human beings.

*The idealistic ferment of the early French Revolution threw up many far-sighted ideas considered wild at the time.  The articulation of these particular wild ideas is, however, our own.

Everywhere, 2002

Why should we hold back our dream?  Just a few years ago many would have said it was impossible for us to challenge the onward march of corporate power in any meaningful way.  Now we are being told to be modest in our aspirations, that we are impatient and unrealistic.  But we refuse to take only one step at a time—we are running towards the sun.  Our demands may never be met, but the fire of our impatience is unending: we cannot live at ease in a world where these things are not possible.

End slavery worldwide

In all its modern forms, from forced labour to debt bondage.  Shame attaches itself to the word – while somehow the iniquities of the practice are appeased.

Set up a world parliament

Increase the accountability of international decision-making by establishing a directly elected world parliament.

Guarantee women’s equality

Afghani women have been in this particular front line but the struggle is far from over, even in the West.

End Imperial domination

The world is out of joint – and the current ‘new world order’ is unsustainable.  US military and economic power is part of the problem, not the solution.  The world must evolve institutions that do not allow such military and economic imbalances to arise, while guaranteeing democratic freedoms and rights of expression.

Deliver free education, healthcare and running water for all

The impossible demands of 1790 may seem quaint from the vantage point of those in the rich world with schools, doctors and sanitation to hand.  But they are still dismissed as impossible dreams for those who live in rural West Africa or the shanty towns of Latin America.

Return the land

There should be a maximum set for landholding, both so that those who need fertile land for subsistence have more access to it and so that more of the land can be held in common, as it was before enclosure in rich countries and colonialism in poor.

Rescue the poor

Set up a new economic and Social Security Council of the United Nations which has equal status of the Security Council and can coordinate as serious assault on poverty worldwide.

End the threat of mass destruction

All states with nuclear, biological or chemical weapons should be locked into binding schedules for the elimination of their arsenals and production capabilities.

Protect the earth, air and water

Instead of burning it up in the fire of our own development, our own overconsumption, our own feverish hurry to be somewhere else.

Hold humanity sacred

We have all kinds of declarations and statutes about human rights that were not even dreamed of in 1789.  We do not need to dream up new ones:  we will settle for the full, serious application of those that already exist.

SALAMAT SA NEW INTERNATIONALIST

By Fr Barry Cairns MSSC

Have you ever attended the solemn opening of a Catholic Church? It’s quite an impressive ceremony. We at St. Joseph’s Church in Katase, Japan had almost the same grandeur for the opening of our stable – that is, our Christmas crib. Building this Nativity scene was very much a community effort.

Unique design

St. Joseph’s is a rare church in Japan.  Built in 1938 in Katase, which is near Yokohama, it is constructed in the style of a Japanese temple with a curved roof.  On each side of the altar hang tokonoma (hand-painted scroll recesses common to Japanese homes) depicting the flight into Egypt and the Holy Family.  These tokonoma were painted in 1938 by Luke Hasegawa, a St. Joseph’s parishioner who later became famous in Japan.

Last year, the parish liturgy committee decided a new Christmas crib was needed. The old crib, built with crumpled paper that gave it the appearance of anemic rocks, had been tucked behind a church pillar.

Christmas Crib

We asked Mr. & Mrs. Tsujigaki, a Catholic husband-and-wife architectural team, to design a crib for us.  Both came to the church one night to choose a suitable place for the Nativity scene and took measurements.  The Tsujigakis had recently designed a tasteful Japanese-style wood chapel for Columban Father Ron Kelso in nearby Ninomiya.

Mr. Tsujigaki told me: “We have designed quite a few churches and rectories, but this is the first time we’ve been asked to design a stable!”

The Work Begins

After a week of planning, the design was delivered.  It called for a triangular design to fit into the corner of the church vestibule.  The stable was to be 2 ½ meters wide and 1 ½ meters tall – quite an impressive structure.  I asked Columban Father Sean Corr to explain how an architect’s plan shows the depth of the third dimension.  He drew a small sketch of the crib to concretize it for me.  That night I set out to make a 1:5 scale model of the crib.  It all came together at 11:30 pm.  I yelled, “St. Joseph! You’ve helped me out!”

Better Style

I then asked Filipino Columban Father Larry Pangan, my friend and a skilled wood artisan, to help me with the construction.  As the Japanese say of Fr. Larry, using their interesting idiom:  He so outshines a professional that he leaves him barefooted!

I have a carpenter’s workshop in our rectory where we worked for the next three days. I came to know the owner of the local lumberyard very well. He supplied the natural unplanned logs for our stable’s uprights and crossbeams and handled our various requests. This carpenter uses the old Japanese pre-metric measurements of shaku and sun, which are close in length to feet and inches. Fr. Larry made the frame so each beam fit into slots; no nails were used.

Finish the business

Fr. Larry was working on the frame during his last night in Katase.  That same night, I was teaching my catechumenate class for men.  After class, I took the group to see the progress on the crib and introduced them to Fr. Larry.  He told them of his plan to return to Tokyo, which meant, unfortunately, he would have to leave the crib unfinished.  One of my students, Mr. Takuhide Maruki, spoke up, “If you show me what you are planning, I would like to finish it.”

Prayer power

Fr. Larry answered with an inspired reply, “You can continue in one condition: You must pray as you are building it.  Pray that Jesus will be born in your heart.”  Mr. Maruki is a non-Christian who was only halfway through his instructional course.  I suspected that Mr. Maruki would delay baptism until old age because his father and family were strong Buddhists.

By Francis B. Higdon MM

I met the young dad, about 22 years old, and his son, about four, around Christmas time while working in the Yata-Benecito river system in the Amazon watershed of Bolivia some years ago.  Since the mayor of the closest town had sent toys for the children, I used to occasion to make conversation with the little one.

“Now what did Papa Noel bring you for Christmas,” I asked. The boy looked up at me and then, hugging the multi-patched pant leg of his dad, put his finger in his mouth and glared at the ground. The father, seeing my sadness at having embarrassed his little one, spoke up: “You know what the mayor tried to give my son? A gun! A little old plastic pistol! Can you imagine giving a son a pistol for a toy? I never want my child to think of a gun as a toy. Later it would be all right with him to shoot somebody just for fun. I threw that thing in the river as soon as he came home with it.”

Cowboy priest

I immediately thought of myself as a five-year-old growing up in Kentucky.  I always wanted to be a priest, but a cowboy priest.  At that age I strutted around with my toy pistols, imitating Gene Autry and Roy Rogers.  I loved western movies.  We would think nothing of somebody getting thrown off his horse and rolling over into the rocks or bushes, or being trampled under a herd of horses or cattle – especially if they were “injuns”.  We often played cowboys and Indians in the woods behind the fields of our farm.  Little did I realize how my mind was being conditioned for violence.

Guns for national security

The wisdom of the young, barefoot, illiterate dad – not wanting his son to think of a gun as a toy – gave me pause.  I thought of all the military hardware we in America need just to feel safe.  I thought of all the arms we export in the name of national security to poor countries like Bolivia.  Is it any wonder, I thought, that our young people try to solve their little problems with guns and violence if that is the way we grown-ups solve ours?

The mayor’s gift to the backwoods Bolivian boy is a metaphor for our arms aid to Latin America governments. Instead of ensuring national security, that aid leads to national insecurity or, worse, violence and terror against ordinary citizens. I saw that time and again in my many years as a missioner in Bolivia.

Dreadful consequences

Now back in the United States working as a Maryknoll developer in Philadelphia, I see the same consequences from the proliferation of arms in our society.  The U.S. has a higher rate of homicides, most of them committed with guns, than any other country in the world.  Guns are within easy reach of young people and they are not hesitant to use them.  Some have killed for a pair of sneakers.

Everything that is money

I have seen that the drive for “security” is really the drive for money to satisfy the consumer god we have created.  Little kids are the ones who hawk the drugs in the streets.  They are also the ones who tramp the coca leaves in the Bolivian jungle.  They are after the same thing: money.  Some need the money to buy the food, clothing, shelter and health care necessary to lead a decent human life, but many more need it to acquire those things they do not really need.

In the meantime, America continues to idolize the gun. More than 20 states have passed laws authorizing citizens to carry concealed weapons. The weapon of choice is a handgun. We are a population that is armed and dangerous – and more insecure than ever.

We do not have the answers to every question – but the very asking of the question is the beginning of the answer. So why don’t you send us your questions and let us together find the answers to our questions.

SIMBANG GABI

There are priests that are gradually doing away with the tradition of Dawn Mass every December by celebrating it in the evening. Is this okay for the Church?

There are occasions when the priest has too many Masses to say and in more than one church so he is forced to put the Dawn Mass in the evening. There are also well-off suburban churches who go for the easier option and persuade the priests to change even though there is no real necessity. I think this is a pity because there is a bit of magic and memory in the sacrifice of the Dawn Mass and that traditional snack with old friends as the sun comes up. Long may it survive. But then the only way it will is if you and your friends make your voice heard at the Convento. After all you are the Church.

BUKAS LALAW

Bukas Lalaw is a popular belief of Filipinos that after someone has died, his/her spirit has 40 more days to stay here on earth and after that goes to heaven or to hell. We even prepare a sort of party and a special Mass for this. Is this necessary or after the burial can we just go ahead with our lives without anymore having this Bukas Lalaw?

Not only in the Philippines but in Ireland and other countries there is a custom of having a Mass and ‘goodbye’ get-together more or less after a month. Basically this is a sort of closure on the official period of grief. A sign that life has to go on. I guess most cultures and religions have something similar and that is very necessary as a part of the ending of our period of intense grieving. I suspect that rationale about the spirit being around for so many days was added after. We need closure and to engage the problems of life again, specially if death has been very traumatic.

FIRST HOLY COMMUNION

Is it okay for me to receive Communion every Mass without receiving the 1st Holy Communion? If not what should I do?

The normal way for a young person is to receive Communion after careful preparation. If this takes place in a class setting with much ceremony, known as First Communion, well and good. But when an older person receives Communion for the first time then naturally there is no group ceremony. It is a quieter affair though maybe much deeper. In this case the only requirement is that there will be proper preparation. I am sometimes afraid that we pull people into Communion without this preparation, especially in cases where there is a marriage revalidation. The result could be that they would never really appreciate its tremendous meaning.

NO FEE, NO MASS

In our parish, there was this priest that did not give a funeral Mass because the family could not afford to pay the funeral Mass fee. Did he have the right to do this? Can the family of the dead file a case in court against him?

I don’ think that refusing a funeral is a legal offence and so it would be outside the court system. But it is a serious blow to Christian values and ultimately to the Christian community and frankly the community should approach that priest and discuss the matter and if necessary have a word with the Bishop. Of course these things might have a lot more behind them than comes out in the first hearing. But the Gospel says: Freely have you received, freely give. In my parish in the mountains years ago the people were very poor and I made it quite clear that there would never be a charge for funerals; that meant a few of the well-off missing out, but it also meant that many of the poor who had never asked for a blessing on their dead (but brought them straight to the cemetery), now did bring them to the Church or to my convento.

SPOTLIGHT FOR SANTA CLAUS

I think Santa Claus is stealing the spotlight away from Jesus Christ, the true reason why we’re celebrating Christmas. Is Santa Claus acceptable to the Catholic Church?

You are referring to the creeping commercialism coming into the celebration of Christmas here in the Philippines. Basically religious traditions are being latched on to by financial interests and they are manipulating them to their own profit. But Santa Claus is of course St. Nicholas whose feast day in the Philippines is on December 10 and so naturally he is acceptable to the Church. The power and control of enormous international commercial interests is growing all the time and Christians need to try to hold on to their spiritual events and not let them be highjacked by others. How does your group plan to celebrate the birth of Christ this year?

PURGATORY: TRUTH OR MYTH

Purgatory is to be found in the scriptures, and in tradition, and it makes common sense.

Scriptures: See second Maccabees 12:46 where Judas Maccabees offers prayers for the dead that they might deliver from their sins.

Tradition: From the beginning the Church has honored the dead and offered prayers for them, especially the Eucharist, so that thus purified they may enter the beatific vision of God. (Catechism of Catholic Church # 1032)

Common sense would tell us that no one would want to enter God’s presence with unrepented sin in one’s heart even though these sins were not great enough to be a complete denial of God or refusal of His love. I think we will all be very happy to enter a place of purification before entering His presence. This in my opinion would surely be a moment, an instance, a state of joyful anticipation though like all purification not without pain. It is often felt that some people offer up their feelings in this life and achieve some purification even here.

By Sr. Mary Angela Battung RGS

Sr Angela Battung has been a missionary in Canada for many years now.  She’s had the chance to work in different ministries and here below she shares with us special thoughts as she looks forward to another Christmas in Canada.

I took a long walk one afternoon to enjoy the glorious Fall day, soaking in the warmth of the sun, conscious that pretty soon the cold would be forcing me to stay indoors more often. I met my Korean friend, Rita, and a Polish lady who goes with her regularly to feed the geese and ducks in the park. I joined them as they fed their feathered friends. After a while I retreated to a beach nearby to wait while they made their rounds around the huge lake.

Autumn show

I decided to take in the beautiful scenery: children running around under blazing  trees and many people enjoying  their walk.  As I quietly sat on a bench alone, the leaves – golden, fiery red, crimson or pale yellow – were praising God in their brilliant intensity while putting on a show for me.  They showed their various ways of letting go.  Some leaves went alone, sinking smoothly into the pile waiting below.  Some went by twos or threes, stumbling and spilling over each other.  There were a few who went down courageously, nose-diving like bomber planes while some twirled around like disciplined ballet dancers.  Thousands of them, now fallen, carpeted the ground, compliant and subdued as people walked upon them.

Pleasure in routine

The noise of the geese and the excited chatter of my friends forced me to leave my solitary reflection and rejoin them.  They were carrying a very lively and intimate conversation that only so many hours, days and months or years of doing this ritual together have made possible.  As I became once more a part of the “feeding ceremony”, I thought of commitment and routine.  To the two ladies this was not routine, it was their commitment that made their daily trips to the park meaningful and pleasurable.

Rise and fall

As I write this article, I am looking forward to another Christmas in Canada.  During my first Christmas here as a missionary, I felt so lost, alone and confused.  My mission seemed so empty; my ministries were like the falling leaves, plunging into a pile that was swept away quickly into oblivion.  Now, on this cold November afternoon, I find that time has made my commitment to zeal possible.  Commitment, according to Joan Chittister, it simply:  The courage to face the rising sun with the promise to be there at its setting.

Low times

My days have not been simply a rising of the sun to its setting. There have been times when the dark nights seemed so long and the sky starless; when the sun seemed to be absent or reluctant to come out at dawn.  I’ve seen life in the raw.  I’ve ministered to persons wounded by sins and its consequences.  I’ve witnessed marriages breaking up, families disintegrating, child custody battles, the awful consequences of abortion.  I’ve listened to stories of exploitation, harassment, physical and sexual abuse, child abuse, racial conflicts.  These were just one of the many times when I was confronted with a great cry for God’s tender compassion and healing forgiveness.  These were times of anger, confusion and despair.

Promise of commitment

These were the times when I asked myself many questions.  And even up till now I still don’t have any answers to some of them.  I am sure only of one thing though:  to commit myself to God in zeal.  The zeal not just to do things but to be there for the broken people whose lives are so shattered, those people who need someone to be with them as they pick up the pieces of their lives while waiting for Jesus, the Good Shepherd and His healing and compassionate love, to make them whole again.

I pray that I may be gifted with the grace to remain committed to what is required of me to do now and, like the autumn leaves, the ability to let go and be open to where I shall be led.