How Are We of Service?

Summer Solstice 2023: How Are We of Service?

To be of lasting value, to anyone, service must transcend mere metrics… and even mere “service.” In its best form, a quality service experience is a creative form of pilgrimage— transformative for all involved.

With summer and the formal declaration of the pandemic’s end, comes a time of great excitement for our mission. EAB can once again offer our unique and life-changing service programs to U.S. schools and parishes, and celebrate the building of homes, relationships across borders, solidarity, and hope that grow forth from them.

            Each year, almost without fail, as I present the program to potential students, parents, teachers, and ministers, I’ll be asked, “So, what percentage of this program is service?” This often comes from well-meaning adults or students hoping for reassurance that, along with the time spent studying Dominican history and culture, and living with a rural Dominican family, the participants will do something, be productive, make an “impact.”

            When I’m feeling a bit mischievous, I’ll pause, and answer with three little stories: of Francisco’s tears, an unfriendly friend, and the secret nickname of EAB.

* * *

Once upon a time, Francisco and Clarita lived in the small coffee-growing community of Franco Bidó. (I’m using pseudonyms in this story.) And from the very first year— all the way back to 1999, and even 1997 if I count the time apprenticed to my mentor, Pablo Burson, as part of our work with a U.S. Jesuit university— their family hosted students and teachers in our service-immersion program.

            Francisco and Clarita lived a hard life, by any measure. Coffee farmers who scraped whatever living they could out of the red-clay soil, raising many children together with little formal education but deep faith, grateful for the small-sweet blessings of rain and sun, family and community, and grace itself, that helped them get through each day, sometimes each hour. Not rich, as many folks in their community say, in the things of this world, but rich in what matters to God.

            Francisco wore a mustache, fairly thick, and his method of talking suggested a cleft palate, mild enough to speak well, but noticeable just the same. I couldn’t be certain, and I never asked (he has now departed us, God rest his soul). His adult daughter has lived with a more obvious cleft, however, and unlike Francisco, was unable to articulate words intelligible to the average listener.

            He was not the most gregarious of types, but he could get talking, and over the years, as I learned more and more of his story, my admiration grew. He’d come to this community, where his wife hailed from, with little beyond his boots, and managed to scrape out a living farming coffee, raising pigs, and planting whatever root vegetables the red-clay soil could support, on whatever scrap of it he could find work on, or eventually, acquire.

            Like many Dominicans I know, Francisco loved to be hospitable, and to compartir— literally, to share, but often in the sense of being relational, companionable, “hanging out,” as contemporary English-speakers might say. Clarita also loved welcoming guests, but she was more reserved, and their daughter, who lived with them, was painfully shy. In various indirect ways over time, Francisco intimated that, in a culture that values conversation so highly, his daughter’s plight caused her tremendous pain; he and Clarita did not feel ashamed of her, but she certainly did. Shame has lacerated the Dominican people widely and deeply, especially the poorest, thanks in no small part to centuries of old-school, colonial-grade Catholicism, and Francisco’s daughter, as a poor campesina with no marriage prospects, was an open wound.

            In our service program, students stay with a family like Francisco’s, less to “do service” in the traditional, transactional sense of giving something to someone in need, but to practice solidarity— to share life, as authentically as they can. They also get hands-on involved with something concrete, often a home or latrine construction, to meet the basic need of families in the community. (To be fair, I consider this balance essential, part of the justification for the group’s presence and the time community members devote to them.) As I’ve written before, this works best when we set aside a charity-based notion of service, defined solely by quantifiable measures—what is given to or done for the unempowered by the empowered— and embrace a holistic concept of service that dares to consider both parties involved as vulnerable, as needing to receive generosity… and offer it too.

            The results of this kind of service are hard to quantify, but easy to spot; hard to explain, but easy to feel, for all involved.

            At the end of each home stay experience I’m privy to a tender, soulful moment that genuinely moves me, no matter how often I witness it. Just past dawn on the day of departure I make the rounds in the big flatbed truck, stopping at each home along the one winding dirt road that stretches the length of the community, and load up the students. Like life itself in the community, it goes slowly; it invites you to pay close attention, and takes time to do it well. Tears are flowing, after all— and from almost no one more so than Francisco.

            I’d been told that Francisco cried easily. And I admired that, believing tears are a gift of the Spirit, and knowing it takes courage for a man to weep publicly, especially in a culture so tightly clutched by machismo.

            But I thought that in time, after receiving a few groups each year for more than a decade before he died, his tears would fade. I thought that some students would not touch his heart, not because of any malice, but because of habituation. I thought that at some point he’d follow through on what he always said to me in these moments, his hand to his heart— “it’s too much for me, Juan, we can’t take in anyone else” and decline serving as a host family the next time a volunteer group came around.

            But time after time, year after year, when I’d confer with community leader Felicia at the start of a home stay, she’d say, Francisco y Clarita quieren gente, they want people, despite the pain. They want the company, they want the love.

            Ten years into our work in this community, after the building of almost ten complete homes, and dozens of major home repairs as well as new latrine constructions, Francisco and Clarita finally got their turn, and were beneficiaries of a new home project. They stayed patient in their waiting, and stayed loyal in their commitment to host, within this new house once it was complete. Why?

            Francisco’s tears failed to surprise me after the first few occasions. Especially since by and large the students who stayed with his family were exceptional, and engaged well, even if they spoke limited Spanish. But I remember one time he did surprise me, and taught me a lesson.

            The student on that occasion was, let’s just say, not the best suited for this experience. His application looked good on paper, and he held his own in our interview process, but once in-country he surprised us leaders with insensitive comments or self-centered actions that in this situation stood out, even if they might not in ordinary teenage life. Most of this behavior occurred in our group dynamic, times set apart from the community itself. I assumed that the home stay had at least gone decently well, since I heard no complaints from him nor Francisco and Clarita.

            But I didn’t expect the tears. From Francisco, and most shockingly, from the student. Something mystical had clearly happened— the Spirit had clearly moved— and I felt humbled, as well as grateful.

            Helplessly curious, I asked Francisco why he was crying, since I frankly thought the student might have been difficult to host.

            Nos tratan como gente, he said, y eso nos ayuda mucho. You treat us like humans. And that helps us so much. It’s worth a lot, even more than a house.

            So how much of this experience is service? One hundred percent.

* * *

Once upon a time, a U.S. college professor had a terrific idea: he would build a multi-use facility to help a historically oppressed community in the Dominican Republic. It would have a first-aid clinic, a place to store medicines, and an examination room for a visiting doctor or nurse to see residents who could not afford to go anywhere else; it would have a library, a reading room, and a computer lab so residents of all ages could learn to read, improve their school work, and become technologically fluent; and it would be a meeting place, a safe space, a place to hold workshops on human rights, preventive health, political organizing, and empower the community members— almost all of them Haitian immigrants, or descendents of immigrants and thus subject to the same systemic discrimination— to break the cycle of poverty and dependence to which Dominican society had seemingly condemned them.

            An exciting idea, a shining vision. Everyone in the community got excited.

            The trouble was, the professor, for all his intelligence and scholarship, hadn’t understood whom the project was really for, whose it actually was, or should be. He hadn’t learned how to treat these marginalized peoples as real human beings, rather than means to the fulfillment of his personal and professional goals. And so everyone paid the price.

            The planning went forward, but not collaboratively; community leaders kept politely insisting they needed to be more involved, but were increasingly shut out. The professor wrote beautiful grant proposals to foundations, which in turn promised large sums of money. He sent eager graduate students to the community to conduct research, for their dissertations, his on-going scholarship, and the bolstering of this vision. And his demands for time— to help with errands, menial labor, and interview after census after survey— from these already overburdened residents were justified by, and leveraged with, the promise of this vision coming to fruition. We can make this happen, was the promise again and again.

            But that “we” did not include them, the residents learned. Engineers were brought in, then builders, all from outside the community, even though community members had the know-how and experience to construct a building of this sort. The residents were expected to hold back until given direction, which usually meant doing the grunt work, unpaid, to save costs, even though the builders and engineers were paid. The professor asked people to trust him. After all, he said, “I’m the one who knows.”

            He did indeed know a lot, but not in this situation, unfortunately, and rather than copping to that, he held the reigns even more tightly.

            Construction finally started. The foundation was dug and poured. The walls started to go up one line of cinder-block bricks at a time, and rebar could be seen sprouting from them to the eventual height of the roof. Despite their misgivings, it was hard for residents not to feel excited. This was a project beyond any attempted in their community before, one that could have profound immediate and long-term benefits, and thus was worth granting some benefit of the doubt, even a lot.

            Then, the pause. Construction is by nature sporadic, often going in spurts, or inchworm style, depending on the level of human and material muscle available. A few feet above ground level, the walls stopped, and everyone waited. The next round of funding is on the way, the professor promised. Be patient, we’ll continue.

            It took a while, several months or more, but his word was good. The walls climbed upward some more, steadily if slowly, until the next pause.

            Eventually, after almost two years, the walls were ready for the concrete tie beam. Be patient, we’ll continue, the professor promised.

            Residents were anxious: the building needed to be roofed and then the floor poured before too long, or the earth inside the walls would potentially settle in strange ways, subject to direct tropical rain from above, and affect the building’s eventual integrity. Not an irresolvable problem, but still a problem they wanted to avoid, because it would delay the project’s completion, and the residents’ benefit from it, even longer.

            Sure, you might say, like the professor did, that if you’ve lived your whole life deprived, a little longer to wait for some help won’t kill you. But actually, it might, depending on what you’re suffering with, frankly, and at some point, when you start to see hope rising up before you in very concrete form, you don’t want to wait one second more to grab it, because you’re hungry, damn it, and you’re just human, after all.

            The questions swirled through the community, practically stirring up dust in the dirt lanes between homes: When would the work start again? What was the delay about this time— money? Or did the bricklayers quit, because they don’t want to be associated with Haitians? Or did the government shut it down, since this project might make it look bad?

            Round and round suspicions swirled as the waiting endured, with no word from the professor, despite call after call to reach him. And like the lanes’ dust they seeped through the walls of the tin and wood dwellings, into the very bodies of residents, becoming rumors, then stories, driving wedges between neighbors. So-and-so knows what’s going on, he just won’t tell us. No, so-and-so took the money from the professor and kept it for himself. No, I heard that…

            Eventually, a community leader’s phone rang.

            The professor was unsure exactly when they would move forward, only that they would. Just be patient, we’ll continue.

            More waiting, without any word. Call after call from community members went unreturned, again. Weeds sprung up inside the project’s walls; goats and dogs wandered in through the empty door frames and left droppings behind; migrants squatted there for days or even weeks at a time.

            Finally, the professor presented himself, in person. He sat in the home of a community leader and explained what was coming next, and even very soon: the next round of funding that would jump-start the project and see it through to completion. But it could not be until his next break from teaching, at the earliest, because he himself needed to be there to supervise.

            The community leader suggested that, with his decades of experience organizing and managing projects, he could very ably assist in leading this endeavor. After all, he lived there, he knew every person in the community and spoke both Spanish and Kreyol natively, and he knew how to get things done in the face of formidable odds.

            No, that would not be possible, the professor said.

            They talked back and forth, the community leader trying to convince the professor that careful records would be kept, that the project would keep moving forward steadily, and that frankly, residents needed the help from a project like this now— they did not want to wait.

            Finally, the professor lost his cool, threw down the gauntlet. “No! I am the one who knows!”

            The building sat. The goats and dogs wandered in and out, and the weeds grew, until the building eventually resembled the autocrat’s mansion in García Márquez’s novel The Autumn of the Patriarch: abandoned, ghost-filled, moss-spackled, draped in shadows and heavy blankets of tropical vines. And still it sits.

            And the professor— he also ghosted, as my son and his friends would say. No response, no word at all, since that time, despite phone calls, letters, emails requesting he release the project, or at least, have a conversation.                       

            And in some ways, he might not be faulted. This is the well-worn path of the top-down development model, in which you appear to be of service, to anyone looking from afar or without an eye to see otherwise. You appear to be working for peace and justice, really “doing service,” but actually you are very carefully, assiduously, ferociously preserving the status quo, even making it far worse. If you haven’t build relationships, don’t try to build a house, or anything else. It will fall down before long, if it even gets done at all.

            So, what percentage of this “community service” endeavor was service? Zero.

* * *

Once upon a time, a group of college student volunteers visited a humble Dominican coffee-growing community during the month of May. The rains, which had already been going steady in those mountains since the fall, came down and down, turning dirt to mud, and mud to sludge, triggering a few minor landslides, and making the drive— or more realistically, the walk— just about anywhere in that unpaved terrain pure treachery, or pure adventure… depending on your perspective.

            We spent a week in that community, and by the third day every single piece of clothing I had was either soaked-through or trying (but failing) to dry out. Not surprisingly, we did no construction work that week, but we hadn’t planned on it anyway, given the circumstances. But more surprising, at least to these students, was our inability to bathe (for the students, the water was too cold, but to the families it was too expensive to heat up the on their small propane gas stoves), and just how much work it took to get clean water to drink. In both cases, the only water you could start with was what fell straight from the sky onto families’ roofs. The local aqueduct (a very generous term, considering that it’s nothing more than a series of PVC tubes snaking through the community, held together with ingenuity, a helluva lot of twine cord, and prayers) sprang leaks or flat-out busted over and over again, delivering either muddy water or no water at all.

            The students were humbled. This was not the bucolic, “back to the simple life” experience many of them had imagined; this was an intimate encounter with the ugly face of poverty: children of God who are literally filthy, hungry, and thirsty for months on end, due to individual poverty, yes, but even more so due to systemic injustices that keep their roads unpaved, their aqueduct leaky, their homes un-electrified, and their coffee from fetching a fair price, which if it did, might help them resolve at least some of their other problems, with their own resources.

            But the students, who by and large had come to this experience for the right reasons, were undeterred. When we walked to a family’s home or coffee field, and our sneakers or boots would get caked inches thick with the red-clay mud, they’d laugh at each other and themselves slipping or even falling splat on the ground. When we arrived at a home, we’d all pry our feet out of those mud-bricks, and if the family had a hose or a bucket of rainwater, we’d take turns washing each others’ shoes, and even feet. “Hey, it’s like the Last Supper,” one student said. “The washing of the feet!”

            Nothing seemed to go according to plan that week. We were there to accompany the community during los Patronales, a traditional nine-day celebration of the feast day of the patron saint of the local church or chapel. I’ve always found it a beautiful tradition in the D.R., a way for faith communities to create sacred space that is truly their own, independent of the major holidays and Catholic feast days celebrated nationwide or even globally. The very fact that it extends over nine days reveals both its importance, and the intentionality which the faithful lend to it; you really can’t miss it, the way you might a “one and done” version of a feast day, unless you try. Granted, in some communities, the patronales have become commercialized affairs, like Christmas, during which the country’s major alcohol vendors fall over themselves to sponsor big fiestas with live music, enormous speakers, and even larger banners encouraging folks to imbibe their rum, whisky, or beer, supposedly as a way to honor their saint. But for a community as small, poor, and remote as the one we found ourselves in, that was never part of the plan; instead, a Celebration of the Word would be held daily, with Marian devotions optional, and a Mass— yes, with an actual priest coming up from the city— offered on the ninth day. That was the plan, at least. Sadly, the priest chickened out, too afraid to drive his truck in the mud, and too appalled at the thought of walking several kilometers from where the paved road ended in the nearest pueblo, just to offer Mass in this tiny chapel which couldn’t fill his collection plate in return. And the Celebrations of the Word were sparsely attended because of the weather: many elderly were afraid to suffer a bad fall living so far from adequate healthcare, some children were still trying to shake off the cold or flu that seemed to keep on making the rounds, and more than a few adults were either too worried to leave these same grandparents or kids at home, or too frantically working their coffee harvest to make the time.

            And so, de facto, our group’s meals became the celebrations.

            A little context: each service group works within a budget, which includes an allowance for food during the home stay. It won’t buy you steak and shrimp, but it will feed that student and their host family comfortably for those few days, and will include some meat (which for Dominicans in this situation is a rare luxury), in addition to rice, beans, vegetables, and some other staples. With the thrift and ingenuity that are essential to surviving life in these mountains, families can turn these staples into veritable feasts, loaves-and-fishes-style, and create opportunities for celebration which nourish body and soul.

            The budget is calculated months ahead of time, before we finalize the itinerary or have some idea about the weather. And it’s assumed that, whatever happens, students will be hungry, since whether through construction or walking the mountains, they’ll be getting spent.

            Well again, things didn’t exactly happen according to plan. We did walk a lot, but not as much as usual. So, from the very first mid-day meal (the main meal in the D.R., rather than supper) the food on hand was far more than students needed. The women who volunteer to cook for the group are always invited to partake as well, and to take home leftovers. But even then, there was food left over, and with no electricity in the community, there was no way to keep it fresh very long. So some children were invited. These kids loved the food, and the chance to hang out with US college students, so they then invited their friends, who then invited siblings, parents, uncles… you get the picture.

            The more people came, the longer the meals would extend. Frankly, we weren’t in any rush, in part because of the rain, in part because the meals were fun. Kids and students would improvise games with jacks, cards, bottle caps, songs— whatever was on hand and whatever they could think of. Adults rarely joined in, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t enjoy the heck out of watching it all happen. Smiles were everywhere, despite the rains’ persistence.

            Finally, one student, laughing, pointed out the obvious. “It’s like, all we do on this program is eat!”

            And another: “If they’d told us this at school, a hundred people would’ve signed up!”

            And yet another. “Oh, I get it! EAB doesn’t really stand for ‘Education Across Borders.’ It’s ‘Eating Across Borders!’”

            A joke, of course, but I’m proud of it nevertheless. Because it means that, through all those activities that didn’t feel like activities— walking the roads and fields, accepting the hospitality of a cafecito in almost every home, praying with families caught in excruciating dilemmas, participating in the church celebrations, playing made-up games with children, and always always trying to listen with the ears of the heart as folks told their stories— through it all, bodies were being engaged, minds were being opened, hearts were being touched. Life was being shared, authentically.

            Which means: service was being offered, and received, mutually. One hundred percent.

* * *

How we define “service” tells us what value it can have. In purely quantifiable, metrical terms, its benefits will be tangible, but risk being narrow and short-lived, confined most often to the receiver, and to the present or a short-term future. In purely esoteric, metaphysical terms, its benefits will seem broader and longer lasting, but risk vaporizing like wispy clouds on a warming afternoon, leaving us with nothing. When we define it holistically— to involve body, mind, and spirit; present, past, and future; ourselves, our Neighbors, and the Holy Mystery— the effects can be mutually and generationally transformative.

            To do that, you’ve got to embrace paradox. You’ve got to consider service expansively, generously, while at the same time requiring it to meet you at the table. It’s got to meet some real need, defined by those who live the problem, and involve your physical body; it can’t be “make-work” fluff, a series of clicks, or something wholly concocted in a climate-controlled board room. It’s got to demand some study, analysis, and reflection on the roots of the problem, as well as its broader implications, especially in historical and cultural context; you can’t pretend that any of us live in a vacuum. And it’s got to invite you into some experience of mystery, elements you can’t control, whether you understand that as spirituality, prayer, or simply the mystery of working collaboratively with other human beings.  

            It’s got to involve all of these. Take any dimension away, and service starts getting thin, and ultimately will collapse into self-congratulatory achievement, self-indulgent click-advocacy, or sanctimonious and self-protecting “thoughts and prayers” support. But holding them all together, engaging and serving body, mind, and spirit, you can change the world.

            I say this because this is what I see Jesus doing in the Gospels. This is the way we’re asked to follow.

            He often starts with the body, knowing that our narrow minds are predisposed to prejudice, and our wounded hearts clutched in fear. His healing miracles are dramatic, waking us up, cutting through all dogma and explanation, making it undeniably real.

            Confronted with this dramatic new reality, we’re less likely to ignore, diminish, or deny the teachings, which are deceptively simple but often demand our full effort, and our surrender, and often involve failing and trying again.

            Because of that challenge, we’re keenly aware that we need help, and more than that, we need community, in some form— accompaniment, both mystical and tangible, that helps us carry the Cross. We see Jesus model this when he goes off alone to pray, to beseech and listen to the Spirit by himself. And we see this when he lives in community with the disciples, which of course includes sharing many meals.

            In its best form, a quality service experience is transformative, for all involved, and thus a creative form of pilgrimage. Even if it’s not a traditional walking journey, from sacred point A to sacred point B; even if it includes elements (like construction) that don’t feel quite so ‘devotional’; it is still an inner journey, and everything within it, every step along the way, can be a form of prayer, if practiced with intention, or at least the desire for that intention.

            A good pilgrimage requires good preparation, since it will involve sacrifice, even some suffering, beyond the comfort zone of daily life. It will shake us up, break up the hardened soil of our minds and/or hearts to plant seeds of transformation. We may even experience some or much of that transformation right then and there, while some will come later. And it will bestow some boon, some good gift or gifts, real treasure for the longer journey of life itself beyond this pilgrimage time.

            There must be a gift, some gold that truly nourishes you, that you can also share with others. If not, you’ve not engaged in that true, deep service that lasts and transforms. If you’ve only been on a “trip” that you can now brag about on social media or your resume, if you’ve only engaged part of your whole self, if you don’t emerge with some sacred wounds— like deeper humility and compassion— then that “service” is only something that will, before too long, wither and die.

            That’s why the brilliant professor was never “doing service” with his impressive project.

            That’s why that group of mud-soaked, over-eating students was engaged in full service.

            That’s why Francisco, Clarita, and their adult daughter were moved to tears, time after time, even by the visits of students who could barely cobble a sentence together. I don’t dare to say I know precisely what happened for them on a soul level, I only know what I saw, with my own eyes: genuine healing, more subtle than a dramatic healing from Jesus, but real nevertheless. Genuine embrace, of and by folks who’d been on the short end of the stick, and lived steeped in the shame of that, their whole lives. Genuine accompaniment, and a genuine desire for more, because of the sacred gifts given and received.

            This is how we are of service, how we walk the way together.

Long Way to Go

Still living on alert, still victims of scapegoating, still fighting for true Libertad

Residents of Batey Libertad, in the Dominican Republic, were victims of an intense series of immigration raids during this Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany seasons. I began to know and walk with the people of this community in 1997, and count many of them as family, so the news— coming over and over again during a time in which I knew folks needed to experience some joy, given all they’ve been through— felt like a gut punch, even thousands of miles away. In addition to worrying for the safety of tiny children, frail elderly, and young students indiscriminately arrested, abused, and deported, I felt despondent, thinking, “It’s still happening– all these years later. What has changed?”

     I first witnessed a raid on the night of October 3, 1998. I’ll never forget it. To honor this on-going struggle, I’ve reprinted my account below, written at the invitation of community leaders, and later published electronically in collaboration with a Dominican NGO, One Respe (now a partner of my organization, Education Across Borders).

In the months and years to come, there were more raids, and I wrote more stories; it was one way I knew how to respond in the early years before we formed EAB. I created an online publication, Crossing, to bring a series of these stories to One Respe’s English-language supporters in North America and Europe.

Of course, for those who know Dominican history, the raids have been around for generations, ever since the massacre cooked up by dictator Rafael Trujillo along the Dajabon River (Rio Masacre) in 1937. And they continue today, not just in Batey Libertad, but in rural and urban communities wherever Haitian immigrants— or even descendants of those immigrants, even beyond first generation— try to make a life. Merely “looking Haitian” is still, when it comes right down to it, a crime in the D.R. As is, unfortunately, “looking like” you’re the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time, still a defacto crime just about anywhere in the world, as the death of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and recently Tyre Nichols— and so many more within and beyond the U.S.— tragically demonstrate. Sadly— infuriatingly— arrests in Batey Libertad were made this time as they always have been: based on this kind of racial profiling, indiscriminate of legal status and paperwork. In some cases, even residents putting their legal documents up in the soldiers’ faces were met with “Doesn’t matter. To me, you’re Haitian, and you’re going back where you belong.”

     Telling the story, with honesty, humility, courage, and respect for all involved– this is still my calling, and still a just response. But what has changed?

    In my life, and the lives of folks in Batey Libertad, one thing that’s now different is that we have EAB, a tiny but thriving organization, with great needs but with remarkably strong roots, a proven history, and a hopeful future. The work of keeping it afloat— especially through the pandemic— comes with much uncertainty, sacrifice, and heartache, for all of us, not just me. But we hold on because we need each others’ stories, and the hope that their weaving together creates. In our little way, we respond to flash-points such as this, as well as the longer, quieter oppression that always presses down, with truthful storytelling, practicing the works of mercy like feeding the hungry and sheltering the homeless, and educating youths to become powerful professionals.

Quite notably, of all the dozens of arrests and deportations made recently— including of Dominican citizens with current and complete paperwork— not one was of a college graduate, or even a current college student. The soldiers conducting the raids did what most cowards do: they sought to arrest, beat, or extort a bribe from the most vulnerable. At least in these young, educated Dominicans, we have been part of creating potent storytellers, truth-tellers, announcing to those who would abuse them that, empowered by their college educations, and secure within their cinder-block homes, they shall not be moved.

One more note: this column also hopes to serve as a humble tribute and note of gratitude to both Jonathan Coleman and Américo (Catuxo) Badillo Veiga, the two best journalists and teachers I’ve been blessed to know and call dear friends. The title is swiped from Jonathan’s book of the same name, a remarkable book about race in the U.S.; Crossing wouldn’t have been possible without Catuxo’s editing, and encouragement. I’m grateful to both for their mentoring, which keeps fanning my fire for writing, beyond their knowing.

CROSSING: Vol. 1, No. 1 November 30, 1998

Bateys (the word, in the language of the indigenous inhabitants of the island of Hispaniola, meant "ballfield") are small plots of land (some government-owned, some private) in low-lying rural areas, originally cut-out on or near sugar plantations to house seasonal cane-cutting workers brought in from Haiti and other parts of the Antilles. The bateys of old lacked running water, electricity, toilet and garbage services, and cooking facilities. The workers that inhabited them (Haitians, in their great majority), brought in by the Dominican government on three to six-month visas, were shipped back out of the country at the end of their term.

The batey of the current day wears a slightly different face. The locations are still rural, but they are not only surrounded by-and the residents are not only employed by-sugar cane; in some areas, especially in the Cibao region of the northwest, sugar has been replaced by rice, corn, and tobacco. Some bateys, thanks to resident ingenuity and the help of Dominican and international NGOs, now have electricity (though it is subject to daily blackouts, a national phenomenon), outhouses, and above-ground pipe systems that bring water from mountain areas every other day. Most batey residents, however, live without these services.

Furthermore, not all these residents are necessarily temporary-nor are they necessarily Haitian. Many cross into this country with neither documents nor family, looking for a means of income that their own country cannot provide. Often without money or knowledge of Spanish, they settle in bateys, seeking the solidarity of other Haitians. Once there, the men may find work as rural day laborers and attempt to save money to bring back to their family or relatives.

Raids or redadas against the Haitian population in bateyes, in urban communities and streets have become a regular occurrence in the lives of these immigrants. Numerous abuses and violations of human rights have been frequently denounced. But the government pays no heed. It refuses to recognize that such violations take place.

Living on Alert: Redadas in Batey Libertad

By John J. McLaughlin

They arrived nearly right at the hour they were expected. The visitors this Saturday night were regulars, to be sure, and as such everyone knew them, though few have ever said much to them, much less invited them into their homes.

A Guardia (army) patrol of seven members rolled down the main strip of Batey Libertad, near Esperanza, at 10:15 pm this Saturday, October 3, and dispatched itself into the community. When it arrived, I was seated in front of the house of my friend, whom I'll call Papito, talking with two of his sons and some other boys with whom I'd played soccer that afternoon.

It happened before I even had time to think. There was a single shout, and everyone-the boys on the bench with me, the men in talking outside Papito's colmado (small grocery store), and Papito's family itself-scattered, those without legal documents fleeing for the river or field areas, and those (like Papito's family) who have papers but "appear" to be Haitian scurrying to their homes to retrieve their papers and then to lock and bar the doors. In a couple of seconds I was by myself on the bench, from which point I could see the patrol's truck come to a quick halt.

I retreated to the entrance of Papito's colmado to watch what would happen. This evening, I decided that I would stay in plain view, so that I could see the soldiers and they me. I had been present during redadas (raids) in the past, but had not witnessed much. During one, in March of this year, I had been eating dinner inside Papito's house, talking with three undocumented rural day laborers. Minutes after they had finished telling me of their struggles in obtaining passports, the shout went through the batey (though I did not hear it), and they were gone, hiding themselves in the back room of Papito's house. Apparently some batey residents were put in the truck and deported.

Tonight, the community was ready-unlike the second Saturday in September, when, before the Guardia arrived (one of their first visits in what has now become a month-long campaign of terror) the street had been clogged with many of the batey's 1500 residents. Tonight, the street was nearly empty, just some folks passing from one place to another-no one sitting around makeshift tables as I'd seen a month ago, sharing rum and games of cards. Tonight, the batey was well-lit, by both street light and the nearly-full moon, but even so, I was nearly incredulous upon seeing the sly grin on the Lieutenant's face as he rather calmly but purposefully exited the truck, carrying a hammer-head in his hand like a snub-nosed pistol, and wearing a rather elegant plain wooden crucifix outside his military-green T-shirt. He called out, into the air, "Haitianos!" and then, as he disappeared from my sight, rapped sharply with the hammerhead upon the tin door of the house in front of Papito's.

The Lieutenant kept to form this evening. During the past four weeks, the people of the community report, he has brought his patrol through the batey six days a week, always after 10pm (with the exception of one Sunday when they arrived at 11:30am). As the first part of his routine (after he issues the battle cry), he passes by the house of a certain Haitian gentleman who has a passport but no visa, and demands of him a beer and/or a bottle of rum, which he will drink during the course of the redada. On occasion, it is said, he prefers to extract 50 pesos , as was the case this night. The Haitian man, without money, quickly came to Papito for a loan, which was provided.

According to Papito and other batey residents, this type of extortion is quite common. Members of this patrol will threaten to deport undocumented Haitians unless they are paid 50 or 100 pesos on the spot. Those who are without money get cuffed and put in the back of the truck. And this is when the soldiers are in a good mood.

Some nights, the soldiers are intent on deportation. Before they appeared on Saturday, I sat in Papito's house and talked with Malinda, a round-faced young woman of 19 whose dark, glossy skin was more convincing than her cedula (government issued ID), in the eyes of the patrol on Thursday night. As Malinda tells it, she was caught unprepared-and what preparations she had taken didn't help. At about 10 pm, she was in her room, the door closed but unlocked, getting ready to go to sleep. Though she wasn't fully clothed when the soldiers took her, she still had her cedula on her person, which she presented. But when she was placed in the truck with the 4 other legal Dominicans of "Haitian" appearance sequestered from other bateys, she learned that legality wasn't amounting to much that night. The others had presented their cedulas as well, but had been arrested regardless. The five of them were taken to the fortaleza (army garrison) in Mao, where they spent the night without access to toilets. Around 8:00 the next morning a colonel visited the cell, checked the arrestees' cedulas, and released them immediately. He offered, by way of explanation, that the soldiers of this patrol could not have been sure of the veracity of the cedulas, and thus were required to detain the "suspects" until the documents could be checked by a higher authority.

Some nights, they are intent on humiliation. I talked with a 46 year-old man named Johnny, a bracero who's been living in Batey Libertad on and off for about 10 years, earning money to bring to his family in Haiti, and (he hopes) to buy a passport. Three Saturdays ago, he was also caught unprepared. Like Malinda, Johnny was in his room and did not hear the warning shout or the call of the Lieutenant. He and the two men who share the dirt-floor, cardboard-walled, tin-doored room with him had already locked the door and gone to sleep, exhausted from a long week of work. The knocking at the door woke them all up, and Johnny asked who was there. The response was definitive: the door quickly came off its hinges, and Johnny, wearing only underwear and a T-shirt, was nabbed. His roommates fared better, breaking through the cardboard walls and escaping through another door in what appears to be a labyrinth of rooms inside a large rusted-tin edifice. In the truck, Johnny pleaded to be able to retrieve his pants, but was not permitted. His room was left open, and when he returned 2 weeks later, everything-his machete, his bedsheets, his clothes, and his money-had been stolen.

Johnny was taken to the fortaleza in Mao, where he and the other detainees spent the night. In the morning, they were put to work cleaning the prison. At one point, a soldier retrieved a bucket full of excrement from a toilet area and threw the contents in Johnny's face, then ordered him to find some fresh water to clean up the mess. None of the detainees were given food that morning, and when they requested to be able to use the toilet, they were told that such a service would cost 5 pesos. About noontime, the group was sent to the fortaleza in Dajabon, where they were again put to work cleaning the prison, again without food or toilet access. At 6 pm, a large group of prisoners (Johnny claims it was some 250) was taken from Dajabon five minutes across the border to Quanaminthe in Haiti, where they were left by the side of the road, without food or clothing. Johnny slept in the street that night, and the next day headed to his family's house in another part of Haiti, where he spent about two weeks before deciding to risk 400 pesos of his family's savings on illegal transport (for undocumenteds) to return to the DR.

Some nights, it seems, it's about more than deportation, or humiliation. It's about wielding power, and even, enacting cruelty. This Saturday night, when the Lieutenant passed by Papito's colmado for the last time and whispered smilingly, "La Guardia ya se fue" ("The soldiers are gone"), I followed him to the main strip where he boarded his truck and backed it out of the batey. A young soldier stood in the back, armed with an M-16, guarding the five detainees seated on the benches. As the truck reached the carreterra, another uniformed soldier, an older man with glasses and graying hair beneath his camouflaged cap, emerged from the back, unlit area of the batey that leads to the river. He was accompanied by three young men in plain civilian clothes, and all carried billyclubs. I stood with four young men of the batey, all members of the adult soccer team, and as we watched this group head toward the truck, another soldier emerged from a dark pathway between two terribly rusted houses. He was also a young man, 21 or 22 perhaps, of medium build and light skin. Like the guard in the back of the truck, he was fully uniformed and armed with an automatic weapon. He approached our group, and asked the man closest to him if he had a passport. The man answered with an eerily nonchalant, "Yes." The soldier was unimpressed. "Where is it?" he asked, abruptly. The man pointed to his back pocket. At this the soldier whipped his rifle from his hip to an at-attention position across his breast, and demanded, "Present it!" The young man of the batey, his nerves apparently as steely cool and confident as his baggy T-shirt, oversized jeans, and tilted cap would suggest, continued his slow movement toward his back pocket. The soldier made an abrupt move, shifting his stance and beginning to level his gun. But at that moment, one of the officers called for him from the truck, twice, and he quickly retracted his gun and trotted off.

In the past month, as many as 40 people have been deported from Batey Libertad, some of whom, like Malinda, are legal Dominican citizens. Many people, not only in this month but also in months and years past, have been subjected to forced labor and physical deprivation as was Johnny. According to Papito, many detainees in Mao come from outlying areas, from bracero quarters on larger plantations, and they are often arrested shortly before a scheduled payday. Papito surmises that the employer makes an arrangement with a military official, offering the official some monetary compensation to deport the workers. In other cases, he claims, detainees (including some from Batey Libertad, one of whom I met Saturday) are taken to be used as workers on land owned by a military official. The men are detained for up to four days, are given little food and no access to toilets or bathing facilities, sleep on floors in crowded quarters, and are sometimes beaten by the soldiers.

"I live in a constant state of worry," said Papito when I asked him how the redadas affect him personally. Born in Batey Libertad to Haitian parents (his father, a cane worker, was an original resident of this community), Papito is a full Dominican citizen, but never leaves his house at night without his papers. He has instructed his oldest son, Tony, 16, to carry his papers in like fashion, and not to leave the area in front of his house at night. Tony will soon have his cedula, but Papito has six other children, all younger, and he feels the same could happen to them. And for the youngest, he is especially concerned. Carlitos, 4, and Carla, 2, are old enough to walk, but not old enough to move quickly away from or to fend off people sprinting away from pursuing soldiers. In a raid, with residents and soldiers alike running quickly and single-mindedly, the children could be all-too-easily stampeded, he fears.

Everyone is affected, and Sunday morning was the proof. Sunday is usually the liveliest time in the batey, a day of long cups of coffee, joyous church services, and scrubbed-behind-the-ears children in pretty dresses or pressed shirts. But this morning, as I talked with Papito in front of the pastor's house along the main strip, the mood was subdued. "The best time is after they come," Papito said, "because then everyone knows they can enjoy the rest of the night. But the next day, everyone's on alert from the time they wake up." Few people walked past as we talked, and little music could be heard.

Sisters of the Beatitudes

Thanksgiving 2022: Sisters of the Beatitudes

            The quiet saints in our midst, and beyond…We do well, always and everywhere, to follow them

My dear Aunt Ronnie died on the first of October. She’d been living with brain cancer for five years, so as sad as I was, I knew her passing was also a mercy, for her as well as my mother. As her younger sister, Mom felt obliged to visit Ronnie as often as she could, despite living three hours away (but often more, thanks to mid-Atlantic highway traffic), to advocate with her caregivers, and especially in the last days, to simply hold her hand, stroke her hair, wipe her chin, keep her company in any number of basic, tender ways, as we all need someone to care for us at the beginning and end of our life. And not merely obligated, but called, in her heart, to practice this Work of Mercy, a true ministry of presence.

            Aunt Ronnie was also Sister Clare. She entered the order of Saint Joseph shortly after high school, and enjoyed more than sixty years in that community, practicing her ministry as a school principal and biology teacher. It was a life I knew little about, except indirectly, having never visited those schools, and frankly, apart from old photographs, only seeing her don her habit on the occasions of the sacraments my siblings and I received.

            Her funeral, at the order’s nursing home near Philadelphia where she lived those five years, became a logistical tar pit for our family. We all live either in Virginia or in the West, so we hauled tired bones and sick kids to be present, encountering massive traffic and flight delays in the process. At one point, my father, overwhelmed, exclaimed, “Come on, Ronnie, you’re supposed to be helping us!”

            But the funeral would hold many gifts within its mystery. Something about seeing Ronnie in the open casket— lovely in lavender, her favorite color, but undeniably cold to the touch as only the dead are—moved my parents, and us children with them, into a new honesty about their own remaining years, the changes they need to make, the care they may need to ask for.

            And I received a gift as well, quite unexpectedly, which I am still unwrapping.

* * *

Each of my mother’s five children had a significant role in the funeral Mass, so as a lector sitting in the front row, I had a straight-on view of everything happening on the altar. Exactly what I’d wanted, to witness Mom deliver Ronnie’s eulogy. In its way, it was a prayer-poem, from the heart, to the heart. Honest, thorough, poignant, and even funny at times, it was a masterpiece which will reward re-reading and reflection.

            The mother superior of the order delivered the eulogy for Sister Clare, to honor and celebrate Ronnie’s life as a nun. Also brilliant, the two tributes embraced as yin and yang, Body and Blood. (I was sorely tempted to include “peanut butter and chocolate,” a family favorite, but will keep that encased within these parentheses.)

            This beautiful duet was offered before the Mass proper, if you can believe that, but we know how the Roman Catholic hierarchy feels about non-priests, especially women, offering homilies, among other gifts. So at that point, as the Mass began, I thought I knew what to expect: I’d be annoyed at the priest and the clunky translations of the “new” (i.e., old) versions of the creeds and Eucharistic prayers; I’d be moved at the closing of the casket and the carrying forth of the body; we’d dismiss and go to lunch, and I’d breathe relief.

            But never underestimate the nuns, I’ve learned, and re-learned, over the years, ever since entering Catholic school at in first grade, where I was taught by a small legion of them. They always have a surprise in store.

* * *

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…

            The priest read the gospel for the Mass, Matthew’s rendering of the Beatitudes, the opening of the Sermon on the Mount (Mt 5:1-12).

            Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.

            Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.

            Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.

            Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.

            Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God.

            Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called Children of God.

            Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

            Blessed are you when they insult you, and persecute you, and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me.

            Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets before you.

            Even before I learned that members of Ronnie’s community had planned the liturgy, including this reading, I was moved: by its poignancy, and irony, in this context.

            It placed blessing where it truly belonged, upon the nuns, who have, as a body and a vocation, practiced the Works of Mercy, and fought for peace and justice, in extraordinary— yet always humble— fashion. And it shifted the power too: Proclaimed by that tall, grayed, well-fed white priest, an empowered member of an institution that has criticized, fought, and even mocked the nuns for living their vows in ways that might challenge priests’ power and privilege, I took sweet satisfaction watching him—with Jesus’ words— essentially call out the bishops’ hypocrisy, and acknowledge the nuns’ true, lasting value.

            What a gift, I thought, what a blessing within this sadness.

            And still, there was more.

            In that front row, I could see each of them, the sisters, one by one, as they received Communion. I watched them each look once more upon Ronnie, many through tears, and cross themselves as they walked back to their pews. Or limped, aided by canes or walkers. Or wheeled. And as they did, they did for me what Jesus did for his disciples, still blind with grief in the wake of his execution, on the road to Emmaus: they opened my mind to see the scriptures. (Lk 24:45)

            Here they were, right here. These quiet, humble women, devoted to their God, their vows, and each other, many still with nimble spirits dancing in their eyes despite many physical frailties. Here they were: the poor in spirit, living in community, and simply, taking care of each other as they took care of God’s poor. Here they were: the mourning, pouring sadness forth unapologetically, not only for their sister, but for the deep pain and injustice still persisting in the world as well.

            Here they were, meek, never proud and flashy; merciful, teaching children, and tending the sick; clean of heart, largely on the sideline of the scandals carried out and covered up by bishops and priests which have devastated countless children, families, parishes, and the whole institution itself.

            Here they were, hungry and thirsty still for righteousness, beginning within this very institution, seeking more equality, more respect for their vocation, more power rightfully theirs, but often persecuted, insulted, and yes hated, by the comfortable celibate men donning robes and pointy hats, and by many others who, not understanding them—their options for simplicity, community, and dedication to the vulnerable and marginalized— fear them.

            Here they were, the peacemakers, the fighters for justice outside the ecclesial and governmental halls of power, sitting resolutely on the boards of climate polluters and other corporate exploiters, sowing holy dissent and disruption there, and teaching and training generations of peacemakers to do the same, by following Jesus.

            Here they were, right here, quiet as mustard seeds, powerful as mountains. And I rejoiced to be in their presence.

* * *

I know that my perspective, from that pew and in this piece, is narrow. I acknowledge that, as has become tragically clear, not all Catholic nuns, nor all orders, nor all nuns within a certain order, may be treated as one. (And in fact, “nun” and “sister” are not necessarily interchangeable terms, depending on your audience.)

            Stories and even historical records have been unearthed— in some cases, quite literally— suggesting and often proving abuses, some horrific, that certain nuns enacted or colluded in, destroying the cultures and the very lives of children in Ireland, northwest Canada, the Dakotas, Australia, France, among other places. Too often, as was the case with the priests in their pedophilia ravages, these were perpetrated in the name of God, when in fact they were crimes against God and state.

            I would be remiss— really, dishonest— to omit that. To delve into it would be the work on a different piece, which others have done far better than I could. My intention here is simply  to honor and bless Ronnie and her sisters in ways that I could not do properly while she was alive; to try to name, honor, and give thanks for the epiphany of that Mass, and great the love it connected me to, imperfect as it may be, as human love always is.

* * *

After Mass, the extended family gathered with the sisterhood for lunch, in the dining hall of the nursing home. Like many good funerals, it afforded me the chance to see family members difficult to visit under ordinary circumstances, in this case all living on the east coast. The Covid pandemic had only made that more difficult— frankly, impossible— so I relished the time swapping stories with cousins over plates of chicken and rice.

            In the early evening, while still light, I went for dinner with my parents and the two siblings who’d also arrived from the West. (My other two siblings hauled their sick kiddos right back to Virginia after the lunch, and I couldn’t blame them a whit.) We found a restaurant with televisions at each table, so we could catch the baseball wild-card game, and unwind a bit. The Phillies were playing, their first time in the playoffs in nearly twenty years (almost as long as our Seattle Mariners, my son was sure to let everyone know), so frankly we were going to hear about that game whether we liked it or not.           

            As you may know, the Phillies won that first game in dramatic fashion, rocking the favored Cardinals with six runs in the top of the ninth— in St Louis, no less— an early sign, in retrospect, that they were on a tear that would take them all the way to within two games of winning the World Series a few weeks later. In Catholic grade school in Virginia, the nuns would talk about the Eagles, Phillies, and Sixers constantly. (Like people who grow up thinking all food is grown in grocery stores, I grew up thinking all nuns were from Philly, and were devoted sports fans. In my world, they sure seemed to be; don’t ask me how they got to Virginia.) I don’t exactly remember them actually praying for these teams out loud, but I wouldn’t have put it past them, then or now. Something sure helped the Phillies find a higher gear in these playoffs.

            As we ate and drank and cheered along, I felt the tension release and the mercy sink in, especially for Mom. Ronnie was still blessing us. And if we pay attention, I suspect she always will.

            That night, I walked along a small river behind the hotel. It had been a warm day, and the insects and frogs were singing almost as if it were summer. The sky was clear, and I was far enough away from the streetlights to spot a few stars. Life, here in the dark, was far more abundant than I could possibly see.            

            I imagined Ronnie’s soul in passage to that realm of holy darkness, holy mystery. Joining now a vast sisterhood of the humble, merciful, and meek; of the tenderhearted and fierce-spirited; the poor in spirit, rich in heavenly treasure. Not only nuns, but the countless women, of any religion and station, who have given without counting the cost, fought without heeding the wounds, toiled without seeking rest, labored and not sought reward save knowing— as Ignatius taught us to pray— that they do God’s will. The quiet saints in our midst, and beyond.

            And I rejoiced to be in her presence, in theirs. Right here.

Jahayra’s Hidden Treasure

A visit of twenty minutes, revealing the fruits of twenty-five years of mission.

All Saints Day (Todos los Santos), November 2022: Jahayra’s Hidden Treasure

This August I was able to visit the Dominican Republic for the first time since the pandemic began. Novena-inspired, I planned the visit for nine days. By wonderful coincidence, it included the anniversary day of my first arriving there to live, in 1997. (By unfortunate coincidence, it also included the anniversary day of my marriage, in 2004; my wife and I are still negotiating the terms of my penance.)

            Nine days may sound like a long time, and in some ways it was— I have no complaints or regrets— but in others, it was far too short. Given how long I’d been away, both in calendar time, and emotional time, I was determined to make the most of each minute: visiting all five partner communities my organization works with; meeting individually and in small groups with community leaders, families, students, and all those who share in and benefit from our mission; visiting with two special families outside of these communities, whose friendships were vital during my years living in the D.R., and who currently have elder members in delicate health; and carving out time for prayer and reflection, believing firmly that, at least for me, when I make that space for the Spirit, She can show up big-time.

            And She did, in silence, and in the relationships that form the heart of my love for this land, and the heart of the mission I feel called to continue.

            Let me tell you now about one of them, a young woman named Jahayra, and the hidden treasure, tucked inside a small, innocous-looking box, that she shared with me when I visited her home.

* * *

“We have a girl in this community who is very intelligent, but her vision is worsening all the time. It breaks your heart to see it, Juan. We have to find a way to support her. We can’t let her fall.”

            This is how my dear friend and comadre, Felicia, first told me about a teenage girl who turned out to be even smarter than I’d imagined, and to have even worse vision. Meeting her in the community chapel that summer day, I watched as she handed a piece of paper to Felicia, a letter she’d written requesting help in buying new eyeglasses. Felicia quickly scanned it, and instructed the girl to sign it. The girl was already wearing glasses, and thick ones at that, so I was stunned to see her set the paper down on a bench, uncap her pen, and place her face so close to the sheet that her nose nearly touched it. Handing me the letter, she smiled sheepishly, pointing to her glasses. “These don’t do me much good.”

            I happened to be in her community directing a service-learning program, and during that week saw for myself precisely how clearly and painfully correct Felicia was. Shy and unassuming, it took a while for Jahayra to feel comfortable enough with our visiting volunteer group to open up, but once she did, her intelligence emerged, as well as her fire. My heart was moved, just as Felicia predicted; I promised to advocate for her, to help her get proper glasses, and whatever else might be possible beyond that.

            Others soon joined Felicia and I. With each passing year, and visits from three to five service groups each summer, I would witness and hear of Jahayra’s fire growing. The adults or students that her family hosted during the service groups’ homestays would almost invariably gush about this young woman who carried such a remarkable balance of tenderness and boldness, spoke such clear and patient Spanish (including “translating,” i.e., repeating, but more slowly and clearly, the shotgun-blast Spanish of her father), was acing her classes, could expound on Dominican history, railed against injustices like machismo that kept her and other girls from advancing, dreamed of being a lawyer, and read all the time. And almost to a person, each of them would say, with equal parts excitement and anguish, “She needs more books, John! And she must get to college! How can we help?” Because anyone who passed even a week with Jahayra and her family could experience how kind, talented, and tender-hearted she was, and feel their own heart tugged, hard, to help in whatever way they could. They could also see clear as day what she was up against: the extreme individual and systemic poverty that pressed down on every person in her community.

            High in the central mountain range, hours away from the nearest hospitals, universities, and urban centers, her community was effectively abandoned by both state and church (except to collect taxes and tithes), forced to find its own water, connect its own electricity, and figure out how to access even the most basic of medicines, as well as schooling beyond 5th grade. Like their peers and elders in the community, Jahayra’s parents had no real chance to progress in school, too far away to access them, too consumed with daily survival even if they were closer. And so Jahayra, as a young campesina (country girl), would be expected to follow the path of her mother and other women: to marry by 16, have children by 18, and devote the rest of her days to her husband, her children, and her home.

            Helping Jahayra get new glasses, challenging as that was, proved to be a quick-fix compared to the journey of accompanying her in the struggle to becom a lawyer, a dream which later evolved into one of becoming a teacher. The layers of prejudice she has had to encounter— as a poor, female, rural resident in a society predisposed to idolize and acquiesce to the dominant elite of mostly of lighter-skinned, urban males (driven in no small part by the image of the blond haired, blue-eyed Jesus which the Spanish colonials planted in the soil centuries ago, and which has never really been uprooted)— make for formidable (some would say impossible) odds, and have understandably beaten down and defeated many a campesina. According to UNESCO’s 2020 data, just 60% of Dominican girls even make it to 8th grade.

            Felicia would remind me, however, that the Scriptures, in many places and many ways, claim boldly that what seems impossible for humans is possible for God. She was clearly filled with that kind of faith, as was Jahayra, who with her family’s backing, persisted and prayed and persevered. And the Spirit led those who could offer some kind of help to do so, small as it might be, including me and many in my organization’s community. Ignoring the odds, I followed Jahayra’s lead.

            What a journey it has proved to be. Fueled by this faith, her own talent and determination, and the moral, logistical, and financial support of many in her community and supporters of our organization, Jahayra entered high school (boarding at a small girls’ dorm next to a church), put up straight A’s, then began college where she nearly did the same, becoming the first in her family and her community to earn a bachelor’s degree. Thanks to the wonders of telecommunications and the internet, I was able to follow her progress, not only as director of the organization, but as her friend, mentor, and faithful fan.

            My heart swelled seeing the pictures of her graduation, and listening to her excitement as she told me of all she still hoped to accomplish as a teacher. I wrote her a letter expressing my pride and pledging my continued support, and tucked it inside a card with the image of Oscar Romero. And then, slowly over the next two years, my heart shrank, hearing from her, and then from Felicia when I could no longer get a response from Jahayra, about the string of outright rejections and silent discouragements she received month after month, unable to find a placement as a teacher despite passing the qualifying exams, and unable to find any work at all in her area. In a country with unemployment at 20% or more, she had to take what she could get, which was a waitressing job at a riverside outdoor bar along the mountain road connecting her community to Santiago. Felicia wept as she told me of the many immoral and illicit happenings Jahayra had witnessed and even experienced there, and of Jahayra’s growing despair. “It breaks your heart to see her this way, Juan. We have to do something. We can’t let her fall.”

            Months later, thanks to another rising Dominican professional, a young man who had also earned his bachelor’s with my organization’s support, an opportunity presented itself. Jahayra was invited to participate in his organization’s teacher professional development program. It would last five months, and though some funding would be provided, the program required Jahayra to come up with her own food, rent, and incidentals, since it took place on the north coast, several hours away from her family home. Conferring with Felicia and the other local leaders as well as with our board, we decided to back her, trusting that somehow God would provide for this, since it was outside of our extremely tight budget.

            The rest, as they say, is history. Jahayra got her groove back: interacting with other young teachers, learning from mentors, and practicing her craft day after day with students, she improved her teaching skills tremendously. And more than that, she felt alive, purposeful, chosen and valued. Once the program ended, she re-dedicated herself to the job search, and before long, found a placement in the public schools, a sweet prize indeed. The national teachers’ union is arguably the strongest in the country, and though wages are far from luxurious, they are livable (though severely tested now by pandemic and Putin inflation), and the job security is enviable. What moderates this is the sheer difficulty of the job, given the country’s overcrowded classrooms and anemic education budget, and the traumas of poverty that so many students bring into those rooms. Jahayra had lived a version of it in her rural community, and would now be immersed in it in the big city. That struggle awaited her, but she felt glad to embrace that challenge, and many others, given how far she’d come.

* * *

So, what was inside that box in Jahayra’s room? Treasures, of the heavenly kind. The fact that she shared it with me at all was itself a gift.

            Though I had visited the country in the first years following her graduation, I had not seen her in person, given our incompatible schedules. So as soon as she welcomed me in, asked me to sit and offered un cafecito (she is, after all, Dominican), she made a beeline for her bookshelf, where she kept her undergraduate thesis.

            Many graduates from our program have done this, and I’ve come to embrace it as if it were a ritual, almost a sacrament. The theses are bound in a thick hard cover stamped with the university’s gilded seal, and I page through them slowly, allowing the student to guide me however she would like. Often the content is specialized beyond my understanding, but for me that’s part of the pleasure. The dominant culture would have been all too happy for this young person to end up as a low-wage laborer,  supporting the elite, and dying some sort of death, quick or slow, attributable to systemic injustice (even if the government would never recognize it as such). But at least in Jahayra’s case, and in those of a growing number from the communities I’ve worked with, she has broken free and opened the possibility of a more just and fulfilling future, living more like the person God has always dreamed she would be.

            As I have with others, I congratulated her enthusiastically, even profusely. (My wife has let this introvert know that my version of over the top emoting comes off to most folks as just ordinary enthusiasm.) “Gracias, muchas gracias,” Jahayra said. “Y todavía tengo la carta suya.” And I still have your card.

            She set the box on the table where I was drinking the cafecito, opened it up, and showed me the contents, piece by piece. Pictures of her parents, her extended blood family, and members of her spiritual family, which included Dominican friends as well as several U.S. students and teachers who have stayed in her home as part of our service program. Small gifts and keepsakes, some from those same visitors. Letters and cards, again from the admirers in her spiritual family, like myself.

            Her face brightened more and more as she showed me each piece, and explained or reminded me of its origin or sender. Raised in a culture that treasures family— where the extended, not the nuclear, family is the basic unit; where sending an ailing elder to a nursing home is almost unheard of, and taking in the child of parents who have emigrated or died or been lost to drugs or prison is ordinary; where the culture of compadrazgo, networks of godparents christened at every sacrament, broadens your family and strengthens your safety net— Jahayra felt proud to have a family so wide, diverse, and strong. I was happy for her, deeply, and proud myself, knowing that in her mind and heart, this family now included me, and others who had accompanied me in my work. As I witnessed from afar, given the odds and obstacles she faced in a system designed to practically destroy young women like her, or at least smother every last vestige of their hope, she (and so many others in her company) needs all the good, actively-loving family she can embrace.

            In its way, this short and sacred visit was an affirmation of our work and mission, to connect unlikely peoples through genuine human relationship, for mutual grace, liberation, and transformation. That, above all, is the heart of a good service program, and a thriving, mission-centered organization: real relationships, genuine human connection, a deep feeling that, for all our differences, we are one holy human family. We belong to each other, and our shared fate depends on how well we take care of each other, individually and systemically.

            Don’t just take my word for it, especially if you don’t agree with this spiritual lens. Social science now has the evidence, that relationships across socio-economic status levels fosters upward social mobility for those from less priviledged backgrounds. What’s not covered in the study, are the benefits for those on the other end of that equation, which can also be transformative and profound, even if less quantifiable.             https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/08/07/harvard-chetty-research-facebook-friends-income

            Like anything that makes a difference, Jahayra’s journey has required prayer, funding, and sweat, with a large measure of grace as well. I feel proud, but even more so humbled, by how much of our program’s success is attributable to the time spent building relationships. The work began simply, and grew organically, and only several years down the road did the question of formalizing it, institutionalizing it, emerge. Many years into that process now, I’ve no doubt that the relationships formed right from the beginning, and all along the way, are the deep strong roots that have held our tree in the soil, as the storms of recession, natural disaster, pandemic and more have blown through and toppled many other programs.

            Those who have experienced the service program know that it is special: authentic, powerful, and uniquely transformative for all who are part of it, volunteers and community members alike. I can say, without worry of overstatement, that our team is masterful in this regard, even if we still have miles to go in forming administrative and funding models to support such brilliant programming. When I think of how we arrived here, the roots that support the trunk of our small organization and feed the fruits of transformations like Jahayra’s, I’m reminded of Malcolm Gladwell’s contention that, to become a master in one’s vocation, one must put in at least 10,000 hours of practice. (Others have taught this in slightly different ways, but Gladwell’s New Yorker piece got the big exposure and put it broadly out into the world.) https://www.newyorker.com/sports/sporting-scene/complexity-and-the-ten-thousand-hour-rule.            Sure, it’s arbitrary, and meant to be catchy, but it makes a point: digging in, faithfully and for the long-term, is the way to really grow. When I run rough calculations on our hours building relationships, beginning in the 1990s when I was hanging out in the communities without a clue about how to lend a hand, then add the dozens of groups, each with about a dozen participants, for nearly twenty-five years since, then add the intra-community exchanges which have happened over the same time period, I get a good stretch beyond ten thousand hours. And, as we teach the groups, relationships are part of the work, a form of service, not a distraction from the “real” service of construction or the like. It all belongs, it’s all part of our success.

            The path has been unorthodox, and the organization has been created and formed much more like a church, or a church mission, than an NGO or 501c3 charity. There is a price for that, yes, and we pay it, as we try to strengthen the trunk—the structure and funding to support such abundant fruits which (with more funding) could easily be more. But we pay it rejoicing, as the Beatitudes counsel, knowing that, like the prophets before us, the world exacts a pound of flesh and then some from those who are faithfully committed to the works of mercy and justice.

* * *

Part of this price, paid like a toll you’re stuck with to take the highway to someone to see a loved one, is about language itself. Our service immersion program is rich, deep, and holistic; we dig deep into the real work which needs to be done, with hands, head, and heart, including forming genuine relationships with Jahayra and others. It it can be truly transformative, short and long term, for all those involved in it, and we’ve seen it prove to be so for many. So though I maintain a calm exterior, I growl inside every time I hear someone refer to it as a “trip.”

            Within the first minutes of preparing a new group of volunteers to go to the D.R., I will tell them plainly, “This ain’t a trip.” Sadly, “trip” seems to have elbowed its way into becoming the current prevailing term in this field (often preceded by “service,” or “mission,” but just as often not). But neither I nor my organization uses it, since it connotes an entirely different experience than the kind I believe in, have been deeply shaped by, and have put years of my life into creating, leading, and perpetuating for the benefit of thousands of others, visiting volunteers and host-country community members alike. I realize that I’m swimming upstream linguistically, and even philosophically, in this insistence, but I’m prepared to hold out as long as it takes. (I’ve even told my wife she may need to etch on my gravestone, “It ain’t a trip.”)

            Why so stubborn? For starters, I’m not a tour guide, and my organization is not an educational tour company. Those outfits can offer wonderful experiences, as long as they’re honest: I have seen some over the years that masquerade as service organizations, imposing themselves on vulnerable communities, either parading visitors through the barrios to gawk at the “poor wretches,” or throwing together a worthless, patronizing experience that reinforces the power imbalance, without ever consulting those who would receive the group’s “service,” as to what might actually be of value to them.

            Over the years, I’ve seen a depressing number of these kindly-intentioned but ultimately detrimental make-service, fake-service encounters: toy-give aways, which, if not carefully planned, can create rivalries and even fights among the children receiving them; “we’ll teach them English!” workshops, which sound great for about the first three seconds you consider them, but since they’re often run by volunteers who’ve never had a minute’s training in ESL, are the picture of absurdity; church-painting projects, which are a cheap and easy way to delude yourself you’ve made a “big difference,” (or “impact,” also problematic language, connoting a collision rather than growth and love) while precluding the community members (who need it much more) from experiencing the joy of putting the finishing touch on the spiritual home that they, not the members of the “trip,” will inhabit long-term. And many more, all guided by and fulfilling a shallow notion of service defined as something the more-empowered do concretely for or upon (not with) the less-empowered, to feel a quick thrill, see a quick result, and walk away satisfied that having done his good deed, he can now, with an immaculate conscience, move on.

            Instead, the language that is more accurate, respectful, and life-giving runs along the lines of “program,” “experience,” “journey,” and “pilgrimage,” since all of them connote a more expansive sense of time and inclusion: this experience began and includes more than just you, and God willing, it will endure long and include many beyond you as well, possessing the potential to plant the seeds of transformation within all in its circle. “Mission” can even be employed, as long as it’s accompanied by very careful planning and direction of the program, both aware of how that term was historically appropriated for economic plunder, political exploitation, and religious oppression, and how any mission worth engaging in must be mutually life-giving, allowing for the possibilities of mutual generosity and transformation. (For real growth to happen, something uncomfortable has to be experienced, especially by those accustomed to being comfortable.) This language is more humble— truthful— because it leaves room for Holy Mystery to enter, move around, and lead the way.

            “Trip” (even when modified by service, immersion, or mission), slips far too easily over the edge of a rather slippery slope. Especially in recent years, as the prominence of social media has made it possible to turn just about anything into a photo-op, “trip” lends itself to the dominant capitalist mindset of consumable experiences which can be curated, prettied up, blasted out, and shelved (or vaporized into cyberspace), and “moved on” from. I refuse to participate in that, in practice or even in language, so I’m holding the line. If it’s worth doing, and has mutual and lasting value, then folks it ain’t a trip.

            But this is not just pride, for myself or my organization. It comes from a fundamental respect for those in the D.R. who are also full participants in the experience. Really, a love for them, that causes me to stand alongside them, down to the last word in this case. It’s just plain dishonest, and even disrespectful (though I recognize it’s often unintentional), to define this only from the perspective of the more empowered.  For Jahayra, Felicia, Papito, Ronaldo, and hundreds of others, who don’t get on an airplane but wait to receive those who do, this is most definitely not a “trip.” Rather, from the first, we’ve called it a proyecto de grupos, a group program or project. (“¿Cuándo vuelven los grupos?” When are the groups coming back, has been a frequent question through this pandemic.) The vision is not one of tourism— and the community members take pride that it’s not, given the exploitative nature of too much tourism in the D.R.— but more akin to Christian base communities, small, humble, and humane groups of pilgrims, like the first disciples of Jesus, simply trying to imitate Jesus’ way of practicing mercy and creating justice. To the Dominicans, the travel is ancilliary, a mere means to get to the table where the real meal is shared. In this Banquet, which requires mutual generosity and mutual vulnerability, all are welcome, regardless of passport status, and all can be nourished and transformed.

            The program was co-created on the ground, in the D.R., with the Dominican leaders involved in every step, after we witnessed and studied many other programs (often cooked up in a remote office in the U.S., without any thought of including the voices of those in the host country).  We knew we could create something that included the gifts and needs of both the US team and the Dominican communities, in a way that fostered genuine and meaningful project work and spiritual formation.

            Jahayra’s hidden treasures are proof that we have.

* * *

“Where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.” (Lk 12:34)

            Jahayra’s heart is in that box. I will not pretend to know all the many and complex reasons why, I only know that it is. Had you been at the table with me, I know you’d have felt it too.

            And her heart is in all the places and people those treasures are connected to; that too is clear. A fair number of Dominican students who graduate from our program cannot stay involved with it as volunteers or mentors, for practical reasons, or choose not to, for emotional ones; they feel the need to move on, which they have every right to do, and they go with my blessing. But Jahayra is one of those who has stayed, and like the wise servants given talents and treasures (Mt 25, and Luke 19) she has sown that treasure, to multiply it, particularly for the benefit of others.

            This summer, for example, she dedicated large parts of her school break to her home community and our programs there. She helped plan and lead the camps for early learners, as well as the service program for older Dominican students (modeled on our program for U.S. volunteers, and adapted for the high school and college students in our partner communities, since what they bring to and need from such an experience is different). She helped mentor the current crew of scholarship students, all transitioning out of virtual learning (thank God), and trying to start the new academic year strongly. And to my surprise and delight, she planted herself not only in the community, but in the home of the Doña Felicia (the leader who hosted me) during my visit, taking on all the cooking, to relieve Felicia from that duty, and to show her enduring gratitude to both of us. As well as her new and impressive cooking talent.

            The feast Jahayra prepared was one I won’t soon forget. Yes, the platos were many, varied, and scrumptuous: chicken, lentils, vegetables, rice, prepared with tenderness and flair, and finished with melt in your mouth slices of papaya and mango. It was my first real meal back in the country after too long away. But more than the foods, what moved me was the conversation— the nature of it, and who was, before too long, clearly leading it.

            Felicia is a powerful woman. No one who meets her for more than a minute would think anything else. She is also quite tender, and has a heart for the vulnerable— the sick and suffering, the poor (though she is far from rich herself), and all children. Even in a strongly machista culture, she asserts her strength, verbally and even physically if the occasion calls for it, especially if you’ve stepped on one of the vulnerable. In her home, and even in her community— heck, in almost any space she inhabits— she’s the boss, and you’d better recognize that quickly. At her dinner table, she not only directs the food (including prodding you to force more down your belly), she directs the conversation.

            Yet I watched her that evening, as she gently held back, allowing Jahayra and her co-worker (another graduate of our program, now also a professional teacher) to slowly take charge. Before long, she and I communicated with silent facial gestures across the table, as the two young teachers swapped story after story of teaching into, through, and now out of the depths of the pandemic. Story after story of student who came to them so underprepared—lagging far behind not only in academics, but in emotional health, having been neglected and in some cases oppressed by the educational system, pushed through grade after grade simply to keep the bodies flushing out of the system, as if these children of God were mere waste moving through the country’s colon. Disciples of Felicia, these two women have hearts for the vulnerable and exploited as well, and their stories revealed them, in all their pain and anguish and occasional triumph.

            At some point, Jahayra asked if any of her students could be included in our program. They were just like her, she implored, just like she had been many years ago, and in some cases were even worse off, having been born with more difficult health problems, or a less stable (even dangerous) family. And just like her, they only needed a chance, a real chance, a real accompaniment of prayer, funding, and sweat, to create a new future, as she is doing now herself. Hidden treasures, waiting to be uncovered, to show their deeper riches. Caged birds, waiting to be set free, to sing and fly as God has always intended.

            You can imagine how heavy my heart was to give her the honest answer, rather than sow false hope.

            My consolation, and I hope hers too, was in the dinner itself. That banquet, that sacred Eucharistic table which Jahayra had prepared, and at which I was so blessed to eat. Holding these hopes together, praying and nourishing ourselves in communion, working to continue this mission which offers no security beyond the kind God can give, we were, all four of us that night, but especially Jahayra, living through, in, and with our hearts… where the true treasures abide.

Living the Questions of War and Peace

Summer Solstice 2022: Living the Questions of War and Peace

How can an “old” novel of so much death contain so much life and hope for this time? A thank you note to Uncle Leo.

As grueling as this pandemic has been for my family, once it became clear we were in for the long haul, I felt determined to attempt something as a writer that felt like a venture into new territory. Something to occasionally take my mind off the misery in the world at large and the anxiety that we might get sick, even die, and become part of it; something to help endure the masking, distancing, and all manner of isolation from others, while being hemmed in for far too much time with the same three family members; and something to possibly to nourish me as well. Frankly, something to help me get out of bed everyday.

            In the last days of 2020, with a bit of breathing room during Christmas, I finally felt ready to delve back into a couple of dormant writing projects. And to try reading Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

            I found a used but clean hardback edition of the translation by Pevear and Volokhonsky (the paperback binding seemed destined to the same fate as my scalp, to lose its children little by little), whose translations of Anna Karenina, Crime and Punishment, and Brothers Karamazov have helped make these some of my absolute favorite books.

            Well, now those books have company.

            Who even knows how many shelves in the world could be filled, and made to bend and sag, with all that’s been written about this legendary book. I don’t pretend to add anything to that scholarship in this space. But at the same time, to have felt this close to a book—especially this book, at this time in history— and not write something… that would feel somehow dishonest on my part, and a disservice to its enduring value and power. My parents raised me with the unwavering habit of writing a thank you note to honor special gifts. This little piece is my thank you note to War and Peace.

* * *

First, allow me to gush a bit.

            If you’ve never read War and Peace or even intend to, let me attempt to tell you, in my un-scholarly way, what I think all the hype is about: It is a remarkable, stunning book, in every respect I can think of as a reader and writer. Beautiful, daring, breathtaking, heartbreaking, line by line and page by page; intimate, and simultaneously grand; incisive, trenchant, and at times even truculent, when treating the “great men of history” and the historians who blindly worship them, while infused in equal measure with humility, especially before the most fundamental questions of human history and the Mystery that governs not only our lives but the far-reaching and ever-growing universe.

            Perhaps like many, I approached this icon suspiciously, wondering what it might say to us now in an age far removed from the entirely Euro-centric worldview of the 19th century, with its many dramas of self-absorbed counts, princesses, dukes, and fair maidens in waiting.

            I read slowly, at first intimidated by its reputation, but soon, and to my surprise, utterly enchanted, thoroughly enjoying taking my time. Novels with this many aristocratic characters have often bored me, but as with Anna Karenina, the power of Tolstoy’s prose— in turns lyrical, sweeping, and piercing as a sword— transcended all. I made copious marginalia, aware I was in the presence of a master with much to teach me as a writer and a man of faith.

            When I finally reached the end, on a Saturday morning eleven months later, I remember the moment clearly: I pushed back from my desk, looked outside at the crisp fall morning, and thought, How will I ever read another novel again? What more can any novel possibly be?

            Tolstoy takes a linchpin moment in history— the Napoleon-led French invasion of Russia in 1812— and delves deeply, opening up the years preceding it, the sagas of several families, the sociology of European society, and the study of History itself and how it simultaneously charts and obscures our way forward not only as countries, but as humans. In the unflinching, unapologetic, yet never gratuitous depictions of war’s horrors— physical, psychological, spiritual, economic, and environmental— one can feel the fire of that fierce pacifism which he came to practice later in life. At times, the third-person narrator even states bluntly that the powers of the world are entirely dishonest about war’s purposes and ruinous, far-reaching consequences, and the language created for it— found everywhere from quotidian conversation to the most “serious” of historical works, the latter of which the narrator also scourges pitilessly for this deception— serves only to strengthen that illusion, and obscure the reality. Ultimately, we all participate in creating war, or preventing it, and far too often we slip along on the major current, to our own general destruction.

            And yet it is not all battles and blood. Far from it. Through and with his characters and the landscape, we feel like intimate participants in this time and place. With meticulous skill and attention to defining detail (such as old Count Rostov’s quick, staccato gait and his “beetling eyebrows”), as well as tender attention to the movements of the soul (witnessed in the extended ebb and flow of Pierre’s dark night of the soul, or the deep grieving of Marya and Natasha as their beloved Count Andrei dies slowly before their eyes), Tolstoy brings the characters fully, colorfully alive, to a depth far beyond the page. We accompany them with all our senses engaged, our heart’s blood coursing, and our gut alternately laughing and clenching. Not only in the ballrooms and dining halls of the aristocratic manors, but on the too-thin river ice that swallows soldiers whole, and through the mud and blood-drenched fields littered with corpses of humans and horses, and up through the trees to the sky above, which, with its continual siftings of rain and clouds and wind, sunlight and moonlight and starlight, holds the divine presence paradoxically close and ever beyond our reach and comprehension.

            Following the intertwining sagas of three prominent Russian families, we come to understand, in fascinating detail, the growing threat of Napoleon’s invasion, moving steadily eastward across Europe like an evening shadow. And we are drawn in deeper too, into the long view, and watch as Tolstoy, with lawyerly logic, surgical precision, and masterful metaphors, deconstructs the traditional view that History is shaped by an elite sort of boys’ club, les grandes hommes, the great men (and women too, though not in this book) scattered throughout time “destined” because of their “exceptionalism,” or even “divine election,” to create paths onto which the rest of us are gravitationally drawn, and then obediently, inexorably, trod. Napoleon and Alexander I (of Russia), the two grandes hommes of this novel, are each displayed in their full pomp and circumstance— their mythic status, frankly, given the worshipful devotion with which they are followed, to death and beyond—and then slowly revealed, through extraordinary detail, as hollow, and more than that, as pathologically vain, dangerously unempathetic, and ultimately, in Tolstoy’s word for Napoleon, irrelevant. That word, used multiple times to bring down one of History’s most iconic figures, is Tolstoy’s shot through the heart of the “old” telling of History. And Tolstoy— himself a dead, white, European, once-aristocratic male who was able to devote five uninterrupted years to this novel, offers in place of that corpse a radically fresh view that is still worth paying close attention to today.

            I could go on, in great detail, about all that I admired, learned, or felt blessed to encounter in this book, which Tolstoy claimed was neither fully novel nor historical epic, but a marriage of both, transcending traditional genres in fealty to his own sense of Russia’s unique literary needs.

Suffice it to say for now that it’s a book that demands much of its reader, but gives so much more in return.

*******

That day in November, as I took a walk to let it sink in, I toyed first with the idea of putting the very fact that I’d read this book (every word on all 1200 pages) on my dang resume, or even as a door sign at our house. (“Please come on in, but wear a mask and wash your hands, and… by the way, someone here has read War and Peace.”) But more deeply, I wondered: What’s my response? How will I take in, learn from, and live out what I’ve read?

            I had no idea, so I decided I’d need to read it again. Now that I have, the gift this book is to me feels really in there to stay, part of who I am. I see even more clearly why it’s so admired— and also, why it intimidates. Not just for its length and density, which frankly deterred me for decades and which undoubtedly will continue to keep many from even attempting it. But also, once you get started, it can haunt you; yes, with depictions of violence and heart-wrenching grief and the existential anguish of its characters. But beyond the last page of the book, it haunts (like so much of the best literature) with big questions, upon which our future seems to depend. The kind of questions we’d often choose to bypass, since so “sweet is it / To sleep in the coolness / Of snug unawareness” rather than to answer when truth comes with a “fierce hammering / Of his firm knuckles / Hard on the door.” (From Gwendolyn Brooks’ brilliant poem, “truth”.) It provokes the sort of painful but ultimately healthy questions we can live with and into, deeply and well, as Rainer Maria Rilke once counseled a friend.

"I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer." — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet.

Pursuing the deep questions of War and Peace, living into where they lead, trying to respond to them lovingly without always demanding answers, the lives we save may be our own. And those of our Human Family.

            I know this has been true for me, on a different occasion. The one question that has most fundamentally changed my life was handed to me nearly twenty-five years ago by an ordinary-seeming man I’d just met in Haiti. His question, which I’m convinced was God’s voice speaking through him, was simple: “Well, what’s your response?”

            At the time, he was pushing me to grapple with the reality, the misery, I was witnessing in Haiti, and not become just another privileged visitor who consumes the experience and shits it out again the next day. That question, and the path it has led me on since that day, turned my soul inside-out and my personal and professional lives in a different direction, one that’s brought much suffering, and an abundance of heavenly treasure.

            And so I’ve tried to apply it since in other contexts, when I have an intuitive sense that I must live with something a while or even a long while. As is the case with War and Peace. I can’t imagine a book better suited to helping us live through this age right now, not even Camus’ The Plague.

            I dare to imagine Tolstoy brought into the writing of this book some of the questions that I found while reading it. And others I imagine perhaps found him as he wrote it, and came to turn and shape his life thereafter. The questions regarding the horrors of war, short and long-term, surely had some role in steering him toward the pacifism and asceticism he adopted later in life. The questions of love, death, and our need for loving, just relationships in family, community, and society surely influenced his deep, ecumenical Christian practice, and his commitment to living his values at great risk (even eventually renouncing his wealth and works, and embracing a form of anarchism), much admired by Dorothy Day and others.

            The questions which demand response in my own soul, living in this particular moment of history— of pandemic, increasingly common and powerful autocracies, and addiction to violence of all forms— arise repeatedly in the book’s second half: What is power? What forces move peoples? How free, or determined, are we, to choose our path in life, for good or evil? They both contextualize the various characters’ journeys, and come up for explicit treatment in some of the book’s so-called philosophical sections. (Though I support the desire to encourage more folks to read this masterpiece, I cringe when I hear about abridged versions which excise these chapters; to me, they are indispensible.) In weighing the relative influence on history of grandes hommes or will of the people, and of freedom or determinism, Tolstoy seems to place his bets (reminding me of Pascal’s wager on belief in God) with an early-Christian sort of democracy—in which all are empowered, just as all peoples receive the Holy Spirit, not only “the elect”— and freedom— the capacity of individuals to choose good or evil in any particular moment.  But ultimately he hands it over to Mystery, and points at Her as the source of power that moves peoples, the source of freedom and the vast, inscrutable container in which we are held, with laws that are only seen clearly in time: the longer the time, the clearer the vision.

            From his distance of more than 150 years since publishing this book, Tolstoy challenges us to confront and wrestle with our demons. Why are we still obsessed with the grandes hommes of today, the Trumps and Putins and Bolsonaros, and are we not, in hanging on their every word and stupid stunt, and in some cases going where they point, doing exactly as Napoleon and Alexander’s troops did when marching straight across river ice they knew would break? Why do we gawk endlessly at the plutocrats and celebrities, the folks who are “exceptional” in some way that, in the long run, matters very, very little, and who catch our attention because of how splashy they are, not for their contributions to humanity or the planet. Why do we give them so much power? Why do we so desperately need to be distracted and entertained, and why do we choose to do so by following the salacious and sensational? How can we reorient mind and soul to give them less attention, and then later to keep them from exerting, or even possessing, such power in the first place?  Why are we hooked on all sorts of things that are quick-stim and quick-fix, especially our gadgets and their games and “networks?” And why do we not notice, or even seem to care about, how this addiction weakens our critical intelligence, distances us from our individual and collective Story, and disconnects us from a greater sense of belonging and meaning, one we derive when we believe we’re genuinely part of something eternal and true?

            And, for the love of God, why are we so addicted to violence, and turn to this to address all of the above— our feelings of impotence, anguish, alienation, and despair? When we make guns so easily available, are we not setting the stage for the kind of power-play executions we see Pierre nearly fall victim to in this book? When we pour hundreds of millions of dollars, and a seemingly equal amount of hours, every day into the creation and perpetuation of war— as a supposed way of keeping the peace, of addressing and quelling violence— are we not burning our own homes as some Russians did to preclude French soldiers from occupying them, and preventing ourselves, “win or lose” the war (in reality, we all lose in war) from ever truly living at home again?

            And how can we have the courage to truly feel the violence of today without being destroyed by it? Whether in Ukraine or Uvalde, whether in racism or sexism, whether in the language of hatred and division and blame, or any other form of violence, how do we respond to it honestly, with a tender, broken heart that remains strong and hopeful despite of or even because of its wounds?

            This is the kind of heart we need, to stand against the long history of violence, to summon our true human freedom and power, and unite it with Mystery, to create a new, fresh, nonviolent (or at least, less violent) future.

            This is the heart we need as prophets and pilgrims, and frankly as global citizens. One that can believe in and bear witness to Mystery, live in the creative tensions of family and community, and resist the tide of despair, materialism, and instant gratification of the dominant culture, patiently seeking the quieter, richer joys which truly generate life.

            For these and other questions which I may yet discover, I’m humbled, and grateful.

            There’s nothing like the electric feeling of starting to read a book I’ve never read before and that I’m excited about. I only regret that, from now on, that book will not be War and Peace. But I take consolation in feeling that it is rich enough, deep enough, for the long haul. The questions which it challenges me to live into, and respond to long-term, will endure, if I’m faithful.

            So I thank you, Uncle Leo, for this marvelous gift of a book, to me and to all of us. As part of my gratitude, I pray to try to bear witness to your labors, to the Spirit which moved through you, by living the questions: to let them settle deeply in my richest soil, to grow roots, and to bear abundant fruit in God’s “slow work” way.

Look for the Helpers, Serving Ukrainian Sancocho

Easter Season 2022: Look for the Helpers, Serving Ukrainian Sancocho

How can we dare to be hopeful in a time of war? Try some advice from Mister Rogers’ mother… and look to an underground community in Ukraine

           These days, I’m constantly looking for fresh sources of hope in the world. Perhaps you are too. I find them often in Nature, where the divine seems to be hiding in plain sight on a regular basis, just waiting to be noticed, and to give its gifts of nourishment, healing, and hope. In the human realm, I seek out others who act with fierce-gentleness, that vital balance of humility and boldness: a passion for justice, the courage to take risks, and the equanimity to know that ultimately the best passion and courage flows through us more than originates in us.

            When the war in Ukraine began in late February, and I felt myself slipping into to navel-gazing despair (a bit pathetic, frankly, given how utterly distant and safe from that war I actually am) I was graced to recall the advice given to dear Mister Rogers by his mother: In times of intense struggle, and even disaster, chaos, or tragedy, when all seems hopeless, look for the helpers. Watch them, doing what they can, in the way they can, perhaps not solving everything, but doing something. And in that, not only creating some good, but liberating others to do something themselves.

            In this spirit, no story has struck me more deeply recently that than a group of twelve Ukrainians who dared to secretly celebrate Orthodox Easter on April 24 in a concrete basement, while above ground their city of Kharkiv was bombarded by Vladimir Putin’s army.

            If you can, read this story in full [NY Times, 25 April 2022].   I’ll try to summarize here. In February, when the war began, over 300 people lived in this particular building in Kharkiv; over the past two months, all but twelve have either been killed or have left, seeking new life or simply shelter elsewhere. Among the twelve, their motives for enduring in that basement vary, but in the process they have come to share at least two essential things in common: community, and the hope it has created.

            A gush of ink has already flowed forth about the current war in Ukraine, and rightly so. Though for many of us it can raise suspicions of Euro-centrism— wondering why other conflicts, equally brutal and unjust, most notably to me the Rwandan genocide, do not or have not received equal coverage— it reminds us that war is always horrific, always inhumane, and always destroys life for generations beyond its “official” end. (One hopes that, as more continues to be learned about PTSD, and generational trauma, we’ll connect the dots and pour more resources—how about we start with just half of what’s spent on militaries?— into ending all war.) In this sense, the news of war should be in our face, must be on our hearts, whenever it occurs. If it’s not, that absence sanitizes war, that silence anesthetizes us, that ignorance sows the lie that it “affects others,” or is “over there somewhere,” smothering our will to resist war in all its forms and all its roots, and guaranteeing it will happen again, and soon, somewhere in the world. Perhaps next time, right where you live.

            The story of this group of twelve celebrating Easter struck me as viscerally as a knock upside the head, though increasingly, it has come to feel like an embrace, a kiss. In part, given my Roman Catholic practice, for the uncanny likeness to the apostles who hid from the authorities of state and church after Jesus had been executed. And in part, given the vein of that Roman Catholic tradition, liberation theology, which has felt most authentic to me, because of the radical expression of hope. Hope of this depth has alternately baffled, angered, and humbled me, as I’ve encountered it now many times over three decades accompanying the suffering or persecuted in the Dominican Republic and Haiti, and in jails and homeless encampments in the U.S. 

            Initially, I thought I was seeing Karl Marx’s words become flesh, that peoples’ religion was effectively an opiate; I couldn’t fathom how victims of disaster, or anyone living under oppression, could celebrate or give thanks for anything. I felt the only appropriate responses were anger and confrontation, and anything else signified a weak social conscience or milquetoast spirit. Later, I checked my ego and learned to reserve judgment, wondering, with compassionate curiosity, how it might be possible— beyond my own limited imagination— to celebrate, or give thanks, without denying the reality of suffering or sapping one’s energy to change it. Later still, as my understanding has deepened, I’ve come to stand in awe, drawing strength and inspiration.  I have reflected: If this person, or this community— despite overwhelming suffering—can still smile, laugh, dance, feast, share food, give love, or simply get out of bed to face the day, then I can too. If they can have hope, then I can too. And in fact, I must. Because they are not “they” at all. We are all— every one of us— part of Us, a transcendent, inclusive We. We are all one Body, one Family.

            This group in a Kharkiv basement brought their hopeful resilience to life, not only by breaking bread together, but by sharing it: giving food away, in a spirit of radical, deeply faithful abundance, to those whose plight was even worse than theirs. The building within which they shelter is relatively accessible, and so various aid workers and Good Samaritans have brought food regularly, enough for these twelve to survive, and to spare. So the group has actively sought out those sheltering in less-accessible areas, and fed them.

            It’s as if they were the apostles themselves, looking at the mass of five thousand who had followed Jesus till the end of the day, and came to him, panicked, urging him to dismiss the crowd before folks got hungry, and then rowdy. It’s as if they heard Jesus say, “Give them something to eat yourselves.” To do that, to attempt to feed this crowd, they would have had to set aside their rational mind, their critical analysis, their adult calculations and cautions. To do that, they had to summon and free their Childlike Spirit, as the title character and curly-haired girl— the most rejected people in the community— manage to do in my picture book, The Good Stranger’s Sancocho Surprise. They would have had to surrender to the Holy Mystery. But once they did, those scant loaves and fishes were transformed into a banquet with and through their very hands. From “nothing,” something… and more than something. Enough, and to spare.

            Many artists and ministers have said it, and I’ve been fortunate enough to experience it myself: the best work feels not so much like something you create and give to the world, as something created that flows through you, and which you and the world can receive as a gift. A magnificent, mysterious river into which you dip your hands, bring up a cup to drink, and in so doing, leave a bit of your self within it as it flows on. The characters in my writing, fictional or nonfictional, to which I’ve opened myself the most, including the good stranger and the curly-haried girl, have given me this gift, as have many people I’ve been blessed to accompany in their struggles for healing, progress, and justice. And I imagine that had I been among this group of Ukrainians in the Kharkiv basement, I would have experienced it there too, that sense of being pulled into something deeper than you, beyond you, with which you’re invited to participate.

            Generosity in the face of scarcity; joy in the face of extreme cruelty and misery; hope in the face of every logical reason to despair… these do not deny suffering and evil, if practied humbly.  They chart a way through it.

            Our dear Dorothy has written lovingly about sacred banquets among disciples of resistance, so I defer to the last lines of her memoir, The Long Loneliness, to bring us home.

            The final word is love. At times it has been, in the words of Father Zossima, a harsh and dreadful thing., and our very faith in love has been tried through fire.

            We cannot love God unless we love each other. We know Him in the breaking of the bread, and we know each other in the breaking of the bread, and we are not alone anymore. Heaven is a banquet, and life is a banquet too, even with a crust, where there is companionship.

            We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.

Spring to Winter

Here in the Pacific Northwest, Winter will not seem to let go of us just yet. Flowers, bushes, and trees have been blooming steadily, taking their turns as usual, some having already dropped their petals and just coming into, or still awaiting, their moments of glory. But the wind, the thick gunmetal gray clouds and their legions of rain, and the air, cold as any February or March day… these persist, and persevere, and seem to rule the day, most days, despite whatever show the flowers may want to put on or love songs the birds may want to sing.

 It’s been a struggle to endure this cold. More often than I care to admit, I find myself complaining about it, hating it, wanting to escape its gloom and constriction. Mostly because I feel that Winter “should be over,” as if I have any say in the matter. That I should be able to enjoy some sunshine, trade the heavy coat for short-sleeves, open the windows in the afternoon. Pleading my case to some notion of what the weather “should be” now that we’re in May, and what I “should feel”— even entitled to feel, as laughable as that is— given what I, what we all, have endured.

 As with so much during this pandemic, the visceral reality also holds a powerful metaphor within.

Our perspective on the notion that “the pandemic is over” reflects how close, how intimate, we are with the poor and marginalized, with vulnerability, with suffering. This pandemic is not “over,” despite how much one may want to be “done with it.” Even if, as seems to be happening, it is shifting from headline news in the U.S. to the middle and back pages— along with malnutrition, ethnic conflict, preventable illnesses, and the other tragedies the Global West considers acceptable inhabitants of the Global South (but which had damn well better not camp out in its own backyard)— this virus is not done teaching us its lessons, and we ignore it, we will or delude ourselves into feeling “done,” at our own peril.

In its brilliant yet tragically clumsy way, the virus has been desperately trying to teach us how to live together more harmoniously, more sustainably, before we utterly destroy each other and Mother Earth (not necessarily in that order), choosing as its instrument the most visceral, fundamental thing we share: our breath. Yes, some important, groundbreaking progress has been made, some healing and corrections have taken place, and thank God for them. But we still have miles to go. Ed Yong of The Atlantic recently reported on how clueless, and frankly indifferent, to the point of malice— many US citizens are about matters of public health, as opposed to individual health. (NPR amplified his piece by publishing his interview front and center on Morning Edition last week. But unfortunately, using the term “Americans,” which utterly ignores hundreds of millions in the other countries of North, Central, and South America… and ironically, demonstrates exactly how deeply-mired mainstream culture is in the very problem they bring to light.) Not surprisingly, if sadly, the degree of privilege largely determined the degree of ignorance and indifference. And just about anywhere in this mess you dive into the details—say U.S. teenage mental health, as The New York Times has recently, in a vital series, “Inner Pandemic,” by Matt Richtel and Annie Flanagan— you quickly see this ignorance and indifference reflected in political will, public spending, and systemic justice.

We can’t turn away yet, brothers and sisters. If we do, we risk essentially traipsing on the graves of all those who have died from COVID, ignoring the suffering of those who have lost physical, mental, or spiritual health, gas lighting those who’ve lost jobs or relationships or anything else that was precious. We have to hang in there longer, help each other have the courage to endure the grieving, and learn to live with a broken heart. And we must practice patient perseverance, since this is no quick fix. We must help each other take the real, genuine time our hearts need— the time our hearts tell us we need, if we listen closely— to heal, individually and collectively. We’re being given a chance to re-learn how to live; we might not get such a chance again.

As we endure the long pilgrimage, we of course look for what will sustain us, signs of light or scents of nourishment. For me, blessed relief came last week, twice in fact, when we had forecast-defying sunshine on both my birthday and Mothers’ Day. On both days, I was lucky enough to get outside and give thanks for the sun, even if the air remained cold. I took a long birthday walk in the forest, marveling at trees and birds and streams, drinking in the quiet. And, per her request, worked in the yard with my wife and son, digging into the soil and planting strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, and greens. I felt glad to be alive, glad to walk and work, glad to have Nature so close to remind me, viscerally, of the deep hope that its Spring regeneration announces. And to feel invited to hope, with my still-broken heart, along with it.

And so perhaps this timid Spring is a painful gift for me, a thorn to bring me back to my knees, to the mercy, providence, and companionship of the Creator. A call to listen again deeply, as tired as I might feel, to my neighbors— to those in Ukraine, in the Global South, in my neighborhood where too many still lack enough to eat— and follow my still-broken, still-healing heart.

On this pilgrimage of life we are promised nothing, except the chance to walk, to share life together. I hope to walk humbly, with my God, loving tenderly, working fiercely, embracing sunlight and shadow, Winter and Spring.