Moisés Vega has a distinctive job: The 64-year-old Mexican says he can speak the sacred language of volcanoes to ask for good weather and a good crop.
Mexico lowered the alert level on the Popocatépetl volcano by early June after its eruptions of gas and ash had drawn international attention. For Vega, though, the 17,797-foot (5,425-meter) mountain, known as El Popo, is a living being that never fades from his sight.
« The Popocatépetl is our father and the Iztaccíhuatl is our mother, » he said, referring to a neighboring volcano. « They are providers of water and we are not afraid of them. On the contrary, their exhalations are blessings because they give us life. »
There is no English translation for his profession, but among the inhabitants of the towns of central Mexico, men like him are called « graniceros. »
« Their work is based on the pre-Hispanic notion of conciliation with nature, » said archaeologist Arturo Montero, from the University of Tepeyac. « They are regulators of the weather who believe that the mountains are spirits of nature. »
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It’s unknown how many « graniceros » are in Mexico. Vega says that in Amecameca, the city where he lives 44 miles southeast of Mexico City, there are only four (himself included). He estimates that there could be a similar number in nearby towns.
Many locals believe that only men who are struck by lightning and survive — Vega among them — are the ones who can claim the job.
« I knew I would become a ‘granicero’ since I was a boy, » Vega said. He was ordained to fill that role in a ritual in 1998.
His main task is to perform rituals three times per year to ask the volcanoes for good weather; just the right amount of rain needed for the crops. He mostly leads these ceremonies in stone shrines built by the locals in « El Popo » or « El Izta, »
He also works as a traditional healer and makes additional income explaining El Popo’s story to tourists visiting a volcano museum in Amecameca.
Montero said it’s not easy for contemporary « graniceros » to remain well-versed in ancient knowledge, given that many have to take a variety of jobs to get by. But they want to preserve their ancestral legacy and responding to inquiries from anthropologists, journalists and tourists helps them do that, he said.
On a recent Sunday, Vega pointed to a replica of a shrine built to show visitors what real temples devoted to volcanoes look like. He said the rituals he performs are a fusion of pre-Hispanic and Christian elements. In addition to flowers and fruits, shrines have crosses, but not crucifixes. They are painted in blue, to represent the sky, or white, to emulate clouds.
« I respect the (Catholic) religion because we grew up in this place, but the mountain speaks to us in the words of our grandparents, not in the words of the conquerors, » he said in reference to the evangelization led by the Spaniards after 1521.
The roar of « El Popo » tells him that something is wrong. Someone may have climbed its slopes to perform an animal sacrifice, which is against the community’s beliefs. A thief may have stolen the crosses from their sacred spots. A group of drunken men may have profaned its soil.
Alcohol is forbidden in the volcanoes, Vega said, because spirits can get drunk and interfere with the weather. This could lead to a catastrophe, he said, as bad weather can destroy the crops and leave people hungry.
The sacred understanding of « El Popo » varies from town to town, but many agree that the volcano does not threaten their lives. Leticia Muñoz, who sells avocados in the town of Ozumba, said she trusts « graniceros » more than the government and she would never evacuate her home.
« One sees that (the volcano) is harmless, » she said. « If he wanted to, he would explode. »
The last big eruption of El Popo was in 1994; many in Mexico City could see the smoke. Many people who were evacuated said they lost their animals and vowed they would never leave again.
The connection between local communities and volcanoes has evolved through the centuries because each mountain responds to the needs of its inhabitants, said Laura Elena Romero, an anthropologist from the University of the Americas Puebla.
According to Romero, the sacred mountains of Mesoamerica are associated with the essential resources of life and that is why « graniceros » like Vega make offerings to ask for rain while others request prosperity for their businesses.
During rituals, she said, there’s a dialogue between men and volcanoes and they are seen as members of each community.
« The volcano wouldn’t harm the people to whom it belongs, » she said.
The first two things that jump out when reading the working document, or instrumentum laboris, for the forthcoming synod, which was released June 20, are how much the document charts a new approach to a working document for an ecclesial synod and how deeply the document is in continuity with the teachings of the Second Vatican Council.
Whoever came up with the idea of framing the document in terms of questions, rather than a draft text, deserves a bonus. For starters, it puts to rest one of the most common complaints about the synodal process coming from the anti-Francis bleachers, namely, that this synodal process is a smokescreen for a predetermined agenda to radically change the moral teachings of the church. After Cardinal Robert McElroy called for the synod to achieve a « radically inclusive » church earlier this year, conservative theologian Larry Chapp opined, « What it all amounts to is code for the ascendancy in the Church of the moral ethic of secular modernity and its imposition on everyone in the Church via the pathway of deceptively pre-engineered, faux democratic processes designed to produce predetermined results. »
Predetermined results? For the first time, the instrumentum laboris does not present a draft of a final document for the synodal assembly to amend, but a series of questions. These questions reflect the ones raised in the worldwide consultations. The planning committee did not draft a set of plausible responses. It did not lean into the neuralgic issues one way or the other. It acknowledges them and, in so doing, also acknowledges that the effort to declare some topics closed failed to stop the questioning.
The working document does, however, frame the issues, neuralgic and pedestrian, raised in the consultation process, and the frames it uses are all drawn from the ecclesiology of Vatican II. And, so, the first set of questions is grouped under this category and question: « A communion that radiates: How can we be more fully a sign and instrument of union with God and of the unity of all humanity? »
This is almost word for word from the opening paragraph of Vatican II’s Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, which reads: « Since the Church is in Christ like a sacrament or as a sign and instrument both of a very closely knit union with God and of the unity of the whole human race, it desires now to unfold more fully to the faithful of the Church and to the whole world its own inner nature and universal mission. »
I see also in this awareness that the church’s self-understanding is achieved in part by its mission to the world an echo of the brief remarks then-Cardinal Jorge Maria Bergoglio made to his fellow cardinals shortly before they elected him pope. « The evils that, over time, happen in ecclesial institutions have their root in self-referentiality and a kind of theological narcissism, » Bergoglio told them. »In Revelation, Jesus says that he is at the door and knocks. Obviously, the text refers to his knocking from the outside in order to enter but I think about the times in which Jesus knocks from within so that we will let him come out. The self-referential Church keeps Jesus Christ within herself and does not let him out. »
This pastoral intuition grew out of Bergoglio’s experience of the reception of Vatican II in Latin America. It is neither a left or right insight. It brings the seeds planted at Vatican II to maturity.
The second group of questions also flows from a key conciliar insight: « Co-responsibility in Mission: How can we better share gifts and tasks in the service of the Gospel? » The fathers of the Second Vatican Council would not have put the question this way. But without the recovery of the central role of baptismal dignity in the life of the church evidenced in Lumen Gentium such a question would not be possible. As the instrumentum laboris states earlier in the document, « a synodal Church is founded on the recognition of a common dignity deriving from Baptism, which makes all who receive it sons and daughters of God, members of the family of God, and therefore brothers and sisters in Christ, inhabited by the one Spirit and sent to fulfill a common mission. »
That focus on the common dignity of the baptized also revolutionized the church’s ecumenical efforts at Vatican II and since, just as the council’s consideration of the common dignity of the human person made dialogue with non-Christian religions possible in a way they had not been before. The image of Popes John Paul II, a Pole, and Benedict XVI, a German, visiting the death camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau, was unthinkable before Vatican II. Obviously, non-Christians are not « co-responsible » for Catholic mission, but those entrusted with Catholic mission must, after Vatican II, be mindful that God is already at work in the world before we come to evangelize.
It is only after the subject of mission has been addressed that one can turn to issues of participation, governance and authority, which form the third category of items the synod will consider. In this section, most questions are essentially practical. For example, « How can seminaries and houses of formation be reformed so that they form candidates for ordained Ministry who will develop a manner of exercising authority that is appropriate to a synodal Church? » and « To what extent does the shortage of Priests in some regions provide an incentive to question the relationship between ordained Ministry, governance and the assumption of responsibilities in the Christian community? »
Practical or not, this is the section in which we can foresee the most difficulties.
Some conservative critics have been frantically worried that the working document would lead the Catholic Church astray. Last November, after the release of the working document for the continental stage of the synod preparation, George Weigel complained, « This has nothing to do with Vatican II. »
EWTN’s Raymond Arroyo last week featured an « encore presentation » from earlier in the month, in which he interviewed Cardinal Raymond Burke, former archbishop of St. Louis, former prefect of the Apostolic Signatura and former patron of the Order of Malta, who now has no particular assignment. The cardinal offered this enthusiastic endorsement of the process: « The fact of the matter is that there is no clear idea of what synodality is. It’s certainly not a mark of the Church. » Thank you, your eminence, for that thoughtful commentary.
The joke is on the critics. The working document contains precisely the combination of elements of continuity and discontinuity that constitute the « hermeneutic of reform » with which Pope Benedict XVI said the council should be interpreted in his famous 2005 Address to the Roman Curia. The citations from Scripture throughout the document are not cherry-picked. They are ecclesiologically foundational. The vision is deeply rooted in the teaching of Vatican II.
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The vision of a synodal church that emerges from this document is also something else. It is a sign of that « abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work » of which Pope Paul VI spoke and which I highlighted in my review of a new book by Cardinal Michael Czerny and Fr. Christian Barone. Discussing the reports from those who participated in the synodal process, the working document states: « One common trait unites the narratives of the stages of the first phase: it is the surprise expressed by participants who were able to share the synodal journey in a way that exceeded their expectations. »
We can note that many Catholics have low expectations at this moment in church history, but that sentence, like the rest of the text, is brimming with hope. People’s expectations were « exceeded. » Surely, this is a mark of the church, no matter what Cardinal Burke says. When we surrender to God, and become docile to the Holy Spirit, then, and only then, do we experience the joy the first apostles experienced when their expectations were dashed by Jesus of Nazareth’s ignominious death. We, like they, and like Christians in every epoch, are called to trust in the Lord in the circumstances of our times.
This document, collecting the insights from what is likely the widest consultative process in the history of the world, helps all of us to trust that the Holy Spirit is calling us to this synodal process and the ecclesial vision that is emerging, a vision rooted in the teachings of Vatican II and looking confidently forward.
“Fear no one. Nothing is concealed that will not be revealed” (Matt 10:26).
Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jer 20:10-13; Ps 69; Rom 5:12-15; Matt 10:26-33
How many bad choices are attributable to fear – either to do something we know is wrong or to fail to stand up for what is right? Jesus understood this basic cause of human weakness and repeatedly told people not to be afraid.
Internet sites claim that the injunction against fear appears over 360 times in the Bible. But most of us need only our own histories to admit that intimidation was a factor in moments we wish we could do over, especially youthful indiscretions that can still evoke a flash of shame. We did foolish things because of peer pressure. We failed to show courage because we were afraid of criticism or ridicule.
Jesus’ words about fear in today’s Gospel were addressed to an early church facing persecution, which led some to deny their faith, families and friends to save themselves. Jesus distinguished between threats to the body and to the soul. He told his disciples not to be afraid of bodily death, but soul death was to be feared. What did he mean? One possibility is that if evil co-opts our consciences, we become complicit in what we know to be wrong.
In the film, “A Man for All Seasons,” St. Thomas More’s daughter pleads with him to sign a false affidavit to save his life. He extends his cupped hands as a metaphor for his integrity, saying that even a small opening would drain his soul like water. He will enter eternity headless rather than betray his conscience. Only grace can inspire such heroic courage, which is why we honor martyrs like Joan of Arc, Maximilian Kolbe and Franz Jagerstatter.
Debilitating fear can also follow trauma. The greatest violence inflicted on victims of rape and child abuse by perpetrators has been to add blame and shame to their suffering by convincing them that this was their fault. Jesus’ harshest warning was to those who would steal the innocence of a “little one.” Better for them had they never been born.
Jesus knows there will be victims. He himself was one of them. He wants to protect his disciples from despair. God sees and holds accountable every evil act. No amount of power or money can hide sin forever. If God cares for the birds and every hair on our heads, God will also bring us through any suffering or crisis, even death.
The Word of God holds powerful relevance for the victims of official misconduct, the millions of victims of slavery and the hundreds killed during the racial attack on Greenwood, Oklahoma, in 1921. The international spotlight now on racism and cover ups in policing, verified by video evidence of brutality victims have claimed for decades, is forcing both reforms and a public examination of conscience about the racial bias embedded in American history and culture.
The nonviolent Jesus offers the only way forward, a radical metanoia that acknowledges both systemic and personal complicity in racial and economic disparity. It requires a commensurate commitment to truth and reconciliation to affirm the fundamental dignity and equality of every human being sharing the planet.
If this call to repentance seems like wishful thinking, the alternative will be much harsher. The status quo is unsustainable and the challenge to this generation on issues like war, poverty, race, immigration, health care and the future of the planet is fateful. It will lead to either a kairos moment and moral uplift or an apocalyptic descent to institutional breakdown.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jesus is saying. But this does not mean the world will change if we do not. God’s unlimited grace is here to aid us in healing the suffering body of humanity, but only if we also act together to prevent the death of the world’s endangered soul.
Adapted from column published on June 21, 2020.
Flamer
Mike Curato
368 pages; Macmillan Publishers
Raised in the 1980s and ’90s in a Catholic home just outside of New York City, Mike Curato is a gay Filipino-American illustrator. After producing the award-winning Little Eliot series of children’s books, in September 2020 he released a semi-autobiographical graphic novel, Flamer. The novel tells the story of Aiden Navarro, a 14-year-old Filipino-American kid spending his last week at Boy Scouts summer camp before starting high school.
Flamer struck a chord for its touching portrayal of a Catholic boy earnest to fit in and « be good, » struggling to come to terms with bullying and his own unexpected feelings for another boy. Upon release it won universal accolades, including the Lambda Literary Award for Children’s and Young Adult Literature in 2021. It has also recently become one of the most banned novels in America.
NCR spoke to Curato about Flamer and his experiences growing up Catholic. The following conversation has been edited for clarity and length.
NCR: How long had the idea of doing a semi-autobiographical memoir been with you?
Curato: I had ideas about wanting to pay some kind of homage to camping and maybe scouting. Then, during the #WeNeedDiverseBooks campaign I listened to legends like Toni Morrison saying, « If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it. » And I realized there was such a lack of books that I needed when I was young.
I made it a comic because that is the medium that I read at that age, that is what I connected to. So I thought it would be the best tool to use to speak to young people.
How would you describe the books you wish you’d had as a child?
Books that validated my experience and told me I’m OK being myself. We’re told as kids, « Just be yourself and everything’ll be fine. » But I didn’t see myself anywhere. I didn’t see myself in books or on TV or in movies. And other kids my age told me that there was something wrong with me. How can I just « be myself, » when all these people seem to have a problem with that? It began this self-erasure, like maybe I’m not supposed to be here.
I went to Catholic schools and we were taught that we’re all God’s children. But it seemed to me like maybe he likes some children more than others. Or at least people do. I did not feel like one of God’s children a big portion of the time.
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What was your experience with the Catholic Church?
I specifically remember religious textbooks in middle grade talking about homosexuality as a sin and as a choice. And it was a new textbook; it wasn’t like some old dusty thing. This was modern day Catholic teaching. So I’ve got teachers reading from this textbook to me, and I’ve got classmates calling me the f-word. Even things I’m hearing my father say about gay people, it’s like, OK, noted. And I grew up during the AIDS crisis. So I felt like, I can’t be one of them, I’ll be dead. There wasn’t a lot of hope for a happy future for me.
I was a devout Catholic. I was an altar boy for many years. Just like Aiden (my protagonist), I continued past the normal time, into high school. So I thought, I will be good. I’m excelling in church because I’m an altar boy. I’m getting good grades. I’m an obedient son. I will find someone to marry and we’ll have children and we’ll be good people. We’ll go to church and I’ll be good.
Would you say that concern to « be good » created anxiety in you?
Yes. It was constant. Like, every day. « Don’t mess up! » I think that is a very common experience for little gay boys. They overcompensate. I’m going to be stellar at everything that I can get right, because I can’t get being straight right.
I would try to be more butch sometimes. I tried sports, I tried dating girls, I tried being aloof and playing down my flamboyance. I tried to paint a veneer, and I thought maybe I’ll get a pass to get into heaven if God sees that I’m trying so hard.
You weave together Catholic and pop culture imagery throughout Flamer in really interesting ways, like having the comic book X-Men character Phoenix, who sacrifices her life to save the universe, show up in a chapel just as Aiden is considering killing himself.
What I love about the Phoenix saga is the self-sacrifice. She’s like, « I’m all powerful but I’m going to save people around me by destroying myself. » And then she gets to come back anyway.
There’s this sort of wanting and emptiness that Aiden experiences with church and the mysteries around it. Like when he’s talking about confirmation and how he’s really ready and waiting for the Holy Spirit to descend on him, but then he didn’t feel anything. That was very real for me. I was like, « OK, I guess I’m confirmed. »
I don’t know if you noticed the imagery at the end: when he wakes up from this experience with the Phoenix, where he’s been speaking with his own soul, he has the tongue of fire.
Oh wow, I missed that.
That is Aiden’s real confirmation, when he faces himself. I feel like that is how we experience God’s love, showing up for yourself and accepting your whole self. In doing that, you are accepting God’s love.
I love the word confirmation. « You’re confirmed. » You’re here and you deserve to be here.
Another thing about the book that stood out is the way you avoid vilifying Aiden’s bullies. There are a couple times where the main bully gets ridiculed for picking on Aiden, and you draw him looking so shaken. I was really impressed by the empathy you show there.
There’s that saying, hurt people hurt people. We don’t know what we don’t know. Oftentimes with bullying it’s a projection. Obviously I don’t condone that, but we’re all human beings. And I was a shitty kid too sometimes. I said things to people that I feel bad about now or that I don’t even remember. We can all be that guy.
After this book came out, I got an Instagram message from one of my bullies. He was like, « Hey Mike, I read your book, and I wanted to say I’m truly sorry for the things I put you through. I have kids now and I’m trying to raise them to be different from how I was. » I said I really appreciated that and I’m glad you’re raising your children differently.
It was a pretty cool moment. And it gives me more empathy for people. We’re all walking around with these untold stories. If we knew everyone’s story there would be a lot more compassion in the world and a lot more patience. That’s why there needs to be more quality books, not fewer.
« This is sending a message to queer children, too. By removing a book about them, they’re saying ‘we don’t want you here.’ «
— Mike Curato
You’ve been put through the ringer the last few years, with school districts banning Flamer and people calling it pornographic, which is so bizarre. It’s like they’re talking about a completely different book. How has that all been for you?
For the first year and a half it was all positive feedback. I didn’t get one negative thing. Then that Texas lawmaker came out with his McCarthy-era list of books which mostly consisted of queer and BIPOC stories and/or creators. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see what’s going on here. And it worked. In this age of hoaxes, I was like, y’all have been bamboozled.
It’s sickening to watch some angry person holding my book up and saying these awful things, reading passages out of context and trying to paint me like some kind of deviant.
How do you find peace in the midst of it?
It’s very challenging. It’s taken up so much of my time and energy and peace of mind. I have to call on my community to support me. I have nightmares sometimes about this.
It seems like that’s all part of their goal.
Absolutely. They want to scare people, to make people think twice about buying a book like this for your library, about creators trying to make a book. They’re trying to send a warning to publishers: don’t do this or you’ll have to deal with us. It’s the old school fascist playbook. You find the weak communities and you use them to your own gain.
This is sending a message to queer children, too. By removing a book about them, they’re saying « we don’t want you here. » And it’s all done in the name of protecting the children. I’d like to know which children they’re trying to protect. It doesn’t seem like all of them.
Does religion or God play any role in your life today?
I believe in God and the universe, but I don’t really identify as Christian anymore. There’s a lot of things I love and cherish about my Catholic upbringing. I feel like it’s part of who I am and part of what made me who I am today. But I don’t feel like a part of the church.
I like believing in the mystery more. You think about the vastness of the universe. We don’t even know how big it is. There’s so much beyond our understanding. I don’t need to know if it’s the Catholic God or it’s some other one. I just know there’s a greater power and that’s enough for me. I feel comfort in just knowing that.
On Wednesday, I began my review of Siblings All, Sign of the Times: The Social Teaching of Pope Francis by Jesuit Cardinal Michael Czerny and Fr. Christian Barone, in which I looked at the beginning of the book and how it explains the pope’s inductive theological method, building specifically on the approach employed by the Second Vatican Council in its « Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World, » Gaudium et Spes. Today, I shall conclude the review, looking at some of the other important themes in this book.
The third chapter of the book sets forth five principles of discernment drawn from the social teaching of Pope Francis, which are critical in achieving the ecclesiological shift to a more synodal church. It goes without saying that this week’s release of the instrumentum laboris for the forthcoming synod makes this section especially relevant.
This chapter, then, undertakes to overcome one of my continual complaints about the way Catholic social teaching is taught, namely, as something that dropped out of the sky in 1891 with Pope Leo XIII’s encyclical Rerum Novarum. Our social teaching is deeply intertwined with our self-understanding as a church. It is not just a social ethic in a Christian key but an extension of our ecclesiology into the world by means of dialogue and fidelity to the witness of the gospels.
In this chapter, as throughout the book, the authors show how Francis builds on the work of his predecessors and how he also charts new directions. They add their own commentary, and oftentimes that commentary is quite beautiful. So, for example, while discussing the third criterion — « the realism of effective charity » — and emphasizing Pope Benedict XVI’s placement of caritas or love at the heart of our social doctrine, the authors note: « The kenotic or self-emptying orientation that God imposed upon love is a fact; indeed it is the fact, the very revelation of God’s face. »
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Here is the answer to those critics who accuse Francis of trying to align the church with the spirit of the age. The age to which the pope calls the church to conform is the apostolic age: We are to become a people who, like the apostles, have seen the face of God and have been changed utterly from that encounter.
The second section of the book delves into Francis’ encyclical Fratelli tutti. The authors jump into the deep end because, it turns out, there is no shallow end to that document, nor to the insights it yields. They note that the text « discerns the good that today bears as a promise of change and openness to the dynamism of grace (chs. 5-7). »
Here we see an echo of something I mentioned in Part I of this review, namely, that when Pope Paul VI came to acknowledge the ambivalence of the concept « signs of the times, » his Magisterium « sought to clarify the category, so that it would not be reduced to a mere recording of ‘facts,’ but that in it one would perceive that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work. » We Catholics look to the « signs of the times » for signs of grace, our eyes are informed by theology not just sociology, our discernment moves along lines charted by the gospels. Again, this is no mere capitulation to the spirit of the age but it also stands apart from the dominant deconstructionist approach in the humanities, including theology, today, at least in America.
We see again how the pope’s vision in Fratelli tutti challenges, but does not conform, to the age in the chapter titled « Generating an Open World: Discerning and Judging. » For example, they observe, « Love implies something more than a series of beneficial actions (FT 94) in that it leads to ‘being good’ and not only to ‘doing good things’ (FT 95). Love encourages us to overcome utilitarian morality, in which the pursuit of the good refers primarily to oneself and not to the other. Love, on the contrary, keeps moral action gratuitous and from prioritizing one’s own private interest (FT 102). »
Later, in that same chapter, the authors highlight one of Francis’ most interesting magisterial tics, his tendency to « bring opposing terms together, terms with ‘an innate tension’ between them (FT 142). » This tension is applied to the relationship of the global to local: « Turning our gaze to the global is indispensable if we do not want to remain confined to our own backyard, putting up fences that end up trapping us, » they write. « Vice versa, the global must not engulf what is proper to local realities, namely, domestic and family life in which all experiences of subsidiarity actually take place. »
The seventh chapter, « Building a Better and More Open World, » is faithful to the hopeful vision of Francis, which is, in turn, faithful to the hopeful vision of Gaudium et Spes. « How good it would be to establish an international body governed by law and empowered to sanction those who use economic means to establish hidden forms of neo-colonialism, » Czerny and Barone write. And, later in the chapter, we find this: « As far as war is concerned, it is a mirage to think it could be a valid response to the onset of conflict. »
With my historian’s eye, I see more of the shadow of the cross hanging over the political landscape. Concupiscence infiltrates the mind, flaming not only sexual desire, but the desire for fame or glory, which twinkles at least a little bit in most human eyes. The suffering in Ukraine reminds us that we chart our moral paths in this vale of tears we call history.
Now, I want my popes and councils and theologians urging our political life to seek the better angels of human nature. No one wants a bellicose pope! And we need the teaching of the church to balance the burden of history. Here is an area of Catholic social teaching where I make my own the prayer of the father whose son was possessed by a demon to Jesus for healing: « Lord, I believe; Help me with my unbelief » (Mk 9:23-23).
The last chapter deals with Francis’ vision of the Catholic Church, and all religions, putting themselves at the service of a universal call to all persons to see ourselves as siblings. For regular readers of this column, which so often attends to the estuary where political and religion intermingle, this section will bristle with provocations and insights. The authors again set forth the issues with boldness and, like the pope, they do not try to resolve every tension but seek to make those tensions fruitful rather than fraught.
So, when discussing the path of dialogue in the light of Nostra Aetate, the Second Vatican Council’s « Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions, » they write:
… Christian self-awareness is called to hold together, in a dynamic tension, these two constitutive elements of its identity. On the one hand, the certitude that in Jesus is given the full and definitive revelation of God, and so he is the « one mediator between God and men. » (1 Tim 2:5) On the other hand, the certitude that God wants all humans to be saved (1 Tim 2:4) and for this reason makes himself present to them in myriad ways (LG 16; GS 22), not only to individuals who implicitly and subjectively respond to the promptings of grace, but — as John Paul II would late insist in Redemptoris Missio — to entire peoples, cultures, and religious traditions (RM 28).
In my experience, this dynamic tension is generative, and the most profound preachers — people like the late Msgr. Lorenzo Albacete or Archbishop Augustine DiNoia, people capable of breaking open the Gospel anew, like words freshly spoken — are also those who are the least threatened by, and most capable of, interreligious dialogue and dialogue with the secular world.
There is much else in these chapters to which I could call attention. The section dealing with the tension between the public and the private in Chapter 6 is excellent, as is their treatment of religious liberty and interreligious dialogue in Chapter 8. But you should buy the book and read it for yourself to explore these and other important themes. It is really, really good.
I do wish to highlight something I mentioned above and in part one on Wednesday, however. This idea that we attend to the signs of the times with the eyes of faith, seeking « that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work, » in Paul VI’s words, leads to an explicit critique of deconstructionism, that approach to the analysis of texts and history that focuses exclusively on power and its relations and, in its various forms of critical theory, seeks evidence of oppression, not grace. « A kind of ‘deconstructionism’ (FT 13) is underway that aims to dissolve historical awareness and undermine the shared memory of past events, » the authors note in Chapter 4.
Earlier, in that same chapter, in discussing the « facile » objections to Francis’ proposal that we all come to recognize each other as siblings, Czerny and Barone observe that one « possible reservation » with the proposal is « the defense of one’s own identity. This objection shuts down dialogue and encounter with those who are different or far away. In this case, the problem is not the attempt, as such, to safeguard one’s own cultural heritage, but rather yielding to the temptation of imposing one’s own worldview on others. … Pope Francis has no qualms about stigmatizing such attitudes as ‘ideologies of different colors, which destroy (or deconstruct) all that is different (FT 13).’ »
In America today, where we are drowning in identity, these words ring true. The profound theological and philosophic issues that undergird these observations quickly get above my paygrade, but I can smell a mile away that they are onto something very important. Is it time to ask whether or not deconstructionism has proven to be a cul-de-sac? A dead end?
Fifteen months ago, at an ecclesial gathering of bishops, theologians and other church leaders at Loyola University, one of the bishops said he thought a foundational issue is that « we live in a culture of grievance but we possess a theology of grace and gratitude. » Since that time, those words have haunted me as profoundly true and profoundly challenging.
Here, in this new volume, I see the kind of focus that can build some bridges out of the socio-cultural impasse to which the bishop referred. It is a significant contribution, one of many in a book chock-full of important theological contributions. It should be widely read and deeply engaged. Cardinal Czerny and Fr. Barone have done something wonderful. This book is, itself, evidence of « that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work. »
Fifty years ago, my Chicano sisters and brothers shared their struggle for dignity with me — over two weeks — that I’ll never forget.
I was a 33-year-old Catholic sister attending an Ignatian symposium in San Francisco. Throughout the conference, we were challenged to look at our following of Christ as costing something, leaving our comfort zone, being changed.
A surprising intervention in the program occurred when Cesar Chavez, founder of the United Farm Workers asked to speak to the audience. His quiet composure and committed Christian presence altered the energy in the room. His question: could some of us join him on a picket line, possibly risking arrest?
After prayerful consideration and checking it out with my leadership, whose response was « no, » (they were not against supporting Cesar but thought my first obligation was to the eight-day retreat I was expected to do) I felt my heart open to follow Christ, regardless of the outcome. My schedule allowed me to participate for a weekend and soon, I joined others standing in the fields across from the Gallo vineyard near Fresno. I was shocked at seeing Teamster enforcers on the opposite side of the road holding rubber hoses, lead pipes and crowbars over the heads of Filipino workers who could not even look at us.
We had been given an option: if you were willing to go to prison, the longest time anyone had been held was two or three days — and that fit my schedule. Choosing to risk possible arrest, I joined the line in the fields, where it was over 100 degrees before 8 a.m. Chanting, singing, praying under the banner of Lady of Guadalupe had a profound effect on me; non-violence meant confronting armed thugs, whispering the rosary, weak in the knees with fear and exhaustion.
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Within four hours, police came and read us « the riot act » in Spanish and English, demanding that « we disperse as so ordered » and accusing us of starting a riot. Then we were arrested for breaking an unjust law stipulating that no person could stand next to another person to form a picket line.
I was relieved to be arrested (able to sit down in a bus!). There were 53 of us — 34 Chicano women, three laywomen from Protestant churches, and 16 sisters. We were taken to the Fresno County Industrial Farm. Our unexpected arrival meant previous occupants were moved quickly, leaving a mess in restrooms and the single dormitory.
Dorothy Day was with us and gave us sisters « Jail 101, » encouraging us to clean up the prison, decorate it with whatever we had in our purses, (e.g. dental floss holding brown paper towels with words like, « Hope, Healing, Peace » written in lipstick and hanging from the light fixtures). Bunk beds with no privacy lined both sides of our new « home » and the heat was melting us into oblivion.
Our brief weekend turned into two weeks, with two rides to the courthouse to be released, only to have the bus turn around and bring us back to an uncertain future. We were finally released on the third trip at midnight, on the morning of Aug. 15, 1973.
This experience taught me how vulnerable our Hispanic sisters and brothers are, how corrupt our « judicial system. » I knew in theory, but found the practice totally disregarded the law.
What impressed me most was the racism that our Chicano sisters and brothers live with: their insecurity as migrant workers, their fears for their families, their livelihood, and their deep faith in Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Almost immediately we decided to take turns praying through the night. Our « altar » was a central picnic table, with a copy of the bible in Spanish and English, and a small « holy card » of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which someone had « framed » in a shiny silver gum wrapper. Hour by hour, two people would pray in silence during the long hot nights of our two-week vigil. I still remember the strength of « presence » as we sat in silence, sometimes watching tears stream down my Chicana partner’s cheeks as she worried about her husband, (many spouses were also in prison supporting the UFW) her children, no income, threats to their homes and loved ones. Their wisdom and strength left a deep respect in my heart.
A week after we arrived, we were told that we could meet with a lawyer who would help us get out on « our own recognizance. » To avoid the monotony of the endless days and nights — even though none of us wished to get out on our own recognizance — most of the sisters agreed to meet privately with the lawyer.
A well-spoken man, dressed in suit and tie, invited each of us to meet with him, asking what we later found out was a bogus set of questions: « Do you live alone or in community? » « Are you gainfully employed or working for a group? » We learned later that each question had a number of points attached to it: if you lived alone you got five points, but if you lived in community, (i.e. hippies!) you got only one point. If you worked for the church rather than for a corporation, you got fewer points. None were deemed worthy of being let out of prison on our own recognizance.
Another example of surprise was food. One afternoon after lunch, one of our members discovered empty cans of dog food in the dumpster. No wonder that « rice and beans » had a different taste!
On our second trip to the courthouse, I was riding in the bus next to Dorothy Day. To make conversation, I was asking folks what their favorite scripture quote was. I’ll never forget Dorothy’s response: in her brusque manner she almost shouted out, « Is there any other? Nothing is impossible with God » (Luke 1:37)!
One day, when I felt overwhelmed and discouraged, my mother called with what she said was good news: « I’ve talked to the sheriff and he’s a good Irish Catholic, and he will release you. » My phone time was up, and I thanked her and ended the call. Another call that dreadful day was from my leadership, telling me how wrong I had been to get arrested, knowing I was missing giving some retreats. I went outside for our 15 minutes of daily exercise, lay down on the grass behind the prison curled in the fetal position, asked Mother Earth to hold me, and cried into the dry grass. Even now as I write this, I feel the energy of that embrace. It sustained me then and continues to do so.
When I got home my dear friend, our provincial leader, told me she had marched with Cesar during the Leadership Conference of Women Religious meeting in Washington, D.C. My mother insisted on taking me to a small cannery near my home where she proudly introduced me to some of the migrants working there.
I went outside for our 15 minutes of daily exercise, lay down on the grass behind the prison curled in the fetal position, asked Mother Earth to hold me, and cried into the dry grass.
In the months and years that have followed those memorable two weeks with the United Farm Workers, my naivete regarding our political system has had a reality check. People of color throughout this country face such inequities and still they move forward, raising their families, contributing to their neighborhoods and churches, building community that strengthens the fabric of this country, waiting for folks like me to recognize our racism and help change unjust systems.
As a Nun on the Bus, I met a Latino realtor who said that so many immigrants were afraid of deportation that they rarely bought their own homes, though they have the savings for a down payment. « However, » he said, « If the United States were ever to have a comprehensive immigration law that remained stable, we would have a housing boom in this country unlike anything we’ve seen before. »
Fifty years later, I believe the embrace of Mother Earth, as I anguished with the United Farm Workers under the banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe, was my « Si, Se Puede » moment. It energized me to shout with Dorothy Day, « Nothing is impossible with God! »
In the darkness of the isolation at the beginning of Covid, not being able to participate in in-person worship services wounded me. I ached for Christ and for community. I felt distanced from Christ’s body — and, more surprisingly, also from my own.
As Catholics, we are a Eucharist-centered people: Our faith hinges on the body of our God. But we have too few resources regarding the relationship between the body and spirituality, and I felt the lack deeply. Grace came to me in an unexpected way when I turned to YouTube for solace, stumbling upon yoga videos aimed to heal restlessness. In my search for peace in the midst of the pandemic anxiety, I found healing and exploration through the practice of yoga — a practice that ultimately brought me closer to Christ and the church.
What is yoga, anyway? Yoga is a practice. Just as Pope Benedict XVI calls the church to continual conversion, yoga challenges one to enter each day with a posture of responsiveness, rather than a posture of reactivity. It is rhythm and mindfulness; it is breath linked to movement. Yoga suggests that the quality of breath reflects the quality of mind. In learning to stabilize our breath, we gain the agency and power to stabilize our minds, and thus our bodies.
Christianity might have a controversial relationship with yoga, but yoga has also long had a contentious relationship with the West. I am grateful for my yoga practice and how it has brought me closer to Christ, but I am also aware of the westernization of yoga from which I benefit, as well as the danger of cultural appropriation that comes with this privilege.
Different eras of yoga have formed throughout time and location. During the Classical Period, Pantajali, a Hindu mystic, developed the Eight Limbs of Yoga, generating a philosophy that related breath to movement. There are similarities between the Eight Limbs of Yoga and the Ten Commandments, but maybe most particularly in the first two: the Yamas and Niyamas, the « Do’s and Don’ts » of a yoga practice.
The first Yama is ahimsa, which means nonviolence. This serves as the main pillar of all of yoga; all other Yamas and Niyamas stem and flow from this concept of nonviolence. In her book The Yamas & Niyamas: Exploring Yoga’s Ethical Practice, author Deborah Adele says that « nonviolence is a stance of right relationship with others and with self that is neither self-sacrifice nor self-aggrandizement. This tenet guides us to live together. » There is a liberation that is granted through the centering of nonviolence, but it is a liberation that requires a co-responsibility of taking care of each other. As St. Mother Teresa states, « if we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other. » The concept of ahimsa through the practice of yoga reminds us that we belong to one another.
The second Yama is satya, which means truthfulness. Adele notes that nonviolence and truthfulness are paired together in yoga as the two main guidelines of the philosophy, holding each other accountable by offering a nonviolent methodology in actualizing truthfulness. Too often in Christian circles, we focus only on truth — even allowing violence, physical or otherwise, as a means to this end. Yoga has challenged me to think more pastorally in how to reveal these truths to others, as well as to myself.
In the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s « Pilgrimage to Nonviolence, » he states that « the choice today is no longer between violence and nonviolence. It is either nonviolence or nonexistence. » There is a lot at stake here in committing to a posture of peace, for King suggests that it is either peace or nonbeing. The practice of yoga invites a commitment to a culture of peace, and thus a culture of being.
In further illustration of the power of yoga’s practice of nonviolence, it’s worth noting that yoga is one of the top recommended healing practices that therapists offer their clients, specifically clients of sexual abuse. For victims of any trauma, yoga serves as a way for folks to reclaim their body and their agency. It creates an environment and safe space that maximizes opportunity for self-care, and thus the potentiality of healing.
In the savasana pose, also known as « corpse pose, » you lay on your back — legs extended long, arms by your side — and just breathe. It is here in savasana where I have found that Christ meets me, over and over again, and where I meet Christ; it is here where my prayer thrives. This encounter with Christ through yoga does not replace the Eucharist for me, but rather forms me to hunger for the receiving of it even more.
One of my dear friends from divinity school, Kayal, says that « as Christians, we are able to see the world as it ought to be, but the world is not what it should be. » Yoga creates a space for me to tap into my mind and body to take on this quest as a Christian to see the world as it ought to be. I leave each yoga class as a better Christian — with a sense of sustainable hope.
Yoga has helped me to fall out of love with how my body looks, and rather to fall in love with how my body moves and feels. It has helped me to realize how the Spirit dwells within me, and to focus less on how I appear and more so on how I feel with the Spirit. I have learned to honor how my body moves through the Earth in an aspiring Christ-like manner, searching for wholeness in finding relation to one another through Christ.
Being Catholic calls for our Catholicity to shine through in what may be deemed as non-Catholic settings. It is to act as an extension of the Incarnation in what may be deemed by some as unholy. It is to find a sustainable Christian hope in all we do. Yoga granted me agency, and thus liberation, to recognize how present Christ is in the world, within me and beyond, strengthening my desire for the Eucharist, but also finding Christ present and active outside of the Mass, too.
