the communal dance of love

A charla (little teaching) I shared with CASP students in Santiago Atitlán, January 14, 2024.

Two years ago I arrived to sit in this very same place (Santiago Atitlán), as a student on CASP, deeply disillusioned with the Church, and increasingly so, as I continued the journey of learning about the history of injustice that the Church not only was complicit to or participated in, but even perpetrated and instigated in Latin America. I found it so painful to even want to identify with Christianity as I learned about the complex interwoven history of religion and conquest/empire. This land (like so many lands) has been marked by so many horrible atrocities committed in the name of God, it is hard to recount, and even harder to reckon with.

Earlier in the week, we learned about the first church constructed in Central America (1524), which was first called “La conquistadora” (the conquerer). This church was built by the hands of the people native to these lands, and under circumstances that were principally defined by power (specifically, a differential and ABUSE of power by the Spanish). There are various stories about the construction of the church, but all point to the theme of power, evident in the design of the roof, reflective of the architecture of the boats that the Spanish arrived in. Some stories even say that pieces of the boats were used in the construction of the church building. No matter, the Spanish conquistadors arrived with the intent to expand their dominion (read: POWER) — with an agenda of conquest and greed to obtain more with little regard for the people and the land. The Church must reckon with the fact that Christianity in this region has long been tied to a theology of empire and conquest, quite opposite to the Gospel of Christ.

So I sat, deeply heartbroken, deeply bitter, also with some sense of betrayal that I’m not even sure begins to even slightly reflected the deep sense of betrayal that I imagine the people native to this land have felt. Certain tribes of the Mayan people around Lago Atitlán were promised power and privilege over other tribes by the Spanish, but were then deceived and burned alive. This story has so often repeated itself…enter someone from the outside to impose their ways and ideals by means of power and violence — pitting tribes against one another, destroying cultural identity, destroying the land, and even killing entire people groups. The Church has all too often been involved in this narrative of betrayal.

Two years ago, as I heard my TA (teaching assistant) tell this story of a Catholic Priest named Stanley Rother, I honestly was quite skeptical. Here, another foreigner with power, entering into a context that he knew nothing about — what would come of it? Would he do good in the name of God or would he bring harm, using God’s name as a form of justification for greed and violence? These are the questions I held two years ago as I listened. The questions and doubts and ponderings that I bring today are both still the same and quite different, though I am able to recognize that the place I was in two years ago is still important to fully give voice and space to. Knowing our own skepticisms, biases, and perceptions (read: BLIND SPOTS) and having an awareness of the social location that we come from is an important first step in our search for learning the whole truth.

As I’ve sat with this story over the last couple of days, there are some things that I hope to highlight to help us understand more not only about Rother, but about the Tz'utujil community here in Santiago.

Father Stanley (Francisco) Rother (“Padre Francisco” in Spanish or “Padre A’Plas” in the Tz’utujil language) served as a priest in this Santiago parish, from 1968-1981. He grew up on a farm in Oklahoma, and notably, after having felt a call to study at a seminary in San Antonio, was soon after asked to leave the seminary for his poor Latin. Yet in 1968, he received the call of his parish to come to Guatemala, and found himself in Santiago amongst the Tz’utujil people. Though he struggled with Latin, Rother learned Spanish and the Tz’utujil language, even helping to translate the New Testament for and alongside the people of his parish. Something to me that is so notable about Rother is that while he might not have been naturally gifted in learning languages, he was resilient, demonstrating humility, patience, and perseverance to be able to preach to people in their heart language!

As I sit and reflect on this story, I see the ways that he sought to practice incarnational ministry: he ate with his parishioners, visited the sick, and participated in the daily work of the fields with the campesinos. He also helped to create the first catholic radio station, a hospital, and a weaving co-operative that made stoles. He clearly loved his community, for he sought to join himself to them through many different aspects of his life. I love the Spanish word, “convivir,” which means “vivir en compañía” or “living with.” His love for this community was evident in his actions of solidarity, but this love was absolutely mutual. For me, this is evident in the sign of respect and love that the Tz’utujil community had for him: they honored him with the status of “elder.”

In 1980, when the violence of the civil war arrived in Santiago, the parishioners began to disappear. Rother sought to recover their bodies and help the families bury their dead (this is so important in the context of families and communities living with the pain not only of the absence of their loved one, but the agony of not knowing what had happened to them). It was during this time that upon the request of church leadership, Rother returned to Oklahoma for his safety. He did, but he could not stay — he returned to Guatemala 3 months later knowing well his fate. His famous words written in one of his last letters were these: “the shepherd cannot run at the first sign of danger.”

On the night of July 28th, 1981, three men from a death squad arrived in the night to disappear Rother, but he fought with them inside the church, resisting their attempt to disappear him. He told them, “kill me here,” and was shot two times, bleeding to death. He didn’t want his community to hold the pain of wondering about him should he be disappeared. His heart was buried beneath the church, as was customary in the Tz’utujil community. His community was left devastated — just one of the innumerable atrocities that mark Guatemala’s history. His story demonstrates a kind of solidarity and love that is powerful.

But as I’ve continued sitting with Padre A’plas’ story, it seems to me that he wouldn’t just want us to remember his name, but to remember and learn from his flock as well. Part of being a deep listener of stories requires us to also seek and/or imagine the voices that aren’t always elevated or are silenced all together. Though Padre A’plas undoubtedly exhibited a courageous character and faithfulness to his flock, I think we are also challenged to remember and honor this community that welcomed him in and extended friendship/kinship to a stranger/foreigner (the Gospel of Christ!). Especially amidst a backdrop of colonization and conquest, these peoples of these lands had reasons to reject Rother, yet they chose to build trust with him and shared a deep bond of love — of mutual kinship. It was a "communal dance of love" as a I heard a friend say recently.

So what can we learn from this mutual relationship of love? How was Padre A’plas formed, sanctified, and liberated by his community? Clearly he was shaped by his beloved community of the Tz’utujil people, evident in the fact that though he knew he was returning to his death, he so longed to be with his people in their darkest night. What beautiful and costly solidarity.

To return to my first point about hearing the story differently two years later… My hope and prayer is that both now and years from now, we will all continue to remain open and tender hearted enough to return to these stories that we will hear throughout our time on CASP. I pray that we each time might continue to hear something differently, think about something differently, and even throughout our lives choose to respond differently to these systems of injustice, hopefully always with increasing courage, increasing humility, increasing patience, increasing faithfulness, and increasing love.

“El pastor no puede huir ante la primera señal de peligro. Oren por nosotros para que podamos ser la señal del amor de Cristo para nuestro pueblo, que nuestra presencia los fortalezca para que enfrenten estos sufrimientos como preparación para el Reino que se acerca.”

{The shepherd cannot flee at the first sign of danger. Pray for us so that we might be the sign of Christ’s love for our people, that our presence would strengthen them so that they might face these sufferings as preparation for the Kingdom that is approaching.}

May we each participate in this mutual kinship, this communal dance of love, so that we would be the sign of Christ's love in the world -- proclaiming the goodness, beauty, and justice of the Kingdom that has broken in and that is coming in full.