FROM THE DIRECTOR… 

he rainy season was over. Or so I had been told. When Fr. Martin and I landed in Tuxtla Gutierrez, Mexico, the gray, overcast December sky gently reminded us that she had a few more showers in her. Fr. Gonzalo Ituarte, pastor of San Jacinto Church, the Dominican parish in Ocosingo, was waiting in the airport lobby, ready to whisk us eastward for a month-long visit with our Dominican brothers and sisters.

fter exchanging fraternal greetings and bienvenitos, Fr. Gonzalo informed us that the brakes on the community’s old gray, 70’s Toyota pick-up had to be replaced, and so we set out on a mini-quest of Tuxtla to find a repair shop that had the leisure to service the truck immediately. Presently, we found a suitable shop (complete with an assortment of chickens, roosters, and piglets incessantly pecking at and sniffing the damp earth) and the job was finished in a half hour.

I soon discovered the need for sure brakes. The road between Tuxtla and Ocosingo is as scenic as it is dangerous. Unlike U.S. highway cautions, the many signs marked curva peligrosa along the way were perhaps an understatement.

Simultaneously marveling at the fecund waterfalls while holding our breath around the S-curves above sheer cliffs (devoid of guardrails), we snaked our way through the narrow mountain ranges, which lead up to the quaint colonial town of San Cristóbal de las Casas before we descended into the forest valley that situates Ocosingo. It began to rain. Luckily, a wise traveler had counseled me to bring a jacket: "You can always use it as a pillow," she said.

When we arrived, I had the feeling immediately that something was missing in the church. It was roofless. Built in the late 1600’s by Spanish Dominicans under the influence of the beloved Dominican advocate for the indigenous peoples of Chiapas, Fr. Bartholomew de las Casas, San Jacinto is getting a much needed facelift. Of course, repairs mean inconveniences: besides the usual noise and dust that construction generates, Masses had to be held in the large, open patio space adjacent to the church. Yet these inconveniences were hardly enough to dampen the spirit of the faithful. The colorful, vibrant Masses clearly demonstrated that the Church is very much alive in the community.

he Dominican community at San Jacinto welcomed us warmly, inviting us to take full part in their very active ministries, contemplative prayer, and engaging fraternal life. The community itself is familial in scope. Spanning five generations, there are two Dominican Cooperator Brothers, three Dominican Priests, five Dominican Sisters of the Presentation, and two Dominican volunteers all living under the same roof, sharing the same meals, and working together to build up the Church in Ocosingo and the outlying forest pueblos. It was a joy to see the fruits that issue from the coordinated effects of the Dominican family in action.

Territorially, the parish of Ocosingo is one of the largest, if not the largest, in the world. The town itself is the gateway to the great selva, in which resides the famous Lacandon rainforest. Since roads (paved or unpaved) are somewhat scarce in this area, it is challenging to establish and maintain communication with the indigenous communities. In fact, during the rainy season many of the dirt-turned-to-mud roads are impassable. Thus there is no shortage of ministry opportunities and needs. Besides the sacramental ministries (which are very much needed and always in demand because of the shortage of priests in the area), there is also a wide array of catechetical and educational programs that the various members of the community organize and facilitate. Fr. Pablo, Fr. Nelson, and Br. Jorge were especially helpful in introducing me to their various ministries. Their zeal for their work was infectious!

ager to experience life with the indigenous, I accompanied Sisters Doris and Aurora to Suschila, a little pueblo outside of Ocosingo, for a two-day instructional forum for local catechists. Though I was unable to understand the Tzeltal idiom (most of the indigenous people either do not speak Spanish or only converse in Spanish if need be), the faith and dedication of the catechists was demonstrable. At one point, the assembly was broken into small groups and each group presented a short scene from the Gospel. Particularly moving was the drama of Mary Magdalene’s encounter with the Risen Christ, which impels her to preach the good news to the disciples. I did not need an interpreter; the enthusiasm of the catechists as they acted their roles brought the scene to life before my eyes.

Also memorable were the stories that the friars told me about the Church and the local political situation in Ocosingo. During the initial days of the Zapatista revolution of 1994, some of the bloodiest fighting had occurred in the plaza and market just a few feet from San Jacinto; the Church itself was fired on and sustained some damage in the bell tower. The CB radios, which they had in order to stay in touch with outlying communities and journeying friars, had been confiscated by the government as "instruments of terrorism." Accused of giving sanctuary to rebels, they have been raided numerous times. Yet through all the violence, bloodshed, and politics, it is clear that the community has kept its focus squarely on the three-fold mission of Christ himself: to preach, teach, and heal. The power of prayer, combined with the intimate solidarity that the community enjoys with the people, provides the backbone for the flourishing of the Gospel.

urther travels brought Fr. Martin and me to Altamirano and San Cristóbal. We spent a weekend at the church in Altamirano, celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany (which according to local custom is referred to as the Feast of Jesus Sentado). We also spent some time at Hospital San Carlos, which is now staffed by the Mexican Daughters of Charity. The hospital has served the community well. Despite threats from strong-armed military lackeys to burn the hospital (because it supposedly helped a rebel) Sister Maite and the Sisters provide vital medical care to the impoverished area. In fact, such is the number of people who flock from miles around to receive care that they are in the midst of building a new structure down the street.

n San Cristóbal, we were not only present at the historic church of Santo Domingo, but we also toured the hill country above the town, with Frs. Roberto, Alfonso, and Gilberto, going to such places as Zinacantán, San Juan Chamula, and Tres Cruces. We were fortunate to be in town during the fiesta of Señor de Esquipulas. During these days of festival, the regal pageantry, solemn processions, and colorful liturgies lit up the small pueblos. Of course no fiesta is complete without the dizzying sounds of the live mariachi bands, the snapping and cracking of the battery of fireworks sent heavenward, and the warm smells of plates filled with smoking tamales!

Perhaps the most memorial experience of the trip was celebrating Mass in a little patch of grass next to a Catholic home in Tres Cruces. In Tres Cruces, the Church is still very much persecuted. The municipal leaders severely discriminate against Catholic families: they have denied them access to the local water supply (they must hike several miles to fetch potable water), they have slammed shut the doors of the local schools to their children, and they have even burned down the small chapel that had been built with the support of Holy Trinity Parish in Phoenix.

The Mass that we celebrated on that chilly day in Tres Cruces marked the anniversary of the brutality suffered by this faithful remnant a year ago. This violence drove many from their homes, left others to mourn for family members arrested and murdered, and left the community with a smoking heap of rubble and ash where once stood their new church.

hen there is the story of Maria. A matriarch of the community, and the mother of three boys, this bloody violence has ripped through her family, tearing it asunder. Her husband, Mariano, and her eldest son are buried in the bowels of the state prison. Another son, Gregorio, was brutally murdered, and her youngest boy, fearing for his life, fled to parts unknown. As she stoically tended to the bowl of incense during the Mass, one could not begin to imagine the range of emotion that she must have felt in remembering these events and offering prayers for her loved ones. She, together with the entire community, remains a living witness to the faith. It was truly humbling to worship in the midst of the Church Suffering.

In sum, I had quite an experience. Whether negotiating the muddy paths of Zinacantán in an old VW bug, or furtively scurrying across a rotting makeshift bridge 100 feet above a river to bring anointing to the sick, or teaching Chamula children how to play "Rock, Paper, Scissors," my time in the Missions was challenging, illuminating, and ultimately fruitful. I felt the twinge of departure as we drove back to the airport in Tuxtla. Like the enlightening experiences of the last month, the weather was warm and the sky clear. My jacket was packed. The rainy season was over.  

Prayer: Triduum of Saint Martin de Porres