sábado, 10 de enero de 2009
jueves, 1 de enero de 2009
Everett Hobart, Reflections...April 11 1999 Cycle A Easter Time
A few years ago, we came across a migrant labor camp about a half mile into a orchard in Orleans County. At the end of the dirt road, was a cinder block barracks building with a communal kitchen. There were about 25 people from Mexico and
Central- America, who had come to harvest the apples. I returned to that camp several times during the summer to facilitate a bible study group. Among the workers, there was a young man, Carlos, who turned out to have been trained to lead prayer and liturgies of the word in his home village in the mountains of Honduras since a priest could only get there on horseback about once a year to celebrate sacraments. One evening, Carlos said a prayer in which he thanked God for having provided them a work in a safe place where nobody bothered them, for, the friends, which they had made at the camp, and for the church that had reached out to them in this place so far from home.
On the evening of November 1st, Fr. Ivan Trujillo, a Bolivian priest living in Batavia, came to the camp to celebrate mass of All Saints’ Day. The readings, centered on beatitudes, were especially powerful when heard in that humble place.
When we hear of the disciples meeting behind locked doors for fear of the authorities,
yet celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and breaking bread, I can’t help but think of that camp and the good people in it living in fear of “la migra” – the agents of immigration- and yet celebrating their faith and breaking bread together in their communal kitchen.
The next summer, I got a phone call from Carlos, “Me and my eleven friends have just finished picking blueberries in New Jersey. Is there work for us in New York State?”
I was a little taken back and told him to call me back on the following Thursday. I called Sr. Mary Jane, Director of the Ministry, and said that she would check around. The next day, she gave me the home phone number of a Spanish speaking man in the State Labor Department who would be expecting Carlos’ call on Thursday. Wednesday evening. I got
another call, “We are in Williamson!”. I gave him the phone number and suggested that he contact other organization. On Sunday, he called again, “We’re at the motel in Albion; our money is running out; the State Department of Labor say there might be something in a few weeks; the orchard where I worked last summer can only take two of us and I can’t abandon my friends. What can I do?” I was flabbergasted, what could I do? I called Sr. Mary Jane and she said that she would pray for a small miracle. That evening, I drove up to Albion to see Carlos and his friends. As I entered their room, Carlos said, “With one more, we’d be the twelve disciples!” Next evening, I went to the home of Sylvia Davis, one of my coworkers in the migrant ministry. We went out into her garden filled a bag with jalapeños and tomatoes and then went over to visit a woman at Sodoma Farms and her husband, the crew chief. After a bit conversation, we broached the subject of 11 Hondurans looking for work. A funny look crossed the crew chief’s face, then he said, “That’s strange, 12 Mexican left this morning”. Sr. Mary Jane’s small miracle had happened! I talked to Carlos and his friends a number of times during the season. When I asked how they had had the courage to come up here with absolutely nothing, they replied quit simply: “We knew that God would provide for us”. In Peter’s letter to the “chosen sojourners of the dispersion” he said, “Although you have not seen him you love him; you rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy as you attain the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls”.
The next summer, I went to visit another camp one evening. As I was walking through, I heard a voice call out “Hermano Pablo”. It was one of my Honduran friends back for another season (they call me Pablo since Everett is tough for a Spanish speaker to pronounce). That season, Sylvia and I facilitated a RENEW group among Hondurans. The insights that they shared with us were very powerful. When we finished the series and the men were getting ready to leave, we could not keep ourselves from saying to them: “We have seen the face of Jesus in the face of each of you”. In a small way, we shared in Thomas’ exclamation “My Lord and my God”
A few years ago, we came across a migrant labor camp about a half mile into a orchard in Orleans County. At the end of the dirt road, was a cinder block barracks building with a communal kitchen. There were about 25 people from Mexico and
Central- America, who had come to harvest the apples. I returned to that camp several times during the summer to facilitate a bible study group. Among the workers, there was a young man, Carlos, who turned out to have been trained to lead prayer and liturgies of the word in his home village in the mountains of Honduras since a priest could only get there on horseback about once a year to celebrate sacraments. One evening, Carlos said a prayer in which he thanked God for having provided them a work in a safe place where nobody bothered them, for, the friends, which they had made at the camp, and for the church that had reached out to them in this place so far from home.
On the evening of November 1st, Fr. Ivan Trujillo, a Bolivian priest living in Batavia, came to the camp to celebrate mass of All Saints’ Day. The readings, centered on beatitudes, were especially powerful when heard in that humble place.
When we hear of the disciples meeting behind locked doors for fear of the authorities,
yet celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and breaking bread, I can’t help but think of that camp and the good people in it living in fear of “la migra” – the agents of immigration- and yet celebrating their faith and breaking bread together in their communal kitchen.
The next summer, I got a phone call from Carlos, “Me and my eleven friends have just finished picking blueberries in New Jersey. Is there work for us in New York State?”
I was a little taken back and told him to call me back on the following Thursday. I called Sr. Mary Jane, Director of the Ministry, and said that she would check around. The next day, she gave me the home phone number of a Spanish speaking man in the State Labor Department who would be expecting Carlos’ call on Thursday. Wednesday evening. I got
another call, “We are in Williamson!”. I gave him the phone number and suggested that he contact other organization. On Sunday, he called again, “We’re at the motel in Albion; our money is running out; the State Department of Labor say there might be something in a few weeks; the orchard where I worked last summer can only take two of us and I can’t abandon my friends. What can I do?” I was flabbergasted, what could I do? I called Sr. Mary Jane and she said that she would pray for a small miracle. That evening, I drove up to Albion to see Carlos and his friends. As I entered their room, Carlos said, “With one more, we’d be the twelve disciples!” Next evening, I went to the home of Sylvia Davis, one of my coworkers in the migrant ministry. We went out into her garden filled a bag with jalapeños and tomatoes and then went over to visit a woman at Sodoma Farms and her husband, the crew chief. After a bit conversation, we broached the subject of 11 Hondurans looking for work. A funny look crossed the crew chief’s face, then he said, “That’s strange, 12 Mexican left this morning”. Sr. Mary Jane’s small miracle had happened! I talked to Carlos and his friends a number of times during the season. When I asked how they had had the courage to come up here with absolutely nothing, they replied quit simply: “We knew that God would provide for us”. In Peter’s letter to the “chosen sojourners of the dispersion” he said, “Although you have not seen him you love him; you rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy as you attain the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls”.
The next summer, I went to visit another camp one evening. As I was walking through, I heard a voice call out “Hermano Pablo”. It was one of my Honduran friends back for another season (they call me Pablo since Everett is tough for a Spanish speaker to pronounce). That season, Sylvia and I facilitated a RENEW group among Hondurans. The insights that they shared with us were very powerful. When we finished the series and the men were getting ready to leave, we could not keep ourselves from saying to them: “We have seen the face of Jesus in the face of each of you”. In a small way, we shared in Thomas’ exclamation “My Lord and my God”
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