From the Desk of Fr. Mike:

THE FRIENDS OF GOD:

Dear God,

I would like to talk to you about a topic that seems so important to you: the poor.  I mention them because you seem to be very close to them.  Didn’t you even promise them your kingdom?  You must like them because you created so many of them, and I do hope that some day you will keep your promise to lift them up (Luke 2:52-53).

What amazes me is that you said that the poor are your presence: you, the almighty, chose to hide yourself in the weakest and the seemingly expendable members of the human family to show your strength and glory.

God, I really like that you do not talk about theology to people who are sick or illiterate or go to sleep with an empty stomach.  Rather, you came to us and you experienced directly, in the flesh of Jesus your Son, what the poor are living every day of their lives.  Before proclaiming “blessed” those who cry, in Jesus you learned how to cry, and before declaring “blessed” those who hunger and thirst, you yourself have gone without food and water for forty days.

If you still have some time for me, I want to tell you what I saw one day during the frantic coming and going of children and young women behind a wall in Cholle, Ethiopia.

Full of curiosity, I followed them.  Behind that wall, hundreds of people were pressing one against the other waiting for their three gallon water containers to be filled: it was their supply of water for the entire day.  Women and children moved quickly in the long line that led to the tap.  At the head of the line there was a man carefully dispensing the precious liquid with a hose, making sure that not one drop was wasted.

Tezeta, the little girl with an old and rusty bucket made it to the top of the line.  Finally it was her turn.  A jet of water fell from above directly into the bucket that she, with difficulty, carried on her head, making her body wobble for a moment before she regained balance.  As the bucket was being filled, she winced with pain because of the effort that her tiny body now had to make to sustain the weight.  A few cups of water fell on Tezeta’s  face and dress, but she could not stop to dry them because her hands had to firmly hold on to the bucket and the woman behind her must quickly take her place.

Rather than going to school, the same little girl traveled with her bucket through the dusty alleys of the little town every day, rain or shine, to perform the same chore of getting water for her family.  This heavy task would have been more commensurate with the size and the strength of her older brother, but at 14 years of age he is a man, and as a man – in that culture – he is entitled to have water, not to provide it.

As I mingled with the crowd, I also noticed a few young men who were taking very seriously their job of keeping order and controlling the line.  They held sticks in their hands and often wielded them generously on the bodies of those who did not stay perfectly in line, or talked and did not move fast enough to take their places.

As she left, Tezeta stumbled in a treacherous hole in the ground, and fell on top of her bucket, spilling all her water.  Immediately another little girl helped her up, and with an affectionate hand put her back into the line.  But before her turn arrived, water was finished and the tap was closed.  Tezeta and many other people had to go home with their buckets empty for another hot day without a drop of water.  I saw her leaving quietly with her head bowed, walking in brisk, short steps as if trying to escape from the sadness in her heart.

Dear God, often I think of life as a long rope stretched between our world of time and your world of eternity, one that we have to walk like acrobats in a circus.  The life you have given us is a tough exercise in keeping our balance on a tightrope, so how can you expect those who have only one leg, or one eye, or are sick, or do not have water or food, to face such a challenge?

The dawn is colored in pink and quickly the blue in the sky becomes more intense, almost cobalt blue.  I continue thinking of Tezeta walking like an acrobat on the tightrope of life with a heavy bucket on her head.  On the same rope with her there are the many faces of the people of Cholle.  God, aren’t they the ones who most resemble you?  Aren’t they you in person?

Help me always to see you in them.

Love from me,

Fr. Michael

GOD’S MOUNTAIN

I always disliked going to celebrate Mass in the “Capital Remand,” the bleakest area of the Kilimangai Prison in Kenya, because of the irrational fear of being taken hostage.  However, every first Thursday of the month, at exactly seven thirty in the morning, I would set out for the prison built during the colonial times halfway up the bare side of Kilimangai, an extinct volcano; the British authorities had not seen much sense in wasting good land on useless prisoners.

The popular translation of Kilimangai is “the Mountain of God.”  A scholarly friend of mine tells me that a more accurate translation would be the “Place of Spirits,” but I want to think of it as “the Mountain of God.”

I parked near the entrance, where there would already be a number of people - mostly women - waiting to get in to see their friends or relatives.  They often waited for hours under the fierce tropical sun or in driving rain.  Armed with the equipment for Mass, I headed for the main gate where usually cheerful guards stood.  The next step was to check in and register through a window.

Then, I went through a second gate, and then a third gate would open and close before I entered an open space where inmates exercised or simply basked in the sun, some of them whistling or calling out “Jambo (Hello), Father.”

Finally, I crossed the open courtyard to a grimmer area: a low, squat block measuring about 12 by 30 yards called the “Capital Remand.”  No matter what the outside temperature was, I always shivered involuntarily as I entered.  The structure consisted of two rows of cells with windows not much larger than the size of an envelope.  Because we were almost directly on the equator, the tiny windows allowed no direct sunlight to penetrate the gloomy interior.  The only source of light in the narrow corridor was a single low-wattage bulb.  The interior smelled of flea insecticide, human waste, and stale warm air.

The inmates in this section of the prison were gaunt, lifeless, and droop-shouldered.  A cloud of despair hung over everything and everyone.  The building was called “Capital Remand” because the prisoners held within this section were those serving hard time.  These men had been accused of armed robbery, rape, cutting throats, shooting at rival cattle raiders or even at the police or army, and committing every serious crime in the book.  Incidentally, many of these had been found guilty and had been unceremoniously sentenced to death.  Some others had been in “Remand” for four years or more, waiting for their cases to be heard.

About 80 men would be crammed in the corridor with me for Mass - the only person from the outside allowed into the Capital Remand.  My homilies were always reluctant and filled with clichés.  I felt I had nothing to say: no message of hope or consolation. They were hopeless; I was hopeless.  What does one say in such a situation?  They, themselves, never participated very actively in the celebration.

Coming out of the Capital Remand, I always asked myself, was it worth it?  Was there any sense in coming here month after month?  As I looked up at the peak of Kilimangai, I felt that even God had forgotten this small patch of land on the side of His mountain.

One Thursday at Mass, as I sat on a blanket to read the Gospel - sitting on the floor has a great leveling effect - my frustration at their passivity got the better of me and I started railing at them, “I come here month after month.  Most of you do not care about religion and never went to Mass when you were in the streets.  You only come because there is nothing else to do.  Does Mass have any meaning for you?  At least say something!”

I sat for a good minute - not a sound or twitch from anyone.  I was right, I thought, it was a waste of time.  I decided I would not say anything more and I would simply not turn up next month.  As I was about to get up and leave, a man stood up.  He was gray and emaciated and had a scraggly beard.

“We are put in here by the government,” he began to say slowly and softly.  “We are forgotten.  Hardly anyone comes to see us.  Even our relatives, wives and children are ashamed of us.  If anyone does come, they have to wait for hours and be searched in a degrading manner.  When they are allowed in, there is a mesh screen between us, and so we only see a sort of shadow.  We cannot touch them and they are soon sent away.  But when we have Mass, God comes through the first gate, and the second gate, and the third gate, and He is in here with us now.”

He sat down, and we all sat in silence.  No one moved.  The man did not say, “We’re happy you came,” or “Be patient with us and keep on coming.”  In fact, he didn’t say any word of acknowledgement of me and the effort I was making to go there.  No, in fact, he didn’t see me or even a priest.  His mind went to someone beyond the incidental and the human.  His mind went to someone beyond all that: God was visiting them.

I stood up, and we went on with the rest of the Mass.  After that, I have stopped being worried about what I have to say or contribute in the homily.  Of course I keep preparing, but mostly I let God visit his people.

Returning to my car in the hot sun, I looked up to the top of Kilimangai and knew that God did remember this miserable patch of humanity on this mountain.

And yes, I did go back the next month and many months after that, until the day we had to say Kwa heri (good-bye) with a loud “God always be with you.”

Father Mike