I barely met Archbishop
Romero. As in the old “Ben-Hur” movies, where the heroes have a chance
encounter with Jesus Christ in a melodramatic scene that has little to do with
the plot of the movie, I brushed up against Monseñor in brief and transient episodes in my childhood. But
someday, if God permits me, I will attest to generations who never saw him, that
I did see him, even if I barely managed to do so.
Our coincidence
in this “vale of tears” was a blink of an eye. When I was born in 1968, Monseñor had just over eleven years left
of his pilgrimage through this earth. And when he became Archbishop of San
Salvador, which was the first time he registered in my awareness, I only had
year and a half left in the country. But he made a great impact, right from the
start.
I vividly
remember the first time I saw his picture, in black and white, in “El Diario De Hoy” (a Salvadoran paper)
in 1977, when he was named Archbishop of San Salvador. I read the interview,
and I followed his first dramatic steps on the radio, hearing his impressive
Sunday homilies, along with the rest of the country. My grandmother who raised
me would take me to cathedral for the most important dates in the liturgical
calendar, such as Christmas, Easter, and the Feast of the Transfiguration to
see the “Savior of the World” (Jesus, El Salvador’s patron).
It was in this
context that witnessed his prophetic ministry in the culminating moments of his
public ministry. It was in 1977 that they killed Father Rutilio Grande, and
Father Alfonso Navarro a few months later. I remember going to the Cathedral on
Holy Saturday one year, and watching a Boy Scouts bonfire in Plaza Barrios in
front of the church. I remember watching Romero and some of his priests in a procession
around the inside of the cathedral, perfuming the temple with incense and
sprinkling holy water while the congregation sang, “The Lord is risen/Risen is the Lord.” I remember seeing trucks full
of soldiers around the square and thinking they were there to participate in
the Mass, perhaps providing protection to the flock of the faithful. It never
occurred to me in my nine years of age that their presence could be more
sinister.
But my dearest and
most sacrosanct memories of Archbishop Romero were more intimate encounters,
although they were all passing moments. Three episodes take precedence over all
others, and are etched in my memory forever. Once Archbishop Romero entered,
without advance notice, a Mass I attended with my grandmother in the now-disappeared
Church of San Esteban (St. Stephen’s),
in the district of the same name (this temple was consumed by fire in January
2013). Since the Mass had begun, he was announced by bullhorn from the back of
the church, where as I remember, he was delivered by car. He walked down the
main aisle of the church, with a green chasuble and his bishop's miter,
blessing and greeting those present, and passing directly in front of me. For a
moment, we saw eye-to-eye. Although it was over in a flash, it made a lasting
impression because St. Stephen was the first martyr of Christianity. To me it
was like a sign and a blessing to have lived this coincidence.
On another
occasion, my grandmother and I had attended Mass at the Cathedral, and upon
exiting the church, we saw that Archbishop Romero was greeting people on the front
steps, before Plaza Barrios. Taking advantage of a small opening in the crowds
around him, at a moment when there was no one there, my grandmother came to him
and knelt before him to kiss his ring. He crowned her with his pontifical
blessing. Being a little shy, I did not come too close, preferring to
appreciate this beatific image from the sidelines. For me, my grandmother and
Romero have been my spiritual parents, and this images figures for me like a
family portrait.
The third
meeting is the most intimate, but in some ways, the most ineffable and elusive
one. We were again at the Cathedral, possibly the same Holy Saturday discussed before.
I walked into a confessional. The details are blurry, a mystery that melts into
the mysticism and spirituality of the moment to make that episode into
something beyond history and time. Yet upon hearing that unmistakable voice, I
was left with the undeniable certainty that Archbishop Romero was my confessor!
I remember being struck by the lack of formality of his questions, and the lack
of austerity in his style of addressing me: Instead of reciting the repetitive
phrases of a formal confession, he asked me what parish I was from, and other
things that were not strictly part of an obligatory or customary examination of
conscience. Although I was sure that it was him, I take a certain delight in
being able to doubt if it really was—because it adds to the mystique of the
moment, and to the supernatural persistence of his presence in our lives. Archbishop
Romero was a spiritual being whose presence in history cannot be accounted for with
the sterile rules of science, or political science, or social theology. He was
a spiritual force, like the shadow of God hovering over the land.
I do not want
to pretend that these episodes were anything other than casual encounters:
ephemeral and passing. It truly is very likely that Archbishop Romero did not
notice me. Indeed, my goal in recounting them is to say that I noticed him. By a happy accident of
history, I have brushed up against this historical figure, and the grace of bearing
witness to his existence challenges me to also bear witness to his cause.
No comments:
Post a Comment