by JasonOne of the hardest stories that we often tell about our time in rural Costa Rica was of the local church community and how it struggled to live by many of the Catholic customs and rules that we take for granted in our home parishes. The people who had it the hardest were the Nicaraguan Catholics, most of whom had fled various difficult circumstances, left behind everything, and migrated illegally to our little community. Because they fled without thinking about their baptismal certificates (I mean, that would not exactly be the first thing on my mind), they were very restricted in how they could integrate into the Costa Rican community. Sacraments were not accessible, for example, since everything hinged on a baptismal certificate. To add to this, most of them felt unwelcomed inside the physical church building, and so they would travel, sometimes walking several miles, only to stand outside the latticed walls and listen in. To put it lightly, there was an unwritten but palpable wall that stood between them and Jesus. Some were told that they could receive the Eucharist again if they stopped living with their partner - except that they had lived together for decades as spouses because of the limitations on the sacrament of marriage. Also, women would have to find a job, which was virtually impossible, or starve. Others were told they could be baptized if they attended classes - which were held once a week, an hour by car up the dirt road at the parish center. Again, since most worked 6 days a week, they would have had to basically quit their jobs to do this. It was our first glimpse into real sacramental poverty outside of the U.S. While we know that there are similar cases of parish segregation here, it is rare to find such extremes in limitations on receiving sacraments. I guess this is why we didn’t really get too upset when churches were closed during the shelter-in-place orders across our country. We kind of saw it as a way to live in solidarity with our Catholic brethren in most of the undeveloped or underdeveloped world. To live in longing for Jesus in the physical Eucharist is a reminder of how much He means to us. It also helped us to see God in many of the other ways that He can show Himself and His Glory to our human eyes. As time goes on during this pandemic, we really didn’t know when we’d be able to set foot in a church building again. My wife, who suffers from a suppressed immune system and has a history of chronic and recurrent pneumonia, is solidly in the ‘at-risk’ population, and so we continue to follow guidance and shelter in place, even after the country has opened and Masses have begun in public forms again. At one time, we talked about attending weekday Mass, or maybe even a drive-in Mass held at a nearby parish. But, we are often discouraged by discussions which are less than convincing that our fellow parishioners are as concerned about obeying official guidance - even flaunting civil disobedience in some circles. When I do walk to church wearing a mask, I feel the same discriminating stares as the time when Margarita walked past the latticed wall and sat by us during Mass. Religious freedom is being mistaken for personal freedom in our communities, at the cost of inclusion and protection of those who are at-risk. Just as the Nicaraguan Catholics are given supposedly ‘simple’ solutions to their sacramental poverty, we have been told to simply trust in God, that a few vocal neighbors are probably not representing the hearts of our community, and that the sacraments are more important than health. These are easy things to say, and honestly, we would probably have said a few of these things if it were not for the medically induced trauma that our family has endured over the past year and a half. The one thing that we’ve learned about solidarity is that it is the silver bullet against judgement. Excuses aside, we now live very much in solidarity with our Central American brothers and sisters who sacrifice so much only to have a very real barrier, stronger than bricks, placed between them and the Holy Eucharist - a barrier in the form of social excommunication. Like the illegal immigrants outside those walls, we look to our shepherds to guide us. Bishop Mark Seitz and Cardinal Blase Cupich have been encouraging positive witnesses for us, letting us know that we are loved in our absence, publicly wearing masks, and often encouraging such behavior. But, we also see some shepherds and leaders encouraging divisive behavior, while many are not going out of their way to model care for those on the margins. It is a selfish structure that has built itself around the physical presence of Jesus, suffocating our Church so that it cannot breathe and exhale the Love of God. Like the Samaritan woman who was prohibited from worshiping God according to local customs, Jesus seeks us outside of the crowds, and so we worship him in Spirit and Truth (John 4:23). In our poverty, we continue on, just as so many in our world hope to see God provide for their needs. God has allowed our solidarity to become minor but very real suffering, a grace that connects and joins us with our brothers and sisters who, like us, look forward to the day when He welcomes us again.
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On a MissionTwo passionate parents and their four children are excited to bring His Word to everyone in need while living a life of Gospel poverty as missionaries. They invite you to join them on a journey to encounter our global neighbors that Jesus commands us to love through works of charity and service. Archives
April 2021
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