Oscar Romero and the Cross

Thirty-one years ago today, Oscar Romero was assassinated in El Salvador.

Those of us who are progressive theologians in the United States are generally skeptical of the language of sacrifice, and for good reason. We have seen it abused in so many ways. Women have been told for centuries to “bear their cross like Jesus” and endure domestic violence. Children have been abused in the name of a Father God who put his own Son to death. And, if we are honest with ourselves, we just don’t like to think too much about blood and pain. We would rather envision a happy Jesus, a resurrected Christ.

I wonder, though, for a person like Oscar Romero, who watched friends and parish members die all around him, if the image of a dying Christ was not some comfort, an image of solidarity.

Oscar Romero was appointed archbishop of El Salvador in 1977 during some of the most violent and repressive years just preceding the Salvadoran civil war, a time when the military was torturing and killing any who resisted their rule. The 70s and 80s were years of civil war and political infighting. Interestingly, Romero was chosen because he was viewed as a moderate who would not bother with political issues, who would keep the Catholic Church closely aligned with the rich and powerful. He had been educated in Italy and was known as a bookish sort of man, certainly not a revolutionary, not a prophet.

Just a few weeks after he took office, Father Rutilio Grande, a close friend of Romero’s, was assassinated for his political leanings, along with two of his parishioners. From this time on, Romero’s views changed drastically as he became more and more aware of the suffering of the poor around him. As archbishop, he was strongly influenced by liberation theology, so strongly in fact, that the Reagan administration labeled liberation theology a threat to national security. After only three years as archbishop, 31 years ago today, Romero was assassinated by a paramilitary member. He was one of at least 75,000 people who died during this time in El Salvador, including 16 priests and 4 Maryknoll nuns.

It seems to me, in this context of suffering and death, that the cross took a whole different meaning. In 1998, toward the close of the El Salvador wars, the Oscar Romero Pastoral Center reflected on what the cross meant to them. They noted that, more and more, the official Roman Catholic hierarchy was stressing the life of Jesus and his resurrection and minimizing the cross. But they also noted that the people of El Salvador still clung to the image of the cross, “because the poor and oppressed have identified since the beginning with the suffering of Jesus on the cross that has been associated with their own suffering, cruel and unjust, imposed and inescapable, which accompanies them from birth to death.” They ask this; “The wise should not be scandalized and the powerful should not make fun of the poor when they are seen walking behind a dead Christ.” In this dead Christ, they see their own suffering. Jesus in solidarity with them, giving them the dignity the rest of the world denies them. One of the martyred priests of El Salvador, tortured and murdered in the college complex he taught in, Ignacio Ellacuría said to his people; “You are the crucified people, the presence of Christ crucified in history.”

And what does it mean to stand with these crucified people in history?

For Jesus, who said that he had come to preach good news to the poor and proclaim a kingdom of justice, it meant his life. In our gospel passage, Jesus foresees his death, as he puts it, that “his hour has come.” Knowing this, he still set his face toward Jerusalem, to preach truth to power. As Lent progresses, we remember this journey toward death.

He knew. And yet Jesus went. Why? Why do some people go forward in the face of almost certain death to do what they know they are called to do? Romero too knew that he might encounter death for what he stood for. He had watched friends and fellow priests die for taking a stand on the side of the poor of El Salvador. Jesus has watched the death of his cousin, John the Baptist, for his message. Why this level of commitment? What is important enough to die for?

Romero might give us a few clues. He preached constantly about God’s preferential option for the poor. He says this; “We are a product of a spiritualized, individualistic education. We were taught: try to save your souls and don’t worry about the rest. We told the suffering: be patient, heaven will follow, hang on! No, that is not right! That is not the salvation Christ brought. The salvation Christ brings is a salvation from every bondage that oppresses human beings.”

I was deeply inspired by the EDS dean Katherine Ragsdale’s vision statement earlier this year. She observed; "few, if any, institutions have grappled adequately with the complex and threatening problems of classism in our churches and our society." This, I believe is our new challenge.

For Romero, his commitment to the most marginalized was very concrete and very real. He didn’t just talk about it. He lived it and ultimately died for it. So did Jesus.
Most of us in seminary are in a place of privilege. Like Romero, we are well educated and well read. We could choose a pretty comfortable life, though I would guess most of us are not planning to do that. But, whatever our backgrounds, we are graduate students, one of 9% of Americans who have that privilege. Romero has something to say to us. “When we say ‘for the poor’ we do not take sides with one social class. What we do… is invite all social classes, rich and poor without distinction, saying to everyone: Let us take seriously the cause of the poor as though it were our own—indeed, as what is really is, the cause of Jesus Christ.” We are invited to take up the cause of Jesus for the poorest among us.

We do not live in the El Salvador of the 80s and most of us will probably never face death for what we believe or teach. But we do live in one of the richest nations on earth that has a dark underside of poverty, of homelessness, of exploited labor, and of an abusive prison system. During morning and evening prayer here at chapel during Lent, we have been exploring this reality. Who are the crucified people of our own cities and towns and countryside? Every one of us walks past members of the homeless community every day. On the border earlier this year, I met more crucified people, people who were forced to flee their homes to survive, who are abused and hated and even die trying to enter our country. These were, these are Christ among us, crying out in pain among us. Our prisons are full of young and desperate people, and a large percentage of communities of color, revealing the dark underside of both racism and classism in our society.

In all this suffering and death, is there any hope? Romero said; “If I die, I will be resurrected in the Salvadoran people.” When I was on the border, I saw so much suffering that it was hard to see hope. Yet, I found it in a mural painted on the side of a priest’s office in Altar, a place of so much hardship for migrants as they begin their journey across the desert. In this mural, bones and the death are strewn across the desert and people are staggering along toward the horizon. Yet, above the horizon is an image of the Virgen de Guadalupe, the patroness of Mexico and the revelation God’s love to them. She holds her hands in prayer for her people and beckons them toward hope and resurrection. As we face a monumental task of solidarity with the poor among us, as we as an institution face the task of calling the church to become the church of the poor, we hold to the hope of resurrection, of the realization of the kin-dom of God among us.

I leave you with these words from Oscar Romero;
“God’s reign is already present on our earth in mystery. When the Lord comes it will be brought to perfection.” That is the hope that inspires Christians. We know that every effort to better society, especially when injustice and sin are so ingrained, is an effort that God blesses, that God wants, that God demands of us.

Only moments after he spoke those words, reportedly as he raised the cup during Eucharist, Oscar Romero was shot through the heart at the altar.

Class and Immigration

The one thing we don't usually want to talk about in the U.S. is class. Class seems fluid and tricky. For some, the term is too Marxist. For others, it just makes them uncomfortable. But we still use terms like "middle class" and "working class" or "working people" all the time. We all know, especially those of us from the working class, that there is indeed a class system in the United States.

Even though I am now in seminary, and in an academic world, I still identify strongly with my working class roots. My dad works in a warehouse and my mom runs a dog kennel on their farm. I grew up there, learning the value of hard work and working-class values. We never went hungry, but we never had a lot of money either. We lived in a mobile home and my dad built a barn to house our goats and chickens and we all dug a garden to grow our vegetables. My sisters and I are the first in our family to receive a university education, thanks to scholarships.

As I have been more and more involved in immigrant communities, as an ESL teacher, as an activist, and as an advocate, I have seen people who are working hard to make ends meet for their families. Immigrant workers are often exploited in the workplace, receive low wages, and struggle to survive and feed their kids. I've seen the same in the majority white, rural, working communities I grew up in.

That's why, when I attended a meeting hosted by the MA state governor's office last week in Framingham about Secure Communities, my heart dropped to see so many working class white people show up with their support. Secure Communities is opposed by the immigrant community because it creates a partnership between ICE (the branch of Homeland Security responsible for arresting and deporting undocumented immigrants) and local police. Many white people from the local area showed up with signs that were particularly offensive to the immigrant community ("I love gringos" "Go home, Illegals!").

Working class people have been told over and over that their own woes should be blamed on immigrants who are stealing their jobs. In this way, people who should be natural allies are pitted against each other.

I wanted to say; "Look, we are all in this together!" The reality is that the government policies that drive so many people to immigrate to the U.S. are the same policies that are hurting working class people in the U.S. For example, NAFTA allowed large corporations to import their products without tariffs into countries like Mexico. This drove corn prices down so low that millions of subsistence farmers in southern Mexico have been forced to migrate or starve. It is no coincidence that 1994 marked both a massive increase in border crossing and the implementation of NAFTA. At the same time, large corporations also have consolidated their landholdings, forcing U.S. farmers out of business and into poverty. Factories and industries in the U.S. that have employed most working people have been closed, because trade policies allow corporations to move offshore to make a better profit. Workers, both white and immigrant, are facing a massive economic squeeze for the same reason. Yet we are fighting each other!

If only we could recognize this and work together!