A Moment in Nicaragua
(Author’s note: A few posts back, I mentioned coming across a stack of homilies I wrote and delivered back in the mid 90’s when I worked at the Newman Center, the Catholic faith community at The Ohio State University. I sifted through them and found one in particular that rises to the surface of my thoughts ever so often. I wrote and shared this particular reflection in my early 30’s, at a Holy Thursday liturgy where the traditional Washing of the Feet ritual takes place.
It is necessary to let you know that I no longer follow or practice Catholic Christian (or other Christian) ways. But I have deep respect for any tradition whose spiritual outlook anchors itself in service to others, and relationships, and getting about the messy business of being community with and for one another. When I was twenty-five years old, I took my own understanding of all that to the mountainsides of Nicaragua, and came home with this one of many stories. I wish only to share, not offend or make demands of your own belief systems. Take what works, and leave the rest).
“It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.”
The words of a 17th-century Spanish revolutionary have often been my own. The passion they express feeds the rebel in me, a rebel who sees too many people forced to beg for what is rightfully theirs. To them I say “Yes! Fight to the end! You’re a human being! Don’t sacrifice your dignity. It is better to die standing proud than to live groveling at the feet of power abused.” I used to believe that, and some days it still sounds good—an empowering message to those who are oppressed.
But then I remember an encounter I had six years ago in Nicaragua, and the rebel in me gives way to someone else, a part of me that I fear. And love. And hope for…
His name was Donaldo. I think.
As a member of a Witness for Peace delegation in 1988, I traveled to Nicaragua to document the war between the Contras and the Sandinistas, how it impacted the people caught in the middle of too many opposing ideologies. We trained in nonviolent resistance, attended scheduled meetings with community and government leaders and stayed with various host families as we moved through the countryside, listening and learning. Donaldo was not on our itinerary.
One afternoon in the hills of San Juan del Rio Coco, we were supposed to celebrate Mass with a priest from the town nearby, but he hadn’t shown up. First one, then two, then three hours passed, until finally Erik, our WFP guide, suggested we visit with Donaldo while we were waiting. It seemed like a harmless idea to me, until Erik explained that Donaldo was a soldier, bed-ridden with injuries he had sustained in a late-night Contra attack.
I was immediately anxious. You see, back then, at twenty-five, I had lived a rather cushioned life, hadn’t seen a lot of suffering, much less the physical effects of that kind of violence on a human being. What would he look like? Smell like? What if his appearance was more than I could take? I didn’t want to see someone whose body had been insulted by bullets and grenades. But there was no way to politely decline Erik’s offer. Our delegation traveled as a group. We had chosen to be in that country. It just wouldn’t have been right.
As we emptied out of the bus that brought us to his home, somehow I ended up the first one to enter his small, hot shack (what was I thinking?). The other twenty-three delegates filed in behind me. The only way out of this room was now blocked, and I was feeling more than claustrophobic. It was as if those walls held nearly every fear I knew—pain, loss of control, violence—and it wasn’t possible to look away.
He was lying on a cot. Half of his left arm was gone, the fingers of his right hand curled into a permanent fist. He couldn’t even sit up, but he did roll onto his side because he wanted to face us as he spoke. And in that moment, as he looked at each of us, and at me, I slowly fell to my knees. No other posture seemed appropriate, for here in the bed, twisted and insulted by bullet and grenade, lay the body of Christ. We listened for an hour or so to his story, his spirit. He encouraged us to continue to work for peace. We never did have Mass that day, at least, not in the way we had expected.
Donaldo didn’t die on his feet. And I had never understood what it meant to live on my knees until that afternoon.
When Jesus tied a towel around his waist and knelt to wash the feet of a tax collector, a few fishermen, someone who would later betray him, he did more than just remove a day’s accumulation of dust and sweat. He gave to them, and to us, a ritual, a lifelong posture of a heart oriented toward recognizing and serving the God in everyone. Everyone.
That orientation of heart is passed onto us each time we gather here, and is realized at the feet of our children, where we learn innocence and forgiveness again. At the feet of one who stops us on High Street asking for change or directions to North Central Mental Health. At the feet of creation which sustains us and supports us, delights and frightens us. And perhaps it is realized as we kneel in front of our own reflections, deeply aware and thankful for the incarnation that happens every morning when we open our sleep-crusted eyes.
Tonight, we gather to recommit ourselves to life on our knees. Not in submission to dignity exploited or power abused, but in conscious adoration of and compassionate service to the body and blood of Christ present all around us.
Let all creation bend the knee…
