Just this week, I learned of the passing of someone most dear to me, someone whom I met in my twenties just after my father’s death–and someone who very quickly became a father-figure to me. He was there for me in many of those big moments of life down here…..when I got my doctorate, when my husband was ill, when my daughter was born, and then when I too became ill. He was even one of the very few who travelled to visit and pray with me while I was in the bone marrow transplant unit. He was such a great man of God and, as an ordained minister, he spent many decades in some form of ministry, both in and out of the pulpit. And he taught me so much about what it really means to be a servant.
I vividly remember the day he schooled me the most. I had gone to meet him at the last church he had served as a full-time pastor (just before his supposed “retirement”) in order to seek his wise counsel as I shaped the study I was undertaking for my doctoral dissertation in education–a study that would focus primarily on students in U.S. schools who, as did he, spoke Spanish as their first language. As I described the design of my study to him, I remember him leaning back and saying to me, “I want to tell you a story, Angelita.” His name for me had always been a most sweet joke between us since I, though quite a bit taller than he was, never ceased to find myself affectionately referred to as his dear “little Angela.”
The story he told was about a ministry, in his beloved and native Peru, that had taken on a beautiful life of its own. It began with a group of people who had very few material resources, and virtually no place to call home, so they set up camp on some unclaimed land not far from my friend’s church; and as the camp grew, the local authorities shockingly allowed them to stay there. And so my friend began to frequent their spot, helping them in any way that he could, eventually even holding services there. It was all so organic, so unplanned–and it was also so not what most call “church.” According to my sage friend, it was simply all about going to the people, whoever they happen to be, and meeting their needs on their turf and their terms. After the story, he then asked me how often I had ever seen anything like this happen here in our country, in our schools, in our churches. And I, of course, had to say, “Never.”
We went on to have a long talk about how we often put “great” programs in place and just expect people to come. We expect this because the programs make sense to us, but he challenged me to always ask myself if they would really make sense to all of those whom I wanted so desperately to serve. He helped me to see what is perhaps the major flaw in U.S. institutions of education and of religion; so much of what we have done, and many continue to do, is much more about us than about the people we say we are reaching out to–the very people that we, in theory at least, are meaning to serve. All of this, and much more, he taught me in just one story about one South American community in his Peru.
Though I do feel some deep level of joy that my friend no longer has any physical limitations whatsoever to contend with, that he is now living in the midst of joy and peace and love Itself, I did indeed like this world much more when he was down here in it with me. I’m just selfish that way. I cried much when I heard of his passing. I cried for myself and for his family. I cried because it had been too long since I had reached out to him and because I no longer can reach him. But, now, I will try very hard to remember all that he taught me in and through his life here; and I’ll no doubt smile whenever I hear anyone say “Angelita” and I’ll surely remember what a giant of the faith my querido amigo, Lucho, was…..and still is.
Leave a Reply