EDITORIAL

UP FRONT

GERARD MOLONEY CSsR

The way forward

It's an analogy I've used before. In 1977, a series of celebrated interviews took place between ex-US President Richard Nixon and journalist David Frost. These were the first interviews Nixon had given since the Watergate scandal had forced him from office in 1974, and Frost was determined to get him to apologise to the American people for what happened.

On April 22, 1977, Frost finally pinned Nixon down and extracted the apologia in a famous exchange. "I gave 'em a sword," Nixon confessed. "And they stuck it in, and they twisted it with relish. And I guess if I had been in their position, I'd have done the same thing."

The ''em' Nixon was referring to were his political and media opponents. He admitted that he had brought himself down because he had given his enemies the ammunition they were looking for.

Reflecting on the bad press the Catholic Church in Ireland has received in recent years, there is no doubt the church has brought most of its troubles on itself too. Like Nixon, it has given its critics lots of ammunition. Like Nixon, you could say the church gave 'em a sword and they stuck it in, and they twisted it with relish. And who could blame them?

One of this year's best-selling Irish books has been We Don't Know Ourselves, by Fintan O'Toole. It is a very personal account of Irish history from the year of O'Toole's birth, 1958, up to the present. Author and Irish Times' columnist, O'Toole is commonly regarded as Ireland's leading public intellectual, whose opinions matter. In the book, he chronicles the remarkable transformation that has taken place in Ireland during those decades. He maps out the disintegration of the old alliance of Catholic church and state that had been dominant for so long and describes the child abuse that existed at every level of the state and educational system and the punishment of women as sexual beings. It's a story of how the country has moved from backwardness to modernity, from darkness to light, how Ireland has finally, slowly, come of age.

Unsurprisingly, the Catholic Church does not emerge with credit from this analysis and O'Toole's anger is understandable. As its power and influence have collapsed in the last 25 years, what has been most striking is the level of anger directed at the church. Many people haven't just casually or carelessly lost their religion; they have consciously and deliberately tossed it aside.

The litany of church-related scandals is an obvious reason for this anger. But it goes much deeper than that. It's rooted in the close relationship that had existed for so long between priests and people. The church was at the apex of Irish life, a refuge and strength during the difficult times of landlordism and British rule, a trusted ally and friend of the person in the pew. So the revelations of sexual and other forms of abuse were felt by people as a personal betrayal; the wound more raw, more deeply felt, than in countries where the church had not been so dominant. People's trust was betrayed; their loyalty abused. It's easy to see why they would walk away with scarcely a backwards glance.

Many of those who have walked away are too young to have personal experience of the dominant, arrogant church of yesteryear, but Irish people have a residual collective memory of the church's role in post-independence Ireland and are reacting viscerally against it.

Authoritarianism, clericalism, vanity, intolerance, pietism, and pride have been the toxic mix that has so damaged the church in Ireland and elsewhere.

During his presidency, Nixon had made many enemies, and Watergate gave them the opportunity they were looking for.

The Catholic Church in Ireland made many enemies over the years too – not just those who suffered abuse, but those who were put off by its preening arrogance and unfettered power. In the eyes of many, as O'Toole describes, the church seemed more like a suffocating oppressor than an agent of liberation or a force for good.

Now it's payback time. It is hard to blame people for sticking in the sword and twisting it with relish.

It's also hard to see how the Irish church can even begin to repair the damage done. Its only hope is to follow the synodal path being set out by Pope Francis.

The future lies not in being a self-reverential, topdown club for celibate males that systematically discriminates against women but in an upsidedown church with structures that enable the sensus fidei (the sense of the faithful) to be heard, irrespective of gender, role or rank.

It lies not in arrogance, power, or the paraphernalia of office but humility, simplicity and service; a church of the street, not the palace.

It lies not in legalism and moral rigidity but mercy and understanding. Pope Francis' famous "Who am I to judge?" comment on homosexuality made headlines because it indicated a more compassionate approach to moral questions. Only when it's seen as slow to condemn and ready to stand in the other person's shoes will the church begin to regain any moral authority.

It lies not in presenting as a defensive, angry church preaching a message of fear but as a welcoming, joy-filled body of believers proclaiming a message of love.

More grace and less lace aren't going to pack the pews or stock the seminaries. Those days will never return. But following the path of humility and inclusiveness will at least give the church new credibility and begin to show it as a prophetic presence rather than a perceived obstacle to progress.

All of us at Redemptorist Communications and Reality wish you every blessing this coming Christmas.

IN SERVICE OF GOD’S LITTLE ONES

IN SERVICE OF GOD’S LITTLE ONES FR MURRAY’S MISSION IN BRAZIL

FR MARTIN MURRAY CSsR, A NATIVE OF LUSK, COUNTY DUBLIN, HAS SPENT ALMOST ALL OF HIS PRIESTLY LIFE WORKING IN BRAZIL, LIVING WITH THE POOREST OF THE POOR

BY ANNE STAUNTON AND PAT O'SULLIVAN

In the late 1970s and early 80s, you were in Itacajá visiting the rural communities on the back of a mule. Was it from the Basic Christian Communities that you discovered the injustices of the land situation? What effect did that have on your life?

Going from one community to another and listening to the stories of the people, I became aware of the suffering and cruel injustice that poor people in the parish had to endure. It was more than cruel. It was brutal because they lived in fear from day to day, not knowing the moment they would be evicted from their small plot of land for which they had no deeds, as they were posseiros (squatters).

They could not fathom how the piece of land on which they lived and worked for years and years could belong to someone else. A typical case is that of one posseiro, a father of a large family who lived for 44 years on land, which passed from one generation to the next. He was heartbroken as he told us his story. One day two men arrived from the south, waving a piece of paper, to tell him the land on which he lived was theirs. It never dawned on him that it might be a false document. He was stunned. He was threatened with a bullet if he didn't leave peacefully. From that day on, the family was gripped by fear of eviction.

The posseiros sought help from the local authorities but got little or no satisfaction. The country was under military rule at the time. I organised a meeting in the early days of the land struggle in a place called

Goianorte. We had a very simple message for the posseiros: the land on which they lived and worked was theirs. What stands out most in my memory is what they did as they were leaving the meeting. They were ever so

We believe strongly in a church of the poor and its option for those who are rejected, forgotten by society

Fr Martin Murray CSsR with Fr Eamon Gowing CSsR

pleased knowing that the priest was on their side. They rode off on their mules, shooting into the air as they realised that justice was on their side. The church's Pastoral Land Commission took on their case and fought it in the courts.

The land struggle in the two parishes I served had a huge influence on our pastoral work. The struggle to get justice for the weak and vulnerable changed our way of thinking, our attitude to people. It awoke a critical sense of reality in us and made us aware of the need for justice. We began to read the scriptures in a different way. We read them with one eye on the Word of God and the other on the reality of life around us. We realised the scriptures have two dimensions, one spiritual and the other social. The land struggle brought home to us that it was not enough just to celebrate Mass with them, baptise their children, marry their sons and daughters. Their battle for survival, their struggle for justice, their fears were ours too.

When the Redemptorists first arrived in the small towns in the north of Goias, the zonas were areas set aside for sex workers on the outskirts of every town and village. These zonas (redlight districts) were seen as just part of Brazilian culture, but not by you. After the 1990 Lenten Fraternity Campaign on equality for women, you started to organise these women. Tell us why.

The Lenten Fraternity Campaign of 1990 was a great incentive to do something for the marginalised women living in the zonas. It was an appeal from the churches for all to respect the person and dignity of women and their rights. However, we felt something more specific had to be done for the young girls and women living in the zonas. What gave us that big push to start? The incident in Jn 8:9-12, where the Pharisees brought to Jesus a woman who had sinned. They were armed and ready to stone her to death. Jesus looked at them and said, "let those who have never sinned throw the first stone." And, one by one, they left with their heads bowed in shame. Jesus turned to the woman and asked, "Did nobody throw a stone at you?" "No," she said. That short Gospel passage inspired us to get going and do what we could for the women living in the zona in the parish. Who was more excluded from society and from the church than these poor girls and women?

I became even more convinced after I attended a national meeting in Salvador organised principally for sex workers and marginalised women. One talk which stands out in my memory was given by Bishop Fragoso, who closed the two-day event telling the women, "You are more sinned against than sinning," and, in a dramatic gesture, he knelt down and asked pardon in the name of the church for the way it had treated them. I never saw so many tears flowing. The bishop's words and gesture were inspiring. They gave us the courage to overcome our fear and do something for the marginalised women in the zona. On returning from Salvador, I set about organising a team and found it anything but easy. When one man was asked to join the team, he said his wife wouldn't allow him. When a woman was asked, she said her husband wouldn't let her. And when we spoke to the youth group in the parish, they told us that neither their fathers nor mothers would allow them to be seen in the zona. However, eventually, I succeeded in forming a team that had the courage to be 'seen' in the zona. One member was a lady doctor who attended to the women's health needs, and she was so kind and caring that they looked on her as a mother. A married couple helped in every way they possibly could, and We began to read the scriptures in a different way. We read them with one eye on the Word of God and the other on the reality of life around us. We realised the scriptures have two dimensions, one spiritual and the other social a young Presbyterian girl completed the group. Trying to form the team was a sobering lesson; attitudes and prejudices needed to be changed. People, in general, were convinced that these women and girls working in the zona loved the life they lived (they are even known as mulheres da vida or women of 'easy' living!). Nothing could be further from the

truth. Their lives were hard and dangerous, living with violence and having no other option but to stay.

With this outreach, we hoped to influence people to think differently and change their attitudes towards these women. Our presence in the zona would testify that these were not dangerous, evil women to be avoided at all costs. We visited them, had meetings with them, and celebrated Mass with them in the zona. One highlight was the Mass we celebrated two days before Christmas. They had the place spick and span when we arrived. When it came to the Penitential Prayer, we had a small reflection, and I gave them a general absolution. Today we remember the prophetic words of Pope Francis, "Who am I to judge?" How true it is, these women were "more sinned against than sinning." Then about 20 years later, you moved to Fortaleza, a city of two million people. You took up residence in a shantytown where you have been living the option for the poor ever since. Was it hard to make the transition? Tell us about your life and work now.

Coming to the shantytown in Fortaleza was a bonus because the parish I had left was a very well-established one in the centre of the town, with a large, active choir. The church was packed for the Sunday evening liturgy, singing traditional hymns with no social dimension. Coming here to the shantytown was a step back to my earlier days in the parishes of Itacajá and Colinas. Of course, our lifestyle is hugely different in the shantytown. Our lifestyle is little different from that of our neighbours. Our house is small, just like theirs. We don't stand out. My transport for getting around from one community to another is a scooter, and Fr Eamon (Gowing) has a motorbike. You may ask why we live and work in a shantytown. We believe strongly in a church of the poor and its option for those who are rejected, forgotten by society.

One of the aims of our work is to help each community be aware of the reality in which they live, socially and politically, to show them that they are suffering because of injustice and corruption. We noticed when we first came here that people feared the authorities. That day has gone. They no longer fear the powerful politician. Even though they are poor and have little education, they realise they too have rights and are ready to speak up to defend them.

A crucial aspect of our work is Bible study. It's not an academic study, but a simple reading and reflection on the Word of God in which all are encouraged to link the text with their daily lives.

Life here in the shantytown is not all gloom. It has its good side. Even though people are poor, they have a remarkably happy spirit. We get a glimpse of this joyful spirit when they sit out in the afternoon in front of their houses, talking and laughing. They are so happy and yet own so little. What is it that gives them their happy outlook? Is it not a sign that God is on their side?

What a contrast meets the eye when you look up at the mansions on the hill overlooking the shantytown. These mansions are magnificent, each with its individual design, but the picture is different on closer inspection. Every house is surrounded by a high concrete wall topped by an electric fence. It's all silence and, as one of Shakespeare's characters says, "not a mouse stirring.” One hears no talk or laughter!

The downside of the shantytown is the violence. It comes from the drug gangs who fight and defend their space within the community to sell their drugs. These no-goareas lead to tension and fights between the different groups. During the day, people are terrified to leave their houses because of their fear of stray bullets.

Fr Martin and his famous scooter

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Jesus made a very deliberate and clear option for the poor. When we came to live among the impoverished in the shantytown, we made a conscious choice in favour of the 'rejects' and 'outcasts' of society. It's our daily presence with them that counts, and it says that "poor lives matter." We hope and pray that the Redemptorists coming after us will always have the option of living with and serving the poor.

MY BRUSH WITH THE FEDERAL POLICE

In 1985, 95 poor families from my parish in Colinas occupied an area of publicly owned virgin forest called Vale do Juari. They were enjoying the first fruits of their labour when suddenly it all turned sour.

A rancher who lived 3,000 kilometres away turned up with military police armed to the teeth. They ordered the defenceless families off the land, herded them onto lorries and dropped them far away. The posseiros (squatters) then had to decide whether to return to reap their harvests. The community encouraged them to go back as soon as the dust settled. Of the 95 families, 53 went back, rebuilt their huts and replanted their land.

The harvest was almost ready when it all fell apart again. The rancher returned with reinforcements threatening to shoot if their orders were not obeyed. The posseiros and their families were loaded onto waiting lorries like cattle and dumped in the square in front of the parish house. Six families had nowhere to stay, as they had no relatives living in Colinas. They lived and slept in the community centre, and our parish house was made available to mothers with babies and small children. Opening the church to these people drew fire from all sides. As one man in the parish said to me when I met him on the street, "You are destroying our parish. Forget about those posseiros.”

At this stage, the churches' Pastoral Land Commission (CPT) took on the legal battle on behalf of the posseiros. After a long and tedious struggle, the good news arrived that justice had been achieved, and the posseiros were now the legal owners of the land in Vale do Juarí. It was a tremendous victory for the posseiros, their families and the parish.

Having lost the legal battle, the rancher decided to invade the Vale and cut down and remove the best hardwoods. When that news reached the now legal owners, they decided that under no circumstances would he be allowed to steal their most precious asset. A few days later, two loaded trucks leaving the Vale were confronted. When the news reached Colinas, all hell broke loose. Fingers were pointed in the direction of the parish. The blame was placed on that communist foreign priest!

The federal police were called in, and an investigation began. Frei Henrique des Roziers OP, the CPT lawyer, was tipped off that the federal police were on their way to Colinas. He rang Bishop Collins CSsR and suggested that I leave the parish immediately. The bishop then rang me, telling me that I would be arrested and jailed if I remained. I left in a hurry, travelled by long-distance bus, and spent some time in the cities of Pedro Afonso, Miracema and Brasilia. In phone calls between the bishop and the CPT, I was referred to as ‘the parcel’ in an effort to outwit the police.

When the dust had settled, I returned to Colinas, where the main topic of conversation was the visit of the police. I was told of the rough and harsh treatment meted out to the youth group in the parish. One of them was arrested and jailed for two nights. Others were stopped on the streets and treated as if they belonged to a terrorist group. The police also demanded to see the minutes of their weekly meetings.

Shortly afterwards, I was summoned to appear before the chief of police. I relied on the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. The policeman looked at me and asked: Did you keep firearms in your house? I looked at him as much as to say, are you serious? He passed on to the next question: Did you hold meetings with the posseiros in your house? I said no. I wasn’t telling a lie as all our meetings took place in the community centre. He passed on to the third and final question: Did you incite people to invade other people's land? I said no. And I was not telling lies because the Vale was public land. This was the final episode that brought the bitter struggle for the land in the Vale do Juarí to an end. We celebrated the people's victory, and many of them continue to be involved in the Basic Christian Community that grew out of the land struggle.

Article author Pat O'Sullivan with Fr Martin Murray