Offering and Sacrifice:
Answering the Call to Justice
BBy Kamila Chavez

      Since watching it for the first time, there has been one scene from Roland Joffe’s The

Mission that has replayed in my head. The scene: The Jesuit community’s superior, Fr. Gabriel, leading the Guarani people towards Portuguese gunfire while carrying the Blessed Sacrament. He is shot and killed, taking the monstrance to the floor with him. However, it does not stay there for long, as a Guarani man is right behind him, ready to pick up the monstrance and continue the mission. I was shown this film when I was a Junior in high school as an example of what commitment looks like. But I believe that this scene is a perfect example of the power of the Eucharist—the greatest example of love. “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” – John 15:13. Social justice is a labor of love, one that is often synonymous with suffering. There is no better example of this fact than two men, two martyrs living a thousand miles and five decades apart: St. Oscar Romero and Blessed Miguel Pro.

 

      There can be no fullness without loss and no offering without sacrifice. What we lose takes us closer to being filled with the love of Christ, that which we offer becomes our sacrifice. Christ offered his life and through the Eucharist, He inspires us to give all we can to the cause of justice. No one understood this truth more than the archbishop that would later become a saint and a patron of his people.

 

      Oscar Arnulfo Romero was born on August 15, 1917, in Ciudad Barrios, El Salvador. After a long formation for the priesthood abroad, he returned home in 1943, ready to begin a life of ministry and service.

To understand the significance of Romero’s work, it is necessary to understand the situation in El Salvador and the work of his close friend, Rutilio Grande. In the 1970s, the situation in the country was not ideal for campesinos. Fourteen families held all the power, and​ 2% of the population controlled 57% of the country’s usable land. On top of this, the government began severely limiting campesinos’ right to gather in community, something Jesuit priest Rutilio Grande was determined to correct. Grande championed Christian Based Communities, encouraging groups of campesinos to gather and grow in their faith.

     

      Campesinos were murdered daily, their bodies left on the side of the road as a warning. Meanwhile, Fr. Romero was quickly rising through the ranks of the Church, having been appointed bishop in 1970. While Romero was personally fond of Grande and horrified by the injustice in the country, he was suspicious of his friend’s work. Because of his skepticism, the Fourteen Families celebrated Bishop Romero’s appointment to Archbishop of San Salvador in February of 1977. No one expected him to become the biggest advocate for the poor. In Voice of the Voiceless: The Four Pastoral Letters and Other Statements, Ignacio Martín-Baró wrote, “All signs would have pointed in the opposite direction – to a peaceable, spiritually oriented, morally severe apostolate, to a man more likely to be at ease with the powerful than to act in an unshakeable solidarity with the poor,” (Martín-Baró 1). Just five weeks into Romero’s time as archbishop, everything changed.

On March 12, 1977, Fr. Grande was on his way to celebrate mass in El Paisnal with an alter server and an older man, when they were brutally murdered by Salvadoran security forces. Upon hearing the news, Romero rushed down to the place of his friend’s birth to offer a mass. Overnight, his worldview changed. If Fr. Grande had given his life for the people, living as Jesus did and walking with the poor, shouldn’t he do everything in his power to continue the mission? At Grande’s funeral, Romero said, “Let us not forget: we are a pilgrim church, subject to misunderstanding, to persecution, but a church that walks serene because it bears the force of love.” The man who was once at ease with the powerful would go on to live and die for the poor, powered by the Eucharist and the love of Christ.

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      Oscar Romero would later become famous for using the celebration of the Eucharist to bring news and a beacon of hope for thousands of people attending mass in person or listening at home. In his second pastoral letter he wrote, “The Church is the flesh in which Christ makes present down the ages his own life and his personal mission,” (Romero 77). If we are to consume His body, to be united with him in such a complete way, then we cannot ignore the call to justice. In a May 1978 homily, Romero said:

United to my sacrifice present on this alter, the people are made godlike
and now leave the cathedral to keep on working, to keep on struggling,
to keep on suffering, but ever united with the Eternal Priest, who remains present in the Eucharist so that we can meet him next Sunday also (Romero, 6).

 

      Through the strength that he found in the Eucharist, Romero was one of the many who kept working for justice, kept suffering persecution, and kept struggling day to day. He was no stranger to death threats, but he paid them no mind. He once went as far as to say, “Y si me matan, resucitaré en el pueblo salvadoreño.” (“and if they kill me, I will rise in the Salvadoran people.”). He knew the dangers of his work, but he did not give up, because he knew that he could not continue to receive communion if he did. In the same homily, he said, “If you truly believe that Christ is present and that you are united with him at the moment of communion, how is it possible for you afterwards to live so immorally, so selfishly, so unjustly, so idolatrously,” (Romero 5). He continued to preach this way, not shying away from the hard conversations, until the day he died.

Archbishop Romero gave his last Sunday homily on March 23, 1980. Speaking directly to the soldiers of El Salvador, he said, “In the name of God, then, and in the name of this​ suffering people, whose laments rise up each day more tumultuously toward heaven, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression,” (Romero, 20). No person, soldier or not, was bound by an order that went against the will of God. The last homily he ever gave was on March 24, 1980, while celebrating a memorial mass. Like most of his homilies, this one was modeled around our sacrifice for the cause of justice:

May this body that was immolated and this flesh that was sacrificed for humankind also nourish us so that we can give our bodies and our blood to suffering and pain, as Christ did, not for our own sake but to bring justice and peace to our people (Romero, 2).

     

      Just after these words, while preparing the alter for the gifts, Romero was shot and killed. He was shot by member of the Salvadoran military using a U.S. assault rifle. His death was the catalyst for the Salvadoran Civil War, beginning at his funeral where 30-50 people were killed when snipers shot into the crowd. The sacrifice of Oscar Romero inspired the people to continue the struggle for their rights, powered by the Eucharist. But he wasn’t the first to lose his life for his people. The future archbishop would have been ten years old in the fall of 1927, when a quiet priest’s prayer of becoming a martyr was answered.

Miguel Agustin Pro was born on January 13, 1891, in Guadalupe, Zacatecas. He was baptized on January 16, with water from the river Jordan. Pro’s biographer, Gerald Muller, C.S.C, writes, “It was a good beginning, and a harbinger of greater similarities between Leader and disciple that would culminate in a bloody, sacrificial death and the glory that follows such an offering,” (Muller 11). From the beginning, it seems that the future martyr’s path was set.

     

      Miguel entered the Jesuit novitiate at El Llano in August of 1911 and made his first vows in August of 1913. By 1914, the Jesuit community disbanded due to anti-Catholic discrimination. Pro fled to California, before being sent to Granada, Spain for five years. He was then missioned to Nicaragua, then back to Spain, before he was sent to Belgium to complete his preparation for the priesthood. He was never as academically gifted as his Jesuit brothers, but it would prove not to make a difference. After seeing a picture of what became of his classmate, Father Francisco Mateos said, “He has given to God and to the Church more glory with his death than all of us with our profound studies,” (Muller 68-69).

 

      On August 31, 1925, Miguel Pro was ordained to the priesthood. For the next year, he worked with socialist and communist workingmen, walking with them, and proclaiming the gospel. He wrote, “We should persuade ourselves with humility that we are the leaders in the name of the Church not only in religious matters but also in social questions,” (Muller 106). Simply saying mass was not enough for him, he had to live the ideals he proclaimed. That meant walking alongside the poor, being as dirty as they were after a long day in the mines.

Due to health issues, Fr. Pro was sent home in 1926, arriving on July 7. The Mexican Revolution had ended, but persecution of the Catholic Church was about to reach its peak under atheist president, Plutarco Calles. The Calles Law, a set of severe restrictions on the freedoms of Catholics went into effect on July 31. This included the prohibition of priests criticizing the government, wearing their cassocks in public, any celebration of the Eucharist, and Calles ordering all churches in several states to shut.

Since he had been away for so long, Pro was not known as a priest, allowing him to work underground to continue to bring the Eucharist to the people: I have what I call “Eucharistic Stations” (in private homes) where I go each day to bring Communion, making fun of the vigilance of the police, some days at one place, other days at another. On an average, I give 300 daily Communions. On the First Friday I had only 650, the second First Friday 800 and the third 910! That is true. It gives me a terrific amount of work but I keep on going (Muller 122).​

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      His anonymity did not last long. Among the people, he became famous for wearing disguises and going from house to house offering Communion and confessions. Within the government, it was known that there was a priest doing this work. He was sent into hiding by his superiors several times over his year in Mexico. As obedient as he was, Fr. Pro hated being in hiding. He wanted nothing more than to be with his people:

I think that between fear and rashness there is a middle course. I have told Señor Carlos [his provincial] all this but he still fears for my life! My life? What does that matter? Would it not mean saving it if I were to lose it for my brothers?

      Of course one must not throw it away stupidly, but when will the followers of Saint Ignatius enter battle if at the first shot they turn their backs? Fr. Pro was not afraid of being made a martyr, there was nothing he wanted more. That prayer would be answered on November 13, 1927, when an assassination attempt was made on former Mexican President, Alvaro Obregon. Miguel and two of his brothers were arrested upon the discovery that the bomb came from a car that one of them had sold a few weeks prior. Upon hearing of their arrest, Luis Segura Vilchis arrived at the police station to confess to his role in the failed attempt and affirm that the Pro brothers had nothing to do with the attack. It did not matter, the date had been set, and Miguel, Humberto, and Roberto Pro would be executed in the coming days.

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      On November 23, 1927, Miguel Pro was led out of his cell to the prison patio, where the firing squad was waiting. Also in attendance were President Calles with friends, journalists, and photographers. President Calles was to use an innocent man as an example to the Cristeros. When asked if he had a final wish, Fr. Pro asked for a moment to pray. He knelt, crossed his arms, and prayed silently before getting up and walking to his place. Spreading his arms, he held a cross in one hand and a rosary in the other and blessed his executioners. As the order was given to fire, he said his final words, “Viva Cristo Rey!” When the picture of Pro’s martyrdom appeared in the papers the next morning, it lit a new fire in the cause of the Cristeros. Fr. Pro had every reason to say no to the danger and spend his life in hiding, but he knew that what he was called to do was bigger than his fears. He was called to serve, to offer forgiveness and to fill people with the love of the Eucharist, and that is what he did right up until the order to fire. The mission did not end when Romero and Pro were martyred. Just like our mission did not end when Christ was crucified. The mission continues because Christ left us his body – the very same body St. Oscar Romero and Bl. Miguel Pro would spend hours praying in front of, asking for strength and direction. 

 

     William T. Cavanaugh writes that, “The eucharist...creates a body of people who by definition stand in the line of fire,” (Cavanaugh 177). The beauty of the Eucharist, Mass, and Adoration is that despite our flaws we can kneel before Christ and be shown the way, no matter how lost we are. We may not all be called to stand directly in the line of fire, but we are all called to not look away from the line of fire. In a prayer attributed to Oscar Romero, Prophets of a Future Not Our Own, we find: We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.

     

      Now, it is up to us to answer the call and continue the mission, even while knowing nothing we do will ever be enough. We are not afraid, because we serve a God that humbles​ Himself so that we may be united in Him. In the Eucharist, God has given us all the strength we will ever need to work for justice.