The poor teach us

Fr. Alejandro Mesco

The poor teach us. No, no, no, I am not talking some of the sloppy sentimentality that passes for serious thinking in too much of the Hollywood set. Rather, today I am thinking about the example of a friend of mine.

In southern Peru, I was field director of a region. I had two indigenous priests under my care. Both of them lived out in the shantytowns, one by choice, and the other by birth. Fr. Alejandro was in the shanty towns by birth, and it was there that I met him. He grew to be a good friend, and a traveling companion, and sometimes even a goad that pressured me to do the right thing.

The Anglican Diocese of Peru is not rich, so it can only pay its priests very little. Despite that, Fr. Alejandro had begun caring for the children in his block. He knew what it meant to go to school without breakfast and be hungry during the school day. So, he and his wife decided to give each child on their block a small breakfast on a school day. What they called a small breakfast would barely qualify as an after-school snack for most of us. It was a small dry bun, some jam, and a hot grain drink. But, it was heaven for the children who received it. Eventually, he started a child care center with diocesan help, but that is another story.

I noticed one time that he looked somewhat sad and strained. Since that was not normal for him, I asked him what was up. At first he did not want to reply, but finally told me that he and his wife were nearly out of food. I do not mean out of food for the children. I mean out of food.

And my heart sank and grew a little inflamed. Without telling him, I drove out to the shanty town where he lived, to one of the farmer’s markets in the area and spent extravagantly. I was determined that he would last out for at least a week of solid eating and have enough dry goods to last for a month. The people at the farmer’s market must have wondered what tornado had hit them. I went through and bought several chickens. I bought a 100 lb sack of rice. I bought vegetables. I did not bargain at all; I would simply point at something, ask the price, and buy it. I look back now and realize that I was feeling a high degree of guilt that the missionary had food in plenty and the indigenous priest did not.

And, so, I took that whole load to his house and handed it over to his wife, who was overwhelmed with joy. Job well done, thought I. A couple of days later, I asked him how he was doing only to find out that he had thrown a “party” for his entire block. I was utterly shocked, and my first thought was to wonder how he could have squandered a good half to three quarters of the food, but I said nothing, fortunately. I say fortunately because he went on to say how happy his people were because all of them had had a good taste of meat and had eaten their fill and had rejoiced and were glad.

And, in my heart, all I could say was to ask the Lord to have mercy on me, a sinner. I had thought of redeeming myself and the diocese for our failure to take better care of one of our priests. But, he had thought of the better thing. He had thought of how he could share, out of God’s unexpected bounties that came through the crazy missionary who was also his superior.