Into Paraguay

I leave on a bus at 1 AM Brazilian time to return to Paraguay. I will be in the capitol city called Asuncion for the next month. It will be an experience to assist the indigenous population who are very poor. Some  live the garbage dumb of this city of 2 million.
When I was there last, I had very limited internet access, so it may be Christmas before I can post regularly. Be well to all my friends and family, Peace and love to all.

The Toy Maker and the German

Last night a sound registered me awake, and although my mind could not place it in heavy sleep or dreamy stirring; it spoke urgency. The steel door of the brothers’ house was being worked with great leverage. It was no knock. I have heard that rap many times on the door of the brothers’ house on the border of Brazil and Paraguay.

I looked through my feet as I laid in the living room facing the open air foyer. The foyer is fifteen feet long and six feet wide and centers the chapel, the priest’s private quarter, and the front door. I felt little distance from the door as I reasoned the situation. I saw light cracking through the lock side jam, and then the resistance of the steel snapped the corridor dark again. This repeated in a rhythm of force and recoil again and again. It was a couple seconds before my instincts kicked me treading to an upright stance.

I went first to close and lock the living room door and alert the brothers. I found no lock, it had been removed. I didn’t know the time I had, and didn’t rationalize the gates construction, but it was holding! I realized all of the brothers and father were in back sleeping in the open air kitchen because of the heat. I was alone against this tormenting wrenching. I made the choice to swing out the side door and face the passage that shoots from the front door to the very back of the house. This is the only way in and out, and from there I could confront them before a breach of defense. The brothers would hear me, and most importantly the person or persons behind the door would hear me. I had surprise, and a solid plan.

And then quiet, a deafening quiet. As a puff of wind they vanished, and I waited to confirm their exit for ten minutes. I returned to bed and waited until all was peaceful, both in the house and in my mind. I did not sleep for a time as dozing seemed indulgent. It could have been a hungry person or a confused son just drunk enough to take his anger on inorganic object. I never found out.    

***

There are many people crammed into this house; it feels that someone is always on top of you. I may still be accustom to living alone, but you are never alone and even in the bathroom most of the time the knob will rattle or there with will be a knock at the door. I think that only made my being alone earlier so strange. I fell back asleep around four o clock. At 4:10 AM the alarm clocks began chiming from the back if the house. I felt a relief to have their movement in the house and soon they were buzzing around in preparation of an early morning mass. This was not a normal occurrence; an exception for travel to Sao Paulo for Fr. Rafael and many of the brothers. Father walked by prepping his vestments and I stopped him to explain the sound at the door. He agreed with me that it was strange, and that I need to sleep.

I heard the chimes of the Holy Eucharist around five o’clock.

At seven the younger formandos sang their way to the door and out to school.

The prayer bells rang at seven thirty and again at eight for breakfast.          

I awoke 8:00 am.

***

The Toy Maker and German

The bells for breakfast signal the house open for our sons and daughters to come in and have café and bread.  I sat and ate two small French breads with butter and enjoyed the calm of the near empty house. I smiled as a few of the sons came and stood at the table. They know prayer is required and Br. Baruc, who runs the house, lead them in an Our Father and a Hail Mary.

A square jawed man with blue gray eyes and white hair buzzed almost to his scalp sat down and gave me a quick hello and good morning in English. I meet him on the mission to the favelas that climb the hills above the river. A world traveler he spoke many languages and shared many interesting experience from his travels. He held two conversations at once, one with me in English, and one with brother in Portuguese. He effortlessly navigated both as neither was his native tongue.

“I didn’t ask your name the last time we met, mine’s Sean.”

He chews a chunk of bread. “It’s George, but they call me Alemao.”

I laughed, “That makes sense being your German. (Alemao is Portuguese for German) You speak well, did you have any problem learning Portuguese?” 

“They think their language is so hard to learn, but it is quite easy. You find things to read when you are on the street and listen to all the conversations at bus stops. If that is all you hear, it is easy to figure out.”

He pauses and looked me directly in the eyes, “What are classes, four hours a week – right -for as long as you want to pay. Well I am in class every hour of the day and I learned quickly. Very quickly and it costs nothing! I just sit on a bench and many things are talked about right beside me.

“That makes sense, how many languages do you know.”

“Five or so.”

A tan middle aged man dropped his duffle bag, walked to the table, and stopped himself to pray. He finished the prayer and was handed a plastic cup of coffee and bread. His eyes showed his quiet excitement for the small meal. He didn’t have the steeliness of the German.  He was slow to speak but not shy. I could see him tone out when the German talked. To everyone else, he remained patient for someone to make their point before speaking. He chose to remain silent most of the time, but nodded to confirm he was listening.

George was speaking to brother and I started to speak with this new man.

I spoke in Portuguese, “Hello, how are you today?”

“More or less.” He looked up at me. “ And you?”

  “I am well. My name is Sean?

“Leomar.” He seemed to enjoy that I was asking him questions.

The conversation opened up to the table. Brother Baruc asked about his sun burn. He was newly cooked around his chest by the sun, which was a contrast to his dark workman’s face. I could tell the new shirt was a different cut than the one he had before. A sharp v of red was now very obvious.

The conversation shifted and I got lost in the speed of their words. Leomar ran over to his bag and pulled out a pair of pillars, medium gage wire, and a handful of plastic whistles. He scattered them on the table with a wire sculpture complete with a tiny plastic cup in it. He filled the cup with liquid soap and handled it across the table. Brother took it and watched as Leomar showed him in pantomime how to use it.

Soon the air was filled with soapy orbs from his simple hinged machine. The German was unimpressed and turned to drink his coffee. The rest of us laughed and traded the toy around trying to outdo each other with size and quantity of bubbles. We just enjoyed the experience and Leomar showed a kindly glint of satisfaction for our enjoyment. Brother handed it back and Leomar asked if we would like to see him construct one. We all nodded for him to go ahead.

He turned the wire deftly, and in five minutes time had completed the frame. Brother took a cue of his own and walked away from the table. Leomar drilled into the whistle with an ice pick to mute it and focus the air flow. He twisted off the steel wire around the plastic lip of the whistle and then created a loop for a little bathroom cup that would hold the soap. Brother returned and set a full sleeve of little plastic cups.

I walked over to watch. “How much do you sell them for?”

“Three realis,” he responded with a smile. (Three realis is about a $1.50) 

 I decided to buy one from him. He saw me going for money and walked around me. From his bag he pulled out a few of the toys in different colors.

“Which one would you like?”

I pointed to the white one. He picked it up and in a quick motion refused my money.

“I am blessed for this wonderful breakfast.” He said little more as he repacked his things.

He shook my hand. “Tchau and God Bless!”

“Thank you very much!” 

When he had left the German gathered his large red velvet lined board with different kinds of jewelry pinned to it.

“Where do you go to sell your things?”

George smiled, “Hopefully where the tourists with too much money are. That is always where I want to be.” He paused to fasten his backpack. “Do you know what our friend’s problem is with his silly little toy?”

I indulged him, “What is that.”

“He has no interest in making something people want. You can purchase a plastic one for nothing in the store. He might as well sell pok-a-mon stickers off a roll for a dollar a piece, better money. He could make a bubble gun, kids like the bubble guns, but then he would spend a day to sell a five realis toy. The real truth, he is wasting him time.”

I thought about the previous moment, when we were all smiling and laughing, and the pride and kindness that a simple toymaker shared with us.

“I don’t agree, I saw a peaceful man enjoying what he made.”

The German ignored me in his shuffle and showed me a necklace with a cannabis leaf medallion. “This is what the tourists want, I can sell this.”

“I could see that.”

 The door to the Street and one of our sons praying

The long hallway

Governador Valdares First Day

I am in Paraguay now and this is where I will be until December 17. For the last two months I have compiled many stories of my time in Governador Valadares. It is in the state north of Sao Paulo called Minis Geris. A country side filled with rolling mountainous landscapes of brown hills and wide winding rivers. The city of Governador Valadares was my extended home and even in Paraguay I miss many things about that Brazilian town, which you may never have seen on a map.

I am weaving a narrative as I go, but I have decided to jump to some of my experiences in a random order. Some things are chewing on my mind and are impatient. So, I may be on a beach, in the mountains, or a cramped city, but I will give you fair warning.

****

You learn a lot about someone on a 14 hour bus trip. Br. Gabriel and I talked in between trying to sleep on the rocking bus taking us into the mountains. We had an impromptu transfer in the wealthy city of Belo Horizonte; at midnight we sprinted to buy tickets and caught the bus across the terminal.

It could only a blessed force that helped Br. Gabriel and I talk so well on the trip. We covered so many topics over the roads and on other trips the train tracks. In many ways our conversations got harder to understand as the moving cars and busses stopped; sometime reduced to nodding.

Brother had been a law student before his conversion to the path of Christ, and his discernment and then progression into religious life. A great portion of his schooling was complete yet he was uneasy to continue on that path. He lived in the coastal city of Sao Luis in the northern part of Brazil, with many friends and a worldly future in front of him. A talented actor and singer his favorite role that he played was Scare in the Lion King.

His eyes twinkled and he laughed at my expressions as I tried to use pantomime to fill in for the words I didn’t know. He said, “You would be a good actor, you are like Jim Carry.” I don’t like Jim Carry all that much but I could see the complement was genuine.  Many things were shared in our light conversation.

 Brother, who is in his late twenties now, has a calming older sibling quality and a performers thinking process. We understood each other as we both spent much time reflecting and in our own ways to the contemplation God.

The restroom door on the nearly empty bus was broken and would click open and slam back and forth. The automatic light in the toilet would illuminate most of darkness as it clicked, slammed, and swung its way down the mountain roads. I was the only one awake for the ride and would be flipped into the window and then to aisle at every sharp change of direction.

At 4:14 am we arrived in Governador Valdares and began the walk to the house through the city’s business and governmental district. In a concrete park and grandstand space Br. pointed out ten or so homeless sons sleeping in the near daylight of the flood lamps. It seemed like a silent protest on the other side of the street from the city and federal government building. We walked for a mile or so to a red fat bricked road which took us down a hill.  I heard the comforting sound of natural rushing water as we walk towards the void of black beyond the amber lights. The rumbled of bass gained volume as Br. stopped and pointed into the blackness. “Do you see that?”

I blinked, “See what, there is nothing there.”

He shot me a look of disbelief, “The lady, the mountain. It is right there.”

The emptiness dissipated into a lightless blue of sky and the black sternness of the mountain. The mountain slowly revealed itself as an illusion in front of me.  

“Wow!”

Brother smiled and pushed me to the left down the sharping turned road that runs parallel with the river. The quick hill slid into the basin of the road and on into a party still going ahead of us. The women we approached stood or leaned about the car blocking the middle of the street. The heavy smell of marijuana and beer was present in air, but I couldn’t see anyone drinking or anything but cigarettes. The street was narrower than up top, and a bar with a steel overhang was the center of the dwindling party. Brother stopped a couple step beyond the party, “we are here.”

“Here?”

“Up here.” We walked up the three steps to a gate and brother started to unlock it.

I looked at our next door neighbor with one decaying card table, a wooden cable spool loaded with spent beer bottles, and the slow smoking remain of a fire that the dogs rolled in to keep warm.

“Ok, this has potential.”

The music could now be described at a club mix with samples of US artists from the last 15 years. The songs were all distorted and almost unintelligible due to the volume. We walked up the stairs and into a large open air room with many plants. Brother showed me to my room off the kitchen and set me up for the night. I said goodnight and looked at my watch, it was 5:15 am. My pillow vibrated against the wall shared with the neighbor and DJ. I moved it to the opposite side of the wall and lay down with my pray blanket. It was given to me by some of the ladies from Good Shepard Catholic Church, in Kansas. It was familiar and in this foreign place it was warming against the cold and comforting as I doubted my own reason for this trip. Really I resolved to thank the creator for leading me and crashed into a dead sleep.  

 

The Sun Rise at the House in Gov Val

The road below the house

Some of our neighbors

The Mountain Pedra Negra

 Bar next the Brothers

Crackland Sao Paulo Part Two

I see Brother Agnus half a block down directing us. His sharp profile is unmistakable in the ambler lights of the intersection. He waves to the right and disappears into the corner. Brother Gabriel hands me a red thermal jug of tea, cha’ in Portuguese, and a sleeve of thin plastic cups. “You will give out tea, yes?” he awaits to make sure his English is correct, but to the task I am given the question is rhetorical.

“Yes, ch-aa.” I speak with an English ch sound.

“No, it is cha`, not Indian tea.” Brother elongates the sounds. “(Sh)-(ah).”

I repeat “Cha`, (sh-ah), cha`.” I look down at the long clear stack of cups in my left hand and think to ask if I have too many. Our conversation lasts till we reach the next street. I look at brother and trip on a short barricade jutting out from the curb. I hear the cart rattle and screak turning to face our new direction.

 The cart pauses for a faint moment; I hear the sound of the wind fluttering blankets, the broken street gravel grinning under shuffling feet and cardboard pads. Those as thin as paper drift with newspapers in the narrow center of the street. It is a wide space between the gated building fronts that face one another. The sidewalks are deep and from the curbs to the walls people camp three back. Those standing in the street swell in waves to choke off the walking path. I can’t tell if anyone is talking, but a notably muted murmur does ebb the noise floor.

Two lay associates push the people lightly back to make a path for the cart. An “excuse me” or “sorry” is not heeded or heard, our sons and daughters are floating in at some point of their high gone world of chemical euphoria. In varying degrees their awareness was either faint or confused. The closer to laying down the more inward they were. Those that stood were social, some mildly staggering, but still lucid. Hanging onto the curbs were those in transition, not quite ready stand and walk. It was clear to see those with history on this street, their clothes were dingy and the skin on their faces was drawn into the bones.

At this point I stayed close to the cart. Not from fear, there wasn’t time for that to come to mind. The cart was approached in a zombie like rush. We were never mobbed, but it was hectically orderly to hand out food and drink. We would stop, be encircled, distribute, move a few feet forward, and be surrounded again. All the brothers were absent, but Br. Gabriel. He stood next to me helping with cups and pushing me a long as I got hung up. Sister Damiana was short, but not wispy, she took charge, and that was evident to everyone on that street; it was her shopping cart. She would reorganize the cart quickly and still hand out bags to the nearest people. She didn’t smile that I saw, but smiles are not common here.     

I kept to the few words I knew, but still it was clear I was a foreigner. Even through the drug haze a curious Brazilian spirit would come out. It was one of the reasons brother pushed me along. I was having conversations with the son’s and, even with my poor language skills, we could greet each other. The phases I repeated Portuguese were simple.  In English they were:

Hi. How are you? Nice to meet you. Your name? Do you want bread? Water or tea? It’s hot, be careful. Bless you. And bless you. Tcha.

A few formulated further questions and the most common was where I was from. I could sense a spark for them to ask. In the street lamps’ reflection off their wide watery eyes I could feel a twinkle of connection. It never tired me.

“Where are you from?”

“The United States, Kansas City?”

“OH, Good!”

“And you?”

“Here.”  

***

Brother Gabriel directs me away from the group and we edge the crowd to reach the sidewalk. I can see the other brothers kneeling or crouching in conversations with the blanket wrapped men. There is an easiness and peace in their glaze, as if their eyes were listening. Even if a man or woman spoke in nonsense or confusion the brothers interaction was steadying. I broke my focus when Br. Gabriel waved me over. I handed out tea and sacks of bread that our party would run to us. To those lying against the wall I would declare “Cha`” and “Bread”, and an arm here or there would reach out. If their buddy was next to them, staring off into the distance, they would tap him and they too would raise their hand. I became familiar with a certain stare, blank and focused on something beyond, like blessed nothingness somewhere beyond them. Those that were unreachable would take no food or drink, and if there was enough, then something would be left for them when they awoke.

At my feet I noticed the blankets of those on the ground were stiff and unyielding. They would adjust to close one hole from the cold and wind and another space would open. They covered themselves in patchy gray and light blue industrial moving blankets that I image even new seem dirty. Tented below me, a man breaks down and re-assembles a crack pipe with military precision. In a minute he lays the parts on the cleanest part of a sheet, cleans out the blockages, and is flicking a lighter to it. For this second hand observer there is no smell or smoke to the crack. If there is, it must be very faint for the breeze to sweep it away undetected.

It hits me that I am alone from my group. I see no brothers, no lay associates, and no br. Gabriel. It was the first time I wasn’t helping someone or in a crowd. The first moment a hand wasn’t asking me for something. I felt dizzy to stand up straight. A whole city block swirled around me, as a density populated ecosystem. In the street it was a carnival of movement and next to the curb men sold and swapped items on a red carpet market. In sections on the ground were watches, clocks, rings, small appliances, and other items of small value; all part of the economy of this street.

A man in a loose black suit with hollow cheeks and slick jet black hair smiled at me.  I am not sure how he noticed me out of his completed negotiation on the red blanket. He walked two steps and reached out his hand. “You are American?” All the fear came into me. I heard all the people in the United States saying to me, “It’s dangerous to be an American in South America”.  The fear was a sign that the shock was fading.

“Nao (which is no),” I lied as I shook his hand, and positioned myself into the crowd. He remanded smiling as I glanced back at him through the bobbing heads. Then I dove into the flow of the street.

I return to my group that was in front of me now. A wolf grinning young man struts by with his arm around a girl dressed in a tight revealing red top and mid-thigh length skirt. She has a stern face and I notice that her pace is leading more then his arm is pushing. They walk fast through the crowd; I felt cold beyond the night air.    

 The food was low, the tea was gone, and all the jugs of water were running low. A black SUV trolled into the crowd and the street cleared. We all watched it drive by and I asked who it was. Some said, “That is the drug dealer.” The vehicle stopped and the windows opened as several approached. I could see the police lights faintly casting onto the buildings down the street.

This is a place that drugs are allowed, not that it‘s legal, but there is an understanding. Something so prevalent could not be denied, but it can be overlooked. For the government, it contains a social problem. The population of Crackland is easily controlled, because proximity to the drugs provides an invisible fence to keep them here. The police are to war with the drug dealers outside of here, but inside it symbiotic. In the modernizing of Brazil the priorities shuffle to what is shiny, the poor in sky scraper favelas and burnt out section of Sao Paulo are not a high priority.          

The Fraternity and a church group called Christland, to counter Crackland, are the few that offer support to those in this street. And even then, the brothers can only encourage, and plant in them the option for change. The brother offer rest, food, and a place to recover. The next step for the sons, if they choose, is the Fraternity’s Chacara or country house that operates outside the city to provide rehabilitation and peaceful space.

***

We walked out of Crackland onto a main street, light traffic passed us by and except for our party there was no one on the street. Our shopping cart was empty except for the drained red thermal containers. We walked back to the house and it was nearing 2:00 AM.

I thought of human beings with the spark of life turned down to a flicking pilot light. I imaged being able to wake them up with a kind and loving hug or touch. If only some affirmation of their worth could recover one man or one woman from their drug laced slumber. I remembered the look the brother induced in a few of the sons, to wake a part of them wanting to hear beyond the drugs and the reasons they needed those drugs.

I awoke at 4:30 in the morning to hear a knock at the front gate. I went to the door and could see a man standing beyond the locked gate. A short shadow emerged from the stairs going to brother sleeping quarters. It is Br. Haniel full dressed with the same sure smile.  He walks to the door and bids me to return to my room without a sound. His eyes show little fatigue as the street lights show his face in the open door. He walks to the gate and I remain in the long narrow hallway. The man outside sounds stressed and has a pleading low tone in his voice. The gate creeks open and the unlocked chain bangs on the metal. I walk quickly to my room and listen again. Two sets of feet walk into the house, and in a short time all is quiet.   

Crackland Part One

In Sao Paulo’s Luz Station District we walked beside the central landmark, an early twentieth century train station. In English this place would be called the Station of Light, but it’s only a dim beacon across the street a bar nicknamed Hell.  From there is a place that breathes earthly torment, an address that compresses into one city block, a great mass of souls resigned to the industry of self-disintegration. On a winter’s night in August, I was introduced to Crackland.

***

The walk from the Brothers house was not a mile from the station. Our group was mixed with six hooded brothers, our plain clothed lay associates, and in full habit Sister Damiana. This street mission requires a show of force, because it is not safe to walk the streets at night in this area of high rise favelas and wanton crime. We are armed with an overflowing shopping cart of small crusty buttered baguettes in plastic bags and jugs of hot tea and drinking water. The cart that we orbit is pushed steadily by Br. Raleb, it is our security and our distribution center. In mid-block the station building ends and we look across the street at the bright and crowded bar. A live band plays and it seems like a happening place. Brother Gabriel turns to me and says, “That is Hell.”

“It’s not very imposing.” I half spoke to myself. Brother turned back to acknowledge me as we walked further.

“You see this building?” He points.

“Yes.” I looked up at the five story white building just a few building fronts from the bar.  The rooms all had red curtains mostly closed with the lights inside shining through. It was odd to see so much bright color with most of the neighborhood dark and locked up for the night.

“The prostitutes live there.”

We continue to the corner of the block. I turned and took a second look at the bar and then the apartment building we slowly passed. Hell was place to procure drugs, sex, and a number of things left to the imagination. The bar is acts as a flame and the prostitutes gather in and around the front of the building and on down to the end of the block.  I could now see the women moving indirectly and walking nowhere, many with a slight downhill stagger. Several of women at the end of the block walked to our cart, the brothers talked warmly to them as we poured tea and gave each a bag of bread. Lighters flickered in the recesses of the building fronts. A few others came up to the cart and were welcomed. One woman in the group became irritated waiting to be given food and raised her voice in confrontation. I drew into the group a bit. A short sure eyed young man named Br. Haniel drifted in front of the irate woman and gave calming assertions with light words and his direct glaze. He remained unflappable and gently stoic as the tension dissipated. His habit was faded to gray without adornments, but well cut; it made me think of an officer in the Napoleonic times. He had a peacefully knowing smile, coco colored skin, and a sparse beard with thin mustache of his age.     

We walled on for ten minutes and came to a cross street. A Military Police vehicle that looked like a cross between a hummer and a SUV drove up and parked on the sidewalk. We had to navigate around it onto a street of light but steady flowing traffic. We lifted the shopping cart off the curb and made no advance or acknowledgement to the authorities. The military police are their own entity separate from the outward armed forces, trained and maintained by the under the Brazilian Government. Local or metro police other operate in large cities, and there are federal police as well. The Brothers eluded that we were not welcome to be here. The police are not in favor of the Fraternity’s presence in these depressed areas. The police seem to act with certain interests that the poor are infringing upon. In Rio and Sao Paulo they are moving the homeless in an effort to clean the areas for the upcoming world events like the World Cup of Soccer and the Olympics.    

We arrive at our turn off and I saw the military police parked on the closed off street, which is the mouth to Crackland. Their lights flash and bounce off the buildings as we walk down the throat. I am walking beside Br. Agnus who is the scout of this team. He has a triangle face accented with a pointy goatee and wild darting eyes. He paces, buzzing next to you one moment and then he is a half a block ahead; the only things that move faster in Brazil are the mosquitos. He seems to be oblivious that I spoke little or no Portuguese, but still he spoke to me quickly and directly. I think in our bursts of conversation he convinced me that I understood him perfectly. I still think that might be true.  

 We meet a couple homeless men huddled in their blankets for the night. Once again we stop and talk as friends to our sons on the street as items from the cart are unloaded.

A thought crossed my mind, “This is all to Crackland?!” It echoed in my head. I am blessed to be helping with all I had – which at the time seemed very little. But, I gave into the selfish impatience of wanting to be shocked or surprised; but why?

As the conversations in Portuguese continued, I handed out tea in clear plastic cups. “Hot,” I warned.

I wanted to help in a big way, to purify a river, to save a village, and to collect grand stories to maybe pad my ego. For all the rivers to be filtered there stands thousands in solitude waiting for one touch or one act of kindness. I remembered the eager presence the Sisters of the Poor of Jesus in my home town. In Kansas City we drove to those tucked away under bridges or hidden off the streets and brought food, clothes, coffee, and a few sacks of toiletries.  We also were there to talk and pray with those who would like to; not to force an agenda – just to be. The sisters’ real gift was to look at man or woman in the eyes with no judgment and great care. It seemed to move the sons and daughters to tears and most of the time a smile.  A smile on the street would stay with me for days, but how quickly I sometimes forgot.

I was challenged that moment in Brazil to remember that I was there to meet one person at a time. The rest would happen as the spirit revealed it. Although I was unaware that around the corner was of heart of this cold and dark place; a place to test my glib little thought about surprise.  

The churches and streets of Sao Paulo

In Sao Paulo I had a great opportunity to see two beautiful churches and familiarize myself with a slice of the busy city of over 10 million. The city is lined with wide parkways, congested superhighways, urban areas, and statue heavy green spaces. In contrast there are narrow one way streets and many non sequitur neighborhoods of mixed use buildings and varying facades.

***

I walked into the Cathedral of Sao Paulo in the afternoon not aware that inside the light of day could be equal to the outside. The walls spired to reach for the heights of the ceiling, and to my own memory I can faintly remember the floor’s appearance. The designers and architects most certainly welcomed the sun as the nature light reflects through the arched windows and off the bright gray stone. The stain glass was crystalline with minimal color and design; poignant but airy.        

It is a giant of a church without many opulent adornments. The intricate could only have resided in vain against the whole of this rising space, and that fact was well understood in its construction.

I walked around looking up with my mouth gaping at this amazing Cathedral. The history of the Cathedral starts about 100 years ago. The construction process began in 1913 and continued until 1967. In 2000 to 2002 the Cathedral was restored to the original beauty of its 1967 competition.

I walked out to see the square below and there was a great mix of those circulating on and below the steps. I scanned the view of the square; many others looked out with me. Most wore faded or threadbare clothes and seemed to stare as if projecting their inward thoughts below. Those in business suits cut across the plaza steadily, and small groups watched the preachers and street performers. A town car with government plates rushed a side mirrors width in front of me as I stepped onto the landing. It never slowed as it weaved through pedestrians on this closed street off street running from the Federal Court Building.

In Brazil I have the impression that right-of-way goes to the cars, and if a person is hit by a car it would be that persons fault. 

***

We moved northwesterly to the Monteiro De Sao Bento; a Benedictine monastery and school. I walked with Brother Gabriel leading the way most of the time. It was difficult to walk side by side, mostly due to the narrow sidewalks packed with people and stuff. I say “stuff” because it could be municipal items like light poles, phone booths, and over filled trash cans, which seemed to be more strategically placed to be in your way. The great diversity of obstacles was impressive from the produce and juice stands, trinket kiosks, wheel barrows, construction materials or debris, three wide conversations from store front to the street, wooden carts, and crates stacked to be loaded into buildings.

We were able to walk in the streets for a couple blocks due to a street protest. The clown dressed protesters walked in a flotilla with music playing as they performed amidst the stilt walkers. It was more like a circus and I never understood what was being protested. I asked Brother Gabriel and he said something to the effect, “I don’t know, they protest so many things.” In Brazil protests are common and can be absurd or benign, or impassionedly vocal or physical riotous.    

It felt at times like total bedlam both on the streets and on the walkways. It was exhilarating to race from the Cathedral, in the center of the city, to the Monastery twenty hectic minutes away. Both churches were great towering structures that stood imposing against the modern commercial buildings.

I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I don’t think I could have chosen a greater juxtaposition. In the churches it was serene and peaceful. I could see some people in focused prayer with such heavy burdens that the marble floor they knelt on seemed to sag. On the street, the people focus on transporting themselves to their locations without being stopped by the many obstacles; which in a short time I understood completely.

In shadow of the Monastery I could see it was more than a church. It was a complex that occupied most of the city block, and its sizable presence defined the neighborhood.

Brazil is a culturally Catholic country since being colonized by Europeans who were tied to the Catholic Church. The people are active in varying degree in the church, from very devout to completely secular, weddings and funerals. There are other Christian religions here like the Baptists, and Protestants, but the Catholic Church is treaded into the fiber of the Brazil. The symbols, saints, and expressions are common. I hear on the street or in TV interviews the common expression, “Thanks be to God”, which seems to be more of a punctuation then a mindfulness of God.

We walked through the courtyard and to the left were groups of young children playing at recess.  We came to the angled doors of the basilica. This entrance was designed to break the waves of sound on the streets in front. Ornately patterned stained glass darkened the nave and wood trimming the marble trapped the light that cut into the space. My eyes followed the stately arches and statues of the 12 disciples that pedestaled just above the heads of those walking beneath, and on down to the center aisle to the elevated floor holding the altar and a high lectern.  Wood pews sat on the raises floor and faced the altar to its right, and a couple of balconies hovered above. It is where the monks would assembly to be separate for masses. I walked in enough to see the wide dimensions of the whole room. The hidden alcoves lit by dim lights and candles lined the walls; each a station of devotion to a Saint, Christ, or the Virgin Mary. I circled the swells of people in prayer that pressed against the backs of those closest to the statues. I questioned why some Saints ushered an impatient following and others waited to be recognized.    

I recalled the Cathedral in which light echoed in the awesomeness of the space, but here the lack of illumination twinkled the ornate artistry of the paintings, the metal work, and wood work. I can say I felt peace without the grandness of rapture and took in that external peace. In some ways it felt much like wood paneled library.   

***

This experience called to mind something I say to my friend Mark, when we visited the Cathedral of St. Louis in New Orleans last year. I said:

All churches and holy places are created to glorify the presence of God and to inspire those in them to experience the spiritual in some way. A church for all its beauty and grandeur is built to show a gratitude to the almighty.   

Although there is no church building that exceeds the beauty of one human being. All of us were given the gift of inspiration and carry it with us.

That being said, those who created these churches must have felt inspired themselves.

 

Monastery

out front of the monastery

Light Traffic in Sao Paulo Down Town, Not a Joke 2 in the Afternoon

Cathedral in Sao Paulo

Roof Above the Front of the Cathedral

Monastery Overhead Credit to http://www.wikipedia.org/

City Center Sao Paulo

It’s Wednesday after breakfast, I recover quickly from the embarrassment of showing my barbarian habits to my Brazilian hosts. It is very light hearted and I can relax now. I will be gone for the entire day, limiting the time for mishaps; time being both a good and uncertain thing.

It is arranged for me to tour and observe the center of Sao Paulo with Br. Gabriel as my guide. I grab my English to Portuguese dictionary and a small notebook. Brother is wearing my Fedora as I come jogging out of the small house that all of us men share. The only remark he makes is “let’s go” and then he starts to walk a little ahead of me.

I catch up and look at him until he looks back, “It’s a good look. The order should think about a change.”

He smiles. I am still not sure if he understands or is humoring me. “Indian Jones…” He warbles a throaty chuckle with a closed mouth smile. We continue walking quickly as he removes my hat from his head and flops it, side cocked, on my own.

Brother Gabriel is in his late twenties, and has the qualities of an older sibling. He controls his movements with intention as if trained, and it adds to his natural drawing presence and approachable authority.  He shaves his head close in contrasts to his curly beard, which starts at the sideburn borders at his ears and ends three inches below his chin. His beard has no hard point and it lengthens his oval face hiding the youthful puffiness of his checks.

We take the bus around the neighborhoods, in the daylight I can see that no street is straight or even for a half a block. The bus rocks side to side and front to back with no regularity. Looking away somewhat dizzy, I notice brother’s eyes as we ride to the commuter station. He was focused somewhere else, each pupil framed with a rusty red cross that blends into the spectrograph greens on his irises.

 “He could bring a room to quiet seriousness with that look,” I thought.

We reach the station and I took a couple pictures showing the congestion of the people getting on the train. I was told at the ticket window that taking photos was not a welcome activity, but I already taken his picture.

We traveled another two hours on multiple transfers to the city center. We walk down five flights of people packed stairs. Passing vendors stands on each level selling breakfast fare and bottled drinks. Each landing is a floor and the stairs dump all of us like water into that level. The stairs to the next level continue on the back side of the flight of stairs we just came down. For me, it breaks up the 30 min descent. I observe the change from the calm line up on the stairs, to the frenzy of cutting off and pushing on each floor levels. Both brother and I laugh as he points out our forceless and uninfluenced pace as we drift with no less speed to the bottom of the station. It was funny to see Br. Gabriel so kindly take many elbows and shoves from people in a big hurry, only to pass them because there path had stopped dead.

We walk into the grand center of the city and in front of me towers the Cathedral de Sao Paulo (St. Paul). It is a beautiful renaissance style domed building with two tall and ornate towers in front which flank the dome on either side. The long stone plaza runs to the stair of the Cathedral and rows of palms line the sides and middle to add a structured feel like a monstrous hall way. We walk in the direction of the church and all along the rows are people laying again the trees, on squares of cardboard, or blankets. These are among the 12,000 homeless in the city of Sao Paulo, and it is explained to me that between 100 and 400 live in the city center. We walk by a man in a suite with a portable sound system, he is yelling in a circle to the whole of the city. I focus on the blaring speaker behinds him and turn to find Br. Gabriel embracing and talking to a homeless woman on the side of the plaza. He is engaged and listening peacefully.  I see her smile builds as he blesses her the sign on here forehead and with his presence.

On the left side of the Cathedral is the Federal Court Building, which is tan toned concrete with Roman statues and columns. The weight of the build is evident as the male and female statues hold scrolls, swords, books, and shields. I turn and look at the park like square below. Brother says “the court house is Beautiful.”

“It is, As is the Cathedral.” I questioned.

“Yes, but I always like the buildings like this.” He paused, “I studied the law.”

“Really, when was that?”

“I was in school for law at the university, before the Fraternity.”  He turning and walked to the water wall fountain and waved me in front to have my picture taken.

“This must be a favorite place for you, you know, with the church and court house.”

He could read me lightly fishing at more information, “Yes, it is. We see our sons at pastoral.” He smiles.

In the grassy areas strips of lawn and alongside are tents and pads in all the corners of the square. The density of them builds as we walk farther away from the grand buildings and into the sitting areas. I see brown habited men off in the far side. We approach to greeting from the brother all barbering men and waving with their free hands. I take a few pictures and watch the stir of commotion around the main prep area. They bring in all the water and supplies to shave and trim hair for anyone that show up. They wear rubber gloves for each of the clients, and use one razor blade per man. They clean and sanitize in a certain order and quickly set up for the next son. It is a popular and welcomed benefit to the homeless in the city, so it is not surprising to see a great number of brothers and formandos staffing it.

Those working in the square are skilled at shaving and cutting hair. I could see all the benches in a 20 yard area filled with those waiting or being served. They placed an apron on the man and were off to work cutting with simple 4 inch bladed scissors. At the completion each man was given a water rinse over his head and then the next would be draped and so on. The whole scene was full of smiles.  It was light hearted and busy, never hurried or mechanical. The happy mood was defiant as the bright sun edged into our shared shade; it was almost 11 AM.

Brother asks me for my camera, and I am handled gloves and scissors.

I have met many people in short time in Brazil, and it is hard to recall all their names. At time it is hard to recall the name of the person I just meet. I think a cross between situational overload and the seemly exotic names adds to it. So I will apologies once to all the great and interesting people that I have met, and ask them to please hold no grudge for my incapacity to recall their name. That being said I may choose credit a person I have met briefly with a name I do recall, or to place a trait that I have observed in a group onto a named person. 

I cut the hair of a man named Jefferson, which was a strangely common name to me that stood out among the others. It was easy to remember, because that is my home town. Another memorable thing about the hair cut was that it took me one and half hours. I even had Brother Gabriel working one side as I worked the other. I starting cutting Jefferson’s hair and under estimated the volume of black tight curls. When I was done his head was nearly shaved, which was his request. He didn’t seem to mind the length of time and was very gracious. Of course he had a buddy talking with him and handing him cigarettes and water from time to time. My only concern was not to cut him with the scissors. I rinsed his head and he gave me a hug and a hand shake. I told me thank you and I thank him for being so easy going.

It was shown to the shaving station and I asked for a quick lession. A light featured young woman with short dark hair, and a long heavy brown shirt walked over with a razor and cup of water. Her name was Mariane and she was a formando, and she spoke English. I met her earlier in the morning when she gave Brother a big hug and talked with me about the goings on of this mission. Mariane’s home town is Governador Valadares, in the state north of Sao Paulo called Mina Gerais, and it is where Br. Gabriel has lived for around two years. Mariane’s family is very active in the Fraternity and her mother and brother are lay associates. Governador Valadares will be my home for about two months, after this week in Sao Paulo.

She was having a small issue shaving a part of our man’s neck, so I asked to help. I turned out to be good at shaving, so I asked if I could help with other men needing a shave. The next two men I shaved went smoothly, only a few nicks, but nothing serious. Mariane was a great translator and when we had to go, she told me to hug her family for her.

Even with a language barrier, the sons, the Fraternity members, and I smiled and laughed for the few hours we were together. The action of cutting hair and shaving someone is humbling, because you are at the service of that person. Once you are invested, you are caring for someone, and that energy is grounding. You are required to take the time to slow down and focus. Yes the guys walk away cleaner and manicured, but beyond that is a kind touch, affirming their value as human beings.

We walked back by the preacher still yelling into his microphone, and the people around shielding from the nose of it.  I asked brother about that man preaching in the square. “What is he saying? Does he talk about the homeless here?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“But what about the homeless, is he speaking for them? They’re everywhere.” I realized brother was lost, because I was talking too fast.

Brother explained only what he knew, “We are here most days with the sons and daughters, and the preachers are here too.”

I think of the grand buildings of justice and the cathedral that overlook the whole of this very wild scene. They are silent as the only sound cresting the portable speakers is the midday traffic racing around the plaza.  

***

 

Below is the English versions of the Fraternities newsletter:

 

 Removal of Homeless from the Streets in Viaduto Bresser, Sao Paulo.

The religious and lay-associates of our Community were with Father Julio Lancellotti, in Viaduto Bresser in Sao Paulo, together with the homeless who were removed violently, having their tents and other personal items burned, as well as personal documents.

***

In order to give you reference. The area in the article above is a ten to twenty minutes by foot or transit from the city center in an area.

From my research, the Brazilian Press does discuss the social problem of the homeless. But I hear very little about the police’s push of the homeless from areas in Sao Paul. The area I was in one month ago was reportedly broken up and many homeless relocated to other locations in the city.

The unsightly nature of the poor communities is never removed by the police and governments of the world. It is a reflection of the societies in which it resides. The care to the least of our brothers and sisters is the mirror for us to know our true priorities, and where as a collective society we align our values.

To Train

ticket window person

The plaza in front of the Cathedral of St. Paul

Federal Court Building

One of the Grassy area in the Square

Brothers Cutting Hair 

Me cutting hair