Father 3P, fifteen years later

A young Sicilian explains an all too common point of view:

ha fatto di sbagliato che voleva far uscire i ragazzi dalla mafia, in città voleva far stare meglio, non esserci più mafia, però ha sbagliato, si è voluto far ammazzare per questo motivo lui per me se l'è meritato è stato lui a cercarsi la morte

(His mistake was in wanting the boys to leave the Mafia. He wanted to make things better in the city, for there to be no more Mafia, but that was a mistake. He wanted to be killed for this reason. Seems to me he had it coming: he was the one looking for death.)

Fifteen years ago today, on his birthday, Father Giuseppe Puglisi (Padre Pino Puglisi: 3P) was shot in the back of the head by a Mafia hit man. I never heard of him until today, when the Italian newspaper Corriere della Sera ran the brief video to which I've linked, and by now it's already off the homepage, what with it no longer being September 15th in Milan. Watching Padre Puglisi speak, I am reminded me of a lot of Italian priests.

The video report describes his work in an area where there was no rule of law, not even a middle school. You might wonder how there could be no middle school in a major neighborhood of a developed European country, but you'd be confusing Sicily with a developed European country. The Italian government has poured billions, probably trillions of dollars into southern Italy, and from the video it looks as if it's a third-world country. That's thanks primarily to the Mafia, who line their pockets with much of the money. In the US, we make a to-do about the Bridge to Nowhere in Alaska; in southern Italy there are many bridges and roads that start in the middle of nowhere and end in the middle of nowhere.

Father Puglisi arranged for children to attend classes, and opened a mission named Padre Nostro (Our Father). The Mafia put up with this for all of nine months. Their first message came in the form of a man who walled the door to the mission with plaster, and left his tools there. Three months later, they had him shot on his doorstep. Keep that in mind the next time you watch The Godfather.

The Italian Wikipedia entry on Puglisi reports that the hitman remembered Puglisi's smile, along with his remark, Me lo aspettavo. (I expected it.) The man was arrested a few years later and turned state's evidence, helping to nail his capimafia, his "godfathers", in American parlance, who are now serving a life sentence.

The Archdiocese of Palermo has begun the process of beatification. Padre Pino, prega per noi.

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Open Source, Typography, and Christianity come together

I just discovered the Gentium typeface, and I've already used it to type a letter in OpenOffice.org.
It's a lovely typeface if you ask me. A sample lies at right, and more are available at the website.

An interesting article at Linux.com gives some background on it. The typeface isn't yet LaTeX-ready, so I'll stick with Garamond and Palatino style typefaces a while longer, although some people have developed workarounds.

Gentium was developed at SIL, an organization of Christians apparently interested in preserving literacy in minor languages, and who have developed other lovely typefaces: Andika, Charis, Doulos, and more. All the typefaces are free and open source, allowing someone who knows how to modify them to do so for his computer. The last two I've listed also show up in OpenOffice.org on my installation of Fedora 8.

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A fast to which I was not called

Shortly after I entered the Catholic Church fourteen years ago, I took up the habit of visiting daily Mass. I would walk twenty minutes to church for the 7am Mass, then twenty minutes back home. This was Flagstaff, AZ, where I was studying at Northern Arizona University for my eventual Master's Degree.

One day in late Spring I emerged from the Church of the Nativity to a beautiful blue sky and wonderful green trees. I crossed the road and nodded a greeting to a man and a boy. They looked Navajo; Navajo are not an uncommon sight in Flagstaff. I had a few of them as students when I taught College Algebra; they were unfailingly polite, but not often successful.

Excuse me, mister? the man asked. He sounded Navajo. Can you spare a dollar? I need it for bus fare for me and my son.

It just so happened that I had a dollar and fifty cents in my pocket. I didn't want to give it to him, though. I needed the dollar to buy bread. It was almost the end of the month, and I wouldn't have money again until payday. I suspect that I had peanut butter, jam, cereal, and enough milk for one day's breakfast, but not much else, because I do recall being aware that if I gave him my dollar, I'd go hungry for a couple of days.

I gave him the dollar and walked away.

I'd like to say that I turned around a moment later and they were no longer there, as if they were angels or something. But I don't remember that, so the story won't take that turn. I went home, poured myself a bowl of cereal, read the newspaper, and gathered my books to go to the office.

I resided at Blackbird Roost, in the shadow of Mars Hill, and a short walk from the university. You can see it here.

I crossed US-66 and headed east towards Milton Road. Flagstaff warms up significantly during the day, but it can be quite windy. The wind blows around a lot of dust, and even a summer morning can start chilly enough to require a light jacket, while the afternoon is toasty.

On this particular morning, a slip of paper flapped towards me and landed at my feet. The wind paused long enough for me to look down at it. It was a one dollar bill.

I have lived thirty-six years, and only once has money fallen at my feet. It happened on the same day that, moments after leaving church, I gave a man my last dollar, without which I could not have bought food.

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Living, breathing icons of Christ

I don't know why, but a conversation with my wife last night reminded me of a Raleigh priest's homily a few years ago. I think he was talking about the importance of having a church located in the city center. He mentioned that the priests lived in the rectory next to the church. Because of this, the priests there received a number of visitors who represented Christ suffering in the poor. The most recent example he gave was that of a man recently released from prison. The prison gave the man clothes and shoes, but the shoes weren't the right size. By the time he arrived at the parish, the man's feet were raw and bleeding. The priest tended to his feet, then drove him to a store and bought him new shoes. I don't remember how the story went after that.

Our pastor was a bit excitable, and he choked back a sob when he described the man's feet. It made me uncomfortable, and although I don't in the least object to helping others, I do object to a lot of the sentiment people attach to it. When I left church that day, I forgot about the incident entirely, until last night.

Once I did remember it, and I found myself profoundly moved. Can't say why. I thought I'd write about it briefly. The previous pastor had been a decent fellow, too, I thought, but I recall distinctly how he used to discourage us from helping any of the beggars who would gather near the church. "There exist public services for them," he once told us, "and they can provide real assistance, whereas your assistance could feed an addiction, or put yourself in danger."

I don't mention that with ill intent, because he wasn't exaggerating. Another priest I knew in Germantown, MD was known to help the poor and homeless who came to his parish. One of them broke into his house one night with intent to rob; surprised by the priest, he killed him. Prosecutors did not seek the death penalty, citing in part the priest's personal opposition to capital punishment.

Diocesan Priests are very often Christ's front line in tending to the least among us; they really are living icons of Christ. People seek them out in times of need. The best of them hear our confessions with compassion, come to our bedside in times of illness and death, struggle to manage the finances of the parish, listen patiently to all the petty things that fascinate, discourage, or irritate us, and at the end of the day return to an empty home that cannot even serve as a fortress of solitude when a homeless ex-con shows up with bleeding feet, or with intent to rob. They sacrifice more than a wife and children; they often sacrifice respect in the eyes of their family and friends; they sacrifice careers; they sacrifice a great deal of freedom.

There exist devils among their number, yes, fallen angels who make a mockery of God's gift. All the same, even a mediocre priest reminds us of the holy calling to which we all must aspire, and all too often we forget to show even the smallest amount of appreciation for it.

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More evils of organized religion

I have mentioned before that I volunteer once a month at Catholic Parish Outreach, where we hand out food to people who come with referrals. Last weekend was probably my last weekend, since I will be traveling in July, and from then on I will live in Rocky Mount, a little more than an hour away.

So there I am, innocently assembling client's food onto carts: two bags for a family of 1-2, two boxes for families of 3 or more, bread, dessert, eggs, meat, deli, and if necessary TEFAP. (Sometimes I ask myself if our clients eat better than I do — I who don't need assistance! Then I rebuke myself and try to put it out of my mind.) I assemble food according to a slip of paper that tells me the client's number, the family name, the number of people in the family, and any special requests the client may have.

Often enough, clients will request diapers, or baby food, or cleaning supplies, or "personal items". Since CPO doesn't order these things as a matter of course, our ability to supply them depends on people's donating them. As I understand it, all the money donated is used to buy food and pay the bills: lights, water, computers, warehouse equipment, etc.

Last week, two women came together, one of whom I recognized when I took her food to her. She had asked for "personal items", so I had given her some personal items. Her companion had asked for "cleaning supplies", so I had given her some cleaning supplies. Once we arrived at the car, the first woman saw that her acquaintance had received cleaning supplies, and asked, Howcome she got dish detergent? I answered, simply and honestly, She asked for cleaning supplies. The first woman asked me for some cleaning supplies as well.

Unfortunately, the dish detergent that I had given her friend was the last dish detergent in the crate. I pointed this out to her, adding, But I'll go check, maybe there's more.

That I did. We had a lot of clients Saturday; the orders kept coming back. While I was back there, I decided to prepare another cart of food for someone else.

Big mistake. Apparently, this lady became alarmed that I didn't return right away with a bottle of dish detergent, and she began pacing back and forth right outside the room where we prepare the carts, asking other people if they could give her some dish detergent, in what one might call a less-than-friendly attitude.

When I re-emerged without dish detergent (we had, in fact, no more) she became angry and made her accusation that we don't give [her] folk things we give others.

That's absurd. I have no way of knowing what someone's race is from the ticket...

...well, with one exception. If the family has a name "of Spanish origin", so to speak, then we are to give them tortillas and a special kind of Spanish bread in place of some regular bread. That's all the "discrimination" that we do, and if it's a crime, then our country has sunk to low depths indeed.

I don't know what to think about this incident. Maybe "thinking" isn't the right word anyway; only prayer will do.

Oh — the woman's acquaintance (who did receive the dish detergent) was exactly the same race.

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Good Counsel Homes

If you don't know about this charity, you should. Visit their website. In my opinion, this is where the majority of pro-life energy should be going. I'll vote for a right-to-life law any day, but it's been about 20 years now that I've been aware of a pro-life movement, and I don't see that happening anytime soon. In the meantime, there are lives to be saved, and these guys are doing it.

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Too many hands, too little food

I've been meaning to write for days, but I haven't had the chance. First it was research-related stuff; then it was relaxation from research-related stuff. A pile of clothes sits on my unmade bed; I washed and dried them this morning, but I haven't had the chance to hang them yet. They're already wrinkled from having sat on the bed all day, so I decided not to bother with them now.

This past Saturday was the fourth Saturday of the month. Thus, it was back to CPO for me (see my previous CPO post for background). Don, the usual head honcho, wasn't able to come, and delegated his keys and associated responsibilities to Lynn. We also had a fair number of volunteers from a church trip — my church, in fact! I had read something about it in the bulletin, but I hadn't thought much of it because I volunteer at CPO anyway. I only knew one of them, though: a girl in the religious education that I taught last year.

I arrived early, but the door was still locked, and Lynn was pretty busy trying to find work for the people who were already inside, while I and a steady flow of additional volunteers congregated outside.

Eventually the doors opened for us, and when I saw the number of 10-13 year-olds preset, I was flabbergasted. Lynn also informed me that we had very little food, so we had to distribute food sparingly.

We found ways to keep the children busy and productive. (The two do not necessarily go hand-in-hand.) I acted my usual anti-social self and ignored the extra volunteers while assembling carts of food and taking them out to people...

...until the last hour or so. At that point, I saw that two of the boys were wandering about with nothing to do. This is surely a recipe for disaster, I thought. So I arrested their wanderings and impressed them into service, showing them how to do my job, a little bit at a time.

Even so, we were still doing some standing around for the first 10-15 minutes. Fortunately, the rate of clients coming in more than doubled. Before long, both boys were helping me assemble and deliver alternate carts of food with someone older. Even with their help, Kahty and I were kept busy; seventeen families arrived in that last hour. It may not sound like much, but if we want to serve them all before the end of the hour, we have to interview them, assemble their food, and cart it out to their car, all in the space of about seven minutes per client (we have two interviewers, and with the boys there I could assemble two carts at a time).

A Food Shuttle delivery around 11 had given us more than enough bread, desserts, and deli to survive, as well as some not-so-fresh produce that we desperately needed. Still, the clients who were there eagerly took some bananas, which didn't look that bad, although they obviously wouldn't be sellable at the grocery store.

We ran out of frozen meat around 12.30. From then on, we handed out cans of beef stew instead. We nearly ran out of desserts as well.

When all was said and done, I got home around 2pm. I dawdled a little while, then headed to a local church for confession. (It's been a couple of months, and I like to go regularly.) I arrived around 4.10pm, which should have been more than enough time, even with four people ahead of me. But the priest spent twenty or thirty minutes with the penitent he was serving when I arrived, so it wasn't until 5pm that he was hearing mine. He was intelligent and insightful; a little theatrical though. He would describe the selfish ways our hearts converse with God, and grimace inflect his voice with mannerisms that described it perfectly.

Since I was already there, and the Sunday "mass of anticipation" was at 5.30pm, I stayed, and did some shopping (food) when I arrived. I didn't arrive home until well after 7.

Sunday was my appointment for the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, the subject of my next post.

While I was writing this, we received our first tornado warning. It shouldn't be a problem to us, but we're bound to get quite a few over the next few hours, thanks to hurricane Jeanne. Heh! and I'm scheduled for adoration tonight.

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The evils of organized religion

I spent Saturday morning working at Catholic Parish Outreach (CPO). I volunteer every fourth Saturday of the month, unless I'm out of town. I've done this for a couple of years now, long enough at any rate that I can remember when CPO was in a smaller building on Capital Boulevard. We gave food to 36 families in three hours today, 12 families each hour, one family every five minutes. It wasn't the busiest of days; one day last year we had over 50. Part of this is the economy, but part of it is the fact that migrant farm workers don't need as much help in the summer.

My job is to assemble an order of food on a cart, then take it out to the clients' car. (As you see, we call them clients.)

This will be long again (sigh...) so I've divided the post into several sections:

• what do we do?
• who donates the food?
• whom do we serve?
• who's crazy enough to do this?
• what's the pad like?
  
• why do this, anyway?
  

What we do
We only serve people who have a referral, which they receive from various social service agencies. We give them what should be one week's worth of food. After that, they can't come back until 30 days have passed. If you do the math, it shouldn't surprise you that we gave food to a little over 900 familes in July.

A typical gift of food includes:

• one bag (1-2 people) or box (3 or more) with:
  
• detergent
• pasta
• pasta sauce
• cereal
• toothbrush and toothpaste (if we have it)
• crackers and/or cookies
• two cans of vegetables (maybe more; I forget)
  
• soup (if we have it)
• rice and/or beans
• another bag (1-2) or box (3+) called the overflow, with:
  
  • snacks (peanut butter, crackers, etc.)
    
  • drinks
  • baking supplies
  • tuna
• bread
• dessert
• meat
• deli sandwiches and/or meats
  

If the family qualifies for TEFAP (The Emergency Food Assistance Program) they receive an additional box (1-3) or two (4+) of cereal, raisins, soda, and various vegetables.

Our benefactors
Where does this food come from? This is one of the advantages of organized religion: a lot of it comes from the Catholic Church. Every month, each parish collects food and money from parishioners. The local bishop also gives money to CPO. The food we give away, obviously; the money we use to buy additional food, pay bills (electricity, water, rent, cleaning company, taxes), etc. To the best of my knowledge, everyone who works there, works as a volunteer. For some mysterious reason they ask us to sign an attendance sheet; the running joke is that if you don't sign in, you don't get paid.

Another source of food is, obviously, the federal government: that's where we get TEFAP. I don't know if the government gives us anything else, aside from referrals.

A third source of food is, well, the food retail industry: companies like Harris Teeter and Krispy Kreme. They give us a huge amount of food, not so much out of the goodness of their hearts, as out of the desire for a tax break. As I understand it, two local women noticed that grocery stores and restaurants were throwing away a lot of food that was perfectly good; they just didn't want to have it on the shelves the following day. The women canvassed around, and learned that a lot of companies were quite willing to donate this surplus food to charity, especially because they get some sort of tax deduction on it. So they started an Interfaith Food Shuttle with a station wagon (or something to that effect), driving from one store to another, and distributing the surplus food to aid agencies.

We also receive food from the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina, started by the local Episcopal Diocese.

The clients
Our clients are a mix of the American poor. Most are black, or Latino. The Latinos sometimes speak English, and sometimes they don't. Their children almost always speak excellent, unaccented English, even when the parents speak poorly. Latinos frequently drive a pickup truck or a van, and occasionally two or even three families will come along. It's rare for Latino men to enter CPO; their machismo prohibits it. They usually sit outside while their women (and children) wait in the building, pick out clothes, and wait for me, Lynn, or Kathy to bring out the food. There is an occasional Latino man who will come into the building, and today we had two. Both were carrying infants.

There's a fair number of whites, and on rare occasions I see an Arab family, with the women wearing head scarves and all that.

Almost all the clients come and go in their own vehicles. Most of the vehicles are in excellent shape; some are new and expensive. Sometimes I wonder if this new vehicle explains why they're at CPO: a new vehicle on a credit deal that turned out to be not so good after all. (If car companies were honest, they'd advertise: Low credit? No credit? BIG PROBLEMS!)

Some of the vehicles, however, are in obvious disrepair; I remember one lady's van's transmission didn't work quite right, so she couldn't go in reverse. A number of the vehicles are filled with work tools and/or toys, and frequently the client tells me there's no room in the trunk for the food; could I put it in the back seat?

Today was unusual in that the very first two clients didn't come in a car; they came by bus. I ended up leaving their food with them at the bus stop. It was a humid day, but a large tree afforded them some shade. They didn't have to wait very long at all, but that's the first time I've seen that.

The volunteers
To my knowledge, all the volunteers are parishioners of local Catholic churches. Most are in their 50s, or older. In fact, I know only one other volunteer anywhere close to my age, and I think Doug is younger than I.

The head honcho on Saturdays is Don Bierbeck. He knows everything there is to know about CPO, such as where to find plastic gloves, whether we have any baby seats available, etc.

Lynn has worked there a little longer than I have. She's a local schoolteacher, and her school year started again recently, so she was talking about that today. Lynn usually makes bags of produce, but sometimes she helps distribute food.

Two other long-time volunteers are Michelle and Kathy. One takes interviews; the other... actually she interviews, too.

Another Kathy helps assemble boxes and helps distribute food. She's a little hyper, and has to replenish her energy with an occasional doughnut.

Aline helps assemble boxes. She had a friend today, whose name I forget. I used to assemble boxes until she showed up one day, and that's when my main job became food distribution.

Silvia sits near the door; she greets people and gives them a wooden card bearing a number. Silvia speaks Spanish, which is a huge help. We used to use names instead of numbers, until some twerp realized that he could steal other people's food because we don't really know them; we just handed out food to whomever replied to the name. So, we moved to a system of numbers: the clients must gives us a card with the number of the order; otherwise, we don't give them the food.

We also have another interviewer who speaks Spanish. Unfortunately, I forget her name. I've also forgotten the names of the two women who help distribute clothes. There was a third one this last time, so I'm in even worse shape. What can I say? I knew their names once, but we only see each other once a month, and I rarely have occasion to talk to them.

On occasion, we'll get a group of high school or university students who have to perform some service project.

The Facility
The current building lies in a commercial center; we are part of a large building with Horne Moving Systems on one side, Sherwin-Williams Paints on the other. We share our space with some other departments of Catholic Social Ministries. I don't know all of what goes on at CSM, but I seem to recall a sign directing people to English-language classes, another directing people to computer classes.

Clients enter into the smallish greeting room, where they receive a number and are invited into a waiting room behind it. There, they sit and, well, wait. There's reading material, toys for children, and a television that sometimes shows cartoons.

When the interviewer is ready, she calls a client, asks to see the referral, determines how many people are in the family, shows the client where he can find some additional food we have available (potatoes, mushrooms and bananas today), also books, toys, and children's clothes they can take home. All this is situated in a large hall leading past the interviewers' offices.

Beyond this hall lies our "food assembly area" (for lack of a better term). Here we have four refrigerators and several stacks of shelves with boxed and fresh food. Interviewers bring back a sheet of paper that tells us how many people are in the family, as well as any additional requests they may have, and we assemble their order based on that information.

Finally: two double doors on the back wall lead to the warehouse, which is larger than the rest of the facility combined. There you find more stacks of boxed food supplies, a walk-in refrigerator and a walk-in-freezer, and usually Doug, who assembles TEFAP order back there.

Here and there, you find a crucifix with a dried palm leaf hanging between Christ and the cross, or an image of Christ. We have a few secular, feel-good posters too; today I saw one with a drawing of a bee that advised me to Bee Happy! Yeah, yeah...

Aside from hanging crucifixes, we do virtually no proselytism. We don't see that as our job; our job is simply to feed the poor. Sometimes we'll put a prayer card in with the food; sometimes I'll wish the clients, God bless! once they've received their food.

Why?
So, why do we feed the poor?

To begin with, it's fun. It gives me a reason to get out of the house for a few hours, to think about something outside the little world in my head. I get some exercise, some comraderie, etc.

In addition, our Christian faith demands that we care for the poor; for example:

• Matthew 25.31-46; indeed the gospel of Matthew places care for the poor higher than performing marvelous works in Christ's name (cf. Matthew 8.21-23)
  
• James 1.27 states that charity is requisite for pure and undefiled religion

Catholic spirituality advises the faithful to seek the face of Christ in the poor and in the suffering. This is what drove Mother Teresa of Calcutta, for example; it's what drives her missionary order even today to live with no additional comforts than those they serve have themselves; it drives the Dominicans of Hawthorne to give medical assistance to terminally ill cancer patients who cannot afford it (and only to those who cannot afford it); for a long time, it helped drive Catholics into religious orders like St. Vincent de Paul's Congregation of the Mission.

On the other hand, we also try to be Christ to the poor: giving ourselves out of love for them. That's not always easy; the people who come are usually polite and grateful, but there is the occasional bad apple.

In any case, there's a world in need, and we try to fill that need, when possible. One day, we might be on the other end of that chain. Probably not, but how many wealthy Germans of 1910 expected to be miserably poor in 1920?

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