n
eyewitness in Kabul, Afghanistan, tells the story of an elderly woman who has
lost seven sons in the war, and has been left with her only daughter.
When asked about her sons she said that she had prayed to her God five
times a day for forty years. But
now, when the forces that call on God’ name, have killed her young sons, she
believes that her gentle God is dead, too.
Her gentle God! Was it the deep mystery of motherhood repeated again and again in the birth of her many children that revealed to her the kindness and gentleness of the God of life? Now she prefers her gentle God to be dead rather than think of him as alive and as having had a hand in the slaughter of her sons. Was it just an illusion, forty years of turning to a gentle God?
The haunting cry of that mother has awakened in me memories of Sierra Leone. Once a month, in the main prison of Freetown, the capital, multiple executions would take place. Oh, the horror of those executions!
The Xaverian Fathers were chaplains at the prison. One night, at 2:00 am, the rectory phone rang. It was from the prison; a young man who was to be executed that morning wanted to see a Catholic priest. Fr. Frank Fiori answered the call and went. The executions were scheduled for 4:00 am.
At some ideas you stand perplexed, especially at the sight of human sin, uncertain whether to combat it by force or by humble love. Always decide ‘I will combat it with humble love.’ If you make up your mind about that once and for all, you can conquer the whole world. Loving humility is a terrible force; it is the strongest of all things and there is nothing like it.
Fyodor Dostoyesky
I had gone to that prison many times myself. The prison was made for 600 people, but there were always double that many, adding to the misery of the inmates. I can still recall the stench of the place, see the dilapidated walls and the numberless gates, hear the grinding of the keys and of the hungers. The prisoners on death row were kept on the second floor. The only and lasting sight before their eyes, on the other side of the corridor, were the coffins, one on top of the other, ready to receive their poor lifeless bodies.
In one corner of the small courtyard there was a chapel. Holy Mass was celebrated with dignity and songs. All took part in the reflection of the readings of the day. The prisoners prepared everything themselves. Many of them, because of successive coups, had been military officers, with rank as high as brigadiers. In a corner of the courtyard they grew flowers for the altar. It’s ironic: while in many churches of the town you could find old and dusty plastic flowers on the altars, here in the prison, the altar always had fresh flowers.
Well, that night, when Fr. Frank arrived at that dreadful second floor, a young man who was to be executed two hours later was waiting for him. Fr. Frank did not recognize him, but the young many knew Father and said “Father, I am not a Christian. I am a Moslem.” “Then – said Fr. Frank – if you want, I will call the Imam for you.” “No, - he insisted – I want you because in school you told us that your God forgives. Is it true that God forgives?” He was now crying , perhaps remembering the despair of the many nights of terror.
Fr. Frank assured him that, yes, our God forgives. And he told the frightened young man many of the parables of our gentle God, the God of Jesus, the meek and the forgiving, the Father welcoming the prodigal son with an embrace and a kiss, with a new robe and a feast, and of his kingdom. The poor man was listening to this outpouring of divine gentleness, then he asked “Can I be part of the family of this forgiving God?” Fr. Frank assured him that he could, and baptized him.
At four o’clock, the police came. They usually had to wrestle and drag the condemned, but not our young man. “Do not touch me – he said – Do you not know that I am going to a feast?” He walked erect as noble as a king, and entered the cell of executions. In the middle of the room a rope was hanging and on the wall the lever that would make the floor collapse. The prisoner put the rope around his neck as if it were a sacred gold chain, and said “Father Frank, your name will be the first I’ll pronounce before our Father in heaven.”
He gave a long, loving look to the one who had brought him to life. Then he turned to his executioner standing there with his hand on the lever: “A few hours ago I hated you, but no more. Now I thank you,” and throwing his arms upwards, joy in his face: “Do you understand what is happening in this very moment? I am going to see the face of my gentle God?” And he died.
The policeman who lowered the lever came to see me the next day, deeply moved. “What doe your religion have? I killed hundreds and with most of them I had to break arms and legs because they did not want to die. But this little son had put all of us to shame.” “Oh, my friend, the God of Jesus is gentle and kind. He is alive and with him man can really begin to hope.”
How do I tell the poor woman in Afghanistan that the God she cherished in her heart as gentle is real? How do I tell her that he too, like her seven children, is among the massacred and thrown away like a used rag, and that his Father, like her, is crying for his only, unique and beloved Son?
Yes, we are all called to reveal the face of our gentle God to the whole world and to communicate that same gentleness.
(From Xaverian Mission Newsletter)