I stood in the white-washed hallway at the Core-Civic detention facility near the George H. Bush International Airport in Houston.
I looked to my left.
Through the Plexiglas window, I watched blue-clad, brown-skinned men line up for the prisoner count.
They descended from their bunks.
They jostled for position in the line.
Mostly young men, in their late teens or early twenties.
The younger they were, the more nervous they looked.
I watched as one older guy gave a nod to a smaller younger man.
He let him get ahead of him on the line.
The older immigrant winked and nodded to the younger man, inviting him to stand before him.
The younger man nodded gratefully, suppressing his own fear and worry.
Today is Holy Thursday when Jesus washed the feet of his Disciples.
He gave them an example, as so He also did.
Had I just seen Christ in this small act of generosity and encouragement?
This jail was built in 1983.
In those years, the Reagan-Bush administration busily drew the line against Communism in Central America.
I lived in Honduras during those years.
I recall seeing and hearing U.S. helicopters buzzing overhead.
They trafficked weapons and supplies to the Contras on the Honduran-Nicaraguan border.
The CIA contact for the Contra army was William Casey.
Casey was a “good Catholic” from Long Island’s North Shore, a Wall Street mogul who served in the OSS in World War II, the predecessor of the CIA, of which later served as director.
Casey oversaw efforts secretly to sell missiles and weapons to Iran in turn for raising cash to fund the Contras, intended to arm them clandestinely and train this mercenary force across the Nicaraguan border in Honduras.
Many families displaced by the fighting headed north to San Pedro Sula.
Desperate for shelter, they began camping on lands used for growing bananas—vast acreage owned by the conglomerate—US-owned United Fruit Company.
As a Maryknoll Associate priest, I worked in San Pedro Sula, in the parish of Sagrado Corazón, adjacent to this monopoly’s plantation tract.
San Pedro Sula’s newspaper, El Tiempo, called the people taking refuge on these private banana fields terroristas, “terrorists.”
This term referred to sprouting communities as Las Invasiones, “the Invasions.”
We learned in seminary formation that when Christ took flesh in the Incarnation, all humans became one-with-Christ.
In our service to these refugees suffering from war and U.S. foreign policy, we served Christ in these refugees. We saw Christ in these refugees. We celebrated with Christ in these refugees. We suffered with Christ in these refugees.
I found myself arrested by police from the Department de Investigaciones Nacionales, or DIN.
El Tiempo announced on their front page that the armed forces captured a “terrorist” in its story of my arrest.
After several days of interrogation, I was forced onto an airplane and deported.
I subsequently received a new assignment and continued my ministry in neighboring El Salvador.
A song punctuated Masses during those years in Central America.
“No basta rezar…hacen falta muchas cosas para conseguir la paz.”
“It is not enough to pray… there are many things that need to be done to achieve peace.”
Yet I found myself here and now, on Holy Thursday, 2024, in the hallway of a private detention facility, contracted by the US Customs and Immigration Service enforcement division.
From here, young men and women become deported on planes to countries still feeling the impacts of wars that originated in the United States (cf. The Brothers by Stephen Kinzer).
Still waiting for the immigrant prisoners to gather in the chapel to pray the Rosary, I recalled thinking years before of my intention to try diocesan priesthood again upon my return to Long Island, once again serving in my home Diocese of Rockville Centre, Long Island.
In October, 1989, Bishop John R. McGann invited me to preach the Mission Sunday homily at the cathedral.
He sent me $1,000.00 to cover my travel expenses.
I recalled buying my ticket back home to New York.
Prior to leaving, I received a letter from Monsignor Lawrence Ballweg, the director of the diocesan mission office: “We recently had Jesuits preach at St. Agnes. Your invitation to preach the Mission Sunday Mass at St. Agnes had been rescinded. Bishop John R. McGann will preach at the Mass in the diocesan cathedral. Please keep the money and put it to good purpose.”
Although I was not a Jesuit, I did work with the Spanish Jesuits at Cristo Salvador Parish in Zacamíl, El Salvador.
Little did I know that on Saturday November 11, 1989, the guerrilla army would launch a final offensive in El Salvador.
Nor did I expect that my six Jesuit brothers, along with their housekeeper Elba and her daughter Cecilia, would be pulled from their beds and slaughtered outside their residence at the University of Central America in the Salvadoran capital.
(I never knew the connection between regular visits to our clergy meetings by the watchful, taciturn Cardinal Bernard Law of Boston, a frequent overnight guest at the Bush White House, and proponent of U.S. policies that undercut the movements of the Basic Christian Communities in Central America).
After the murder of the Jesuits, along with that of many of our parishioners (and more than 75,000 other victims during the civil war in El Salvador), the status quo returned to the country.
My initial, first-hand experiment of seeing Christ in the materially poor, and helping them stand with dignity in community, concluded.
I later learned that St. Agnes Cathedral’s rector, Monsignor Robert T. Mulligan, invited Franciscan Father Richard Rohr to preach the homily in my stead.
Circling back to Holy Thursday, 2024: The men in blue have all filed out of their cells to the chapel.
“How many of you are baptized?” Deacon Julio asked.
Forty hands went into the air.
“I have only brought ten (consecrated) Hosts…but we can share,” he said.
After the Communion service, the deacon exposed a fragment of the Host for Adoration.
Once more, dozens of men jostled for space to kneel before the humble piece of bread-become-Christ.
I sat in the rear of the chapel, on a wooden bench by the door.
A young man came towards me.
“May I speak with you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, sliding to my right.
I listened.
“I have nightmares,” he said, his eyes downcast.
“About what?” I asked.
“In my country, I was raped. I have not talked about this.”
The INS agents already summoned the men back to their cells.
“How can I calm my mind?” he asked.
I had to think fast.
If he were in my counseling office, I might have some ready advice to offer.
“There is a prayer that monks say as they breathe in and out. With each breath, I am told they intone: ‘Lord, Jesus Christ… Son of the Living God… have mercy on me, a sinner.’” [“The Prayer of a Pilgrim” from the Russian Orthodox tradition].
“Perhaps when such disturbing dreams appear, you can calm yourself with this prayer.”
The young man smiled.
We shook hands.
I didn’t know what more to say or do.
In 2024, no basta rezar. It is not enough to pray.
William J. Schmidt