Stan Rother Kicks Ass, but Heroes Have No Home in the US Church
Barron Mind, My First Series of Grievances
On all things wrong (and some things right) with the Catholic Church...
Preface: Gripes of Wrath
Stan Rother refused to be taken alive. By 1980, the decades-long Guatemalan Civil War had devolved into a genocidal campaign against the indigenous Maya population. That same year, the war bled into the community where Rother had served for twelve years as a Catholic priest, along the banks of Lake Atitlán. Parishioners, members of the Tz'utujil Maya ethnic group, began to disappear, with some later confirmed tortured and murdered. In early 1981, aware that he had been marked for assassination by rightwing death squads, Fr. Rother fled at the urging of his archbishop and family. He spent only a few months in Okarche, Oklahoma, his hometown, before returning to resume his life and ministry in Santiago Atitlán. He did so with no illusions, resolved not to allow anyone to torture him into disclosing the identities of his catechists. And so, when masked gunmen came for him in July of that year, he put up a fight. He died with his fists bloodied.
Blessed Stanly Rother is the first (officially recognized) Catholic martyr from the United States and a literal ally who gave his life in solidarity against racist state violence. You would think more people would know his story. In recent years, the US Bishops and other Catholic leaders have greeted trends of declining religious affiliation with growing dismay, especially as vocations to the priesthood dwindle and parishes across the country merge or shutter their doors entirely. Waning membership, drop-offs in charitable giving and (let’s face it) lack of trust in the Catholic Church has only accelerated during the pandemic and corresponding societal upheaval. What better way, then, to connect with a contemporary, social justice-oriented audience than by lifting up compelling, blood and bone stories of prophetic witness against the forces of oppression?
Not just Rother’s. How about the story of each of the ten priests murdered in Guatemala in 1981 alone? Or that of Guatemalan Bishop Juan Gerardi, who spearheaded Nunca más, a compilation of victim and witness accounts from the genocide (and was assassinated in Guatemala City two days following its publication)? Why not proclaim boldly how, to this day, a congregation of women religious from the US maintains a small contemplative community at a former black site in Quiché, a region especially ravaged by the genocide?
So, what’s with these guys, anyway?
All of these stories are from just one country, for crying out loud! And sure, on one hand, okay: it makes sense that the US Bishops, an episcopal conference composed primarily of aging, stuffy white men with guaranteed incomes, might be a little obtuse, even in drawing parallels between Grade A, certified Catholic tales of heroism and the current battle for the soul of humanity. But beyond just being bad at their jobs, there is possibly (re: undoubtedly) something more going on here, because like the justice movements of our day, the forces of injustice (which we are called as Christians to oppose, cf. Jesus) are also intersectional–anti-black, anti-immigrant and anti-poor, yes, but also anti-queer and anti-woman. And while each of these categories may characterize the USCCB’s predominant race/class demographic, the latter also happen to buttress their socio-political religious crusade. (On poverty and immigration they at least have some record to speak to, though as we’ll see in later issues a poorer, browner Church stands in direct tension with the overall episcopal project).
Anyway, as a bearded sage once remarked, “A house divided cannot stand” (not Jesus, though he did say the “God and mammon” thing!), and in light of this ecclesiological shitstorm, I am displeased (yet compelled) to offer “Barron Mind” (it works on so many levels!), my inaugural Series of Grievances. Over the coming weeks, I will interrogate exactly what might be going on beneath the mitres, including the seeming battle to control not only the culture, but the bishops’ own wayward flock. I hope you enjoy these brief(ish) reflections, whether as a call to action, mere commiseration, or pure old-fashioned hate read (against the author, naturally). At the very least, you’ll hopefully get a little inspiration from some fearless Catholic rabble-rousers (courtesy of Rother, Gerardi et al) and some decent chuckles at the expense of the red-faced, “Dad’s all worked up again” energy of our current successors to the Apostles (courtesy your dutiful scribe).
Happy Griping!
Your (most) Grievous Fault