Paula Clifford | March 23, 2010
‘Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain: but if it dies, it bears much fruit.’ St John 12. 24Thirty years ago Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador delivered a sermon based on this verse. As he administered the Sacrament afterwards he was shot dead, almost certainly on the orders of a high-ranking army officer.
There can be little doubt that Romero saw this text as prophetic. The threat to his life had been building over many months, thanks to his unrelenting criticism of the oppressive military government and his unshakable support for the poorest people, who made up around 80 per cent of his country’s population. Nor did the Church escape Romero’s attention. In a sermon just a month earlier he had said this: ‘A church that does not join the poor, in order to speak out from the side of the poor against the injustices committed against them, is not the true church of Jesus Christ.’
Yet in many ways Romero was an unlikely advocate. When he was consecrated bishop in 1970, he already had quite a reputation as a conservative, and many people, especially the more radical bishops, were dismayed by his appointment. But just a few years later this conservative bishop underwent something of a conversion. It probably began in 1975 when a massacre in his own diocese raised questions for him about the regime. And things came to a head in 1977, about a month after his appointment as Archbishop of San Salvador, when a close friend of his was murdered. This was a progressive Jesuit priest who had been deeply committed to working with the poor.
So began three years of Romero fearlessly speaking out against injustice and oppression. His Sunday sermons were widely reported and disseminated, and inevitably he came into conflict with both the Salvadorean government and the Catholic hierarchy, whom he tried to persuade that to support the government was to legitimise terror. And he wasn’t just a public voice. His very real interest in the poor people who came to him for help ensured that he would be remembered as their pastor, as well as their greatest advocate.
Yet while Romero’s concerns were very much for the poor of his own country, he is honoured far beyond it. Exactly four years ago, on the 26th anniversary of Romero’s assassination, I was in El Salvador’s capital San Salvador. And there I saw for myself the extraordinary crowds that gathered outside the cathedral for a celebratory Mass and all-night vigil. I vividly remember standing among them, feeling tired and jet-lagged, trying to keep up with a sermon, in Spanish, by one of the bishops, and being jolted into life by two words that even I couldn’t miss, the words ‘Westminster Abbey’. The bishop was paying tribute to the recognition of Romero worldwide and he singled out the statue of the archbishop among the modern martyrs over the Abbey’s west door, and thanked the people of the UK for their support for his country.
And if we come back for a moment to those verses from John 12, you will remember that this saying of Jesus is provoked by some Greek pilgrims to Jerusalem who met the apostle Philip and told him ‘Sir, we wish to see Jesus’. And in turning away from them Jesus confirms that it is only after his death that the good news of the gospel would become universal. Similarly, the death of Archbishop Romero has been an inspiration for Christians across the world, particularly those in countries where injustice and oppression are rife.
So what is Romero’s legacy? Like other martyrs of his time I believe he has changed and deepened the meaning of the very word ‘martyr’. Romero wasn’t killed for his faith: El Salvador is a profoundly religious country. He died because he lived out a particular aspect of his faith: that bias to the poor that we see in the ministry of Jesus. And if he saw himself too as the grain of wheat that had to die, he was not a solitary grain. During the 12-year civil war that began soon after his death, other religious figures were also assassinated; and in remembering Romero we should not forget either those other Christians who lost their lives defending the cause of the poor in El Salvador.
Thanks to all those Salvadorean martyrs we can see for ourselves where a bias to the poor may lead us and be inspired by it. Yet in Archbishop Romero we also see a very human figure. During my time in San Salvador I was privileged to meet a lady who had been the Archbishop’s secretary. She told me that his staff would reproach him for using provocative language and he assured them that he did try not to. She said: ‘He was a real prophet, yet he was indeed afraid’.
In Oscar Romero, the once conservative bishop, we see someone who knew for himself how Jesus Christ could change people’s hearts, even at great cost. We see too someone who recognised the Holy Spirit speaking through him, and who didn’t always like what he heard. Yet he persevered and because of his obedience to the prompting of the Spirit, and where that led him, it’s indeed right that we should be honouring him today. Amen.
There can be little doubt that Romero saw this text as prophetic. The threat to his life had been building over many months, thanks to his unrelenting criticism of the oppressive military government and his unshakable support for the poorest people, who made up around 80 per cent of his country’s population. Nor did the Church escape Romero’s attention. In a sermon just a month earlier he had said this: ‘A church that does not join the poor, in order to speak out from the side of the poor against the injustices committed against them, is not the true church of Jesus Christ.’
Yet in many ways Romero was an unlikely advocate. When he was consecrated bishop in 1970, he already had quite a reputation as a conservative, and many people, especially the more radical bishops, were dismayed by his appointment. But just a few years later this conservative bishop underwent something of a conversion. It probably began in 1975 when a massacre in his own diocese raised questions for him about the regime. And things came to a head in 1977, about a month after his appointment as Archbishop of San Salvador, when a close friend of his was murdered. This was a progressive Jesuit priest who had been deeply committed to working with the poor.
So began three years of Romero fearlessly speaking out against injustice and oppression. His Sunday sermons were widely reported and disseminated, and inevitably he came into conflict with both the Salvadorean government and the Catholic hierarchy, whom he tried to persuade that to support the government was to legitimise terror. And he wasn’t just a public voice. His very real interest in the poor people who came to him for help ensured that he would be remembered as their pastor, as well as their greatest advocate.
Yet while Romero’s concerns were very much for the poor of his own country, he is honoured far beyond it. Exactly four years ago, on the 26th anniversary of Romero’s assassination, I was in El Salvador’s capital San Salvador. And there I saw for myself the extraordinary crowds that gathered outside the cathedral for a celebratory Mass and all-night vigil. I vividly remember standing among them, feeling tired and jet-lagged, trying to keep up with a sermon, in Spanish, by one of the bishops, and being jolted into life by two words that even I couldn’t miss, the words ‘Westminster Abbey’. The bishop was paying tribute to the recognition of Romero worldwide and he singled out the statue of the archbishop among the modern martyrs over the Abbey’s west door, and thanked the people of the UK for their support for his country.
And if we come back for a moment to those verses from John 12, you will remember that this saying of Jesus is provoked by some Greek pilgrims to Jerusalem who met the apostle Philip and told him ‘Sir, we wish to see Jesus’. And in turning away from them Jesus confirms that it is only after his death that the good news of the gospel would become universal. Similarly, the death of Archbishop Romero has been an inspiration for Christians across the world, particularly those in countries where injustice and oppression are rife.
So what is Romero’s legacy? Like other martyrs of his time I believe he has changed and deepened the meaning of the very word ‘martyr’. Romero wasn’t killed for his faith: El Salvador is a profoundly religious country. He died because he lived out a particular aspect of his faith: that bias to the poor that we see in the ministry of Jesus. And if he saw himself too as the grain of wheat that had to die, he was not a solitary grain. During the 12-year civil war that began soon after his death, other religious figures were also assassinated; and in remembering Romero we should not forget either those other Christians who lost their lives defending the cause of the poor in El Salvador.
Thanks to all those Salvadorean martyrs we can see for ourselves where a bias to the poor may lead us and be inspired by it. Yet in Archbishop Romero we also see a very human figure. During my time in San Salvador I was privileged to meet a lady who had been the Archbishop’s secretary. She told me that his staff would reproach him for using provocative language and he assured them that he did try not to. She said: ‘He was a real prophet, yet he was indeed afraid’.
In Oscar Romero, the once conservative bishop, we see someone who knew for himself how Jesus Christ could change people’s hearts, even at great cost. We see too someone who recognised the Holy Spirit speaking through him, and who didn’t always like what he heard. Yet he persevered and because of his obedience to the prompting of the Spirit, and where that led him, it’s indeed right that we should be honouring him today. Amen.
