Final Words From a French Priest with Funky Glasses

I made it through security and customs in the Calcutta airport with little effort. I was on my way to London, and it looked to be a full flight. My friends Melissa and Brent, who volunteered at Kalighat with me, were on the same flight, which made for bittersweet camaraderie leaving Calcutta together. While walking to the gate I noticed the last chance for a cup of Indian chai tea, for sale at a tea cart. I could have sworn I heard someone speaking French so I walked over to investigate. "Father Jean Michel!" I said in pleasant surprise. "Bonjour, Denise . . . I mean, Namaskar," he replied. I had just spent the last three weeks volunteering with Fr. Jean Michel at Kalighat. He's about 37 years old and was only ordained six months ago. He gave his first homily/sermon in English during mass at Kalighat three days earlier. On the plane he let me copy the notes from his sermon, one of the most compelling and touching messages I've ever heard. Given by a French Catholic priest with funky tortoise shell eyeglasses to a group of intrepid volunteers and the poor and dying in Calcutta, of all things.

The message was so guileless, so simple. He first apologized for his broken English, and apologized in advance if he gets emotional. He then proceeded to tell us of things he had heard Kalighat patients say or that he saw in their eyes in his three weeks of volunteering, things like "feed me, wash me, hold me." In looking at the cross hanging on the wall in the lobby area of Kalighat, with the words "I Thirst" painted immediately next to it, it occurred to Fr. Jean Michel that in fact it is Jesus we hear and He is asking those things of us. This was no stale sermon delivered at an audience, or some rah-rah cheerleading session, or a repent-ye-sinners type of talk. It was the heartfelt reflection and insight of a man who had, day in and day out, fed malnourished bodies, held down screaming men as nurses would scrape dead tissue from open wounds, given last rites to the dying and then sat with them so they wouldn't be alone. Fr. Jean Michel was overwhelmed with emotion and could barely get the words out. You could see the emotion reflected back from people's faces, too. There was not a dry eye in the place. I have copied his notes here in case you're interested in his reflections. Maybe this makes sense only to those who have been to Calcutta and at Kalighat. Or maybe it makes sense to anyone who has simply wanted to know who Jesus is. See what you think, if you like.

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"What a better place to live Lenten time than Calcutta? What a better place to change our lives? Because the truth is that everyone here wants to change something in his life. Someone tells me that everyone comes here for a real reason, not just to volunteer, but moved by a deeper reason, an essential need which shouts in our hearts.

What is it?
What is your deep reason?
What is the truth of life you're looking for?

Christian or not Christian, the message of Mother Teresa is the same for everyone: it is the invitation of Love. But not the love the world offers us. The real love that is Jesus. We come there because our souls are dramatically in need of love. We come here for a long stay or a short one to calm this deep shout inside my heart: "Love me" and "I need to love."

These are the two things that make us human, made in the image of God, man and woman made by love, for love. We are made to participate in the love of God, to participate in His life, to participate in His nature, which is love.

And we are here to re-find the way to love truly, with all our heart, without fear, without limit. We all have heard in the words of Jesus, 'I thirst.' Jesus on the cross, who is suffering, bloody and looking at me...and loving me. I thirst to love you, He says. 'I thirst to fill you with my love. I thirst to give my life for you. I thirst for you to accept my gift to you. I thirst for you to open the door of your heart to me. I thirst to save you from death.'

"'Come closer to me,' Jesus says. 'Come closer and take care of my broken body, my suffering body...love me, feed me, give me panni (water, in Bengali), clean me, wash me, carry me, massage me, keep staying with me. You and me.'

"Re-start to love without restriction. Re-start your heart; you are made for this. Jesus is saying, 'I've made you for loving me through my suffering people that I'm present in. Re-start to open your heart and to give your life to the least of my brothers. Re-start to give your life to me. I thirst for you as you think of me. Keep standing under the cross and let me look at you. Take time to look at me without any words, just with love. Do not move away. Take time to receive my look. Look at my face, my eyes. They tell you how much I love you.'

"'Look at the cross and let me rejoice you as you rejoice my suffering heart and body. Let me change your life as you changed the life in my suffering people. Let me change your eyes as I look at you. Let me change your heart in giving my heart to you. Let me make you holy by the gift of my love and the Holy Spirit.'

"We are all here at the School of God to re-start to live Love and re-find the source of life. May the Lord bless us and by this time of Lent and this blessed time in Kalighat may He change our poor life, now and forever."

- end -

Reflection: How Then Shall I Live?

My last Sunday at Kalighat we all participated in mass. Even though I'm not Catholic, the novice Sister Mary Radiance asked me to perform the Old Testament reading and responsorial psalm. Not knowing what exactly that involved or what a "responsorial psalm" was, I agreed. Plus, she was a nun, and you just don't say "no" to a sister of the Missionaries of Charity. Turns out it was simply participating in the mass by reading to the audience. I walked up to the altar and looked outward: what an honor and privilege it was to stand on the Kalighat platform in front of the sisters I adore, the volunteers with whom I served, and even some women and men patients from the wards. Me, a li'l ol' farmer's daughter from Oklahoma.

Before I arrived in Calcutta I had expected to spend most of my time alone. That was not the case: I developed incredible friendships with all kinds of people, from doctors to nuns to beggars. For a month I felt like merely an observer at Kalighat and in the city in general; then one day I become a participant, truly caring about these patients, these people. I think of Sima and her "lollipop" penchant. I think of Protima and her generosity in the village. I think of the sisters calling me "Dennis" because "Denise" is too difficult to pronounce. For all the suffering I witnessed in Calcutta, I saw a lot that was funny, too. What do I do with everything I saw and experienced? How now shall I live: does this mean I have to change my profession, give away all my money and join a convent? No, but it does mean that I should be a good steward of the gifts I have been given, and to make good choices within the situations before me.

I think a desire to make good choices and to have a serious relationship with God does require is that I am inconvenienced from time to time. That I am perhaps uncomfortable sometimes; that I get my hands dirty. My friend Tom H. affectionately calls this concept "Shit-disturbing."

My challenge now is how this plays out in upper-middle class Dallas, Texas. I have most everything the world has to offer: all the modern conveniences, money, a loving family, good jobs with upward mobility, skills, and health (not to mention clean water and Western toilets!). There are hundreds of thousands of people like me in America. This is nothing to feel guilty about and much to be grateful for. Yet holding onto these too tightly and valuing them too greatly is unwise. And I had been holding on with a vise-grip, so much so that my value and worth became tied up in my job, and my comfort only in how much money was in the bank. Mother Teresa commented on this kind of false sense of security this way: while visiting New York City, she was asked to comment on her impressions of this, the glittering Big Apple and financial giant of the world. Her response surprised the questioner: she said New York City was the poorest city she'd ever seen. In Calcutta, the people are physically and financially poor. But in New York, people have a more desperate poverty: they are spiritually poor. Because of our relative wealth, we take so much for granted.

During the last two years, you could have described me this way: spiritually poor. To recall the state I was in, I just now went back and re-read my "Why I'm Here" page. I had no idea what I was getting myself into by coming to India; I just had this notion that Jesus is somehow present in the most painful and broken places. I now realize one of those places was inside myself. All I knew going into this was that I wanted to know Jesus by loving those of whom he said, "what you've done for the least of these, you've done it unto me." Boy, did He come through to make himself known: if there is one glaring lesson I learned, it's that He is real, and that He does in fact care. Do I like everything He does? No, but I am starting to trust Him a lot more, and to be peaceful and even satisfied that He sees the forest while I only see the trees. I'm giving Him a little credit. P.S. - He cares about those trees, too.

So for me, I had to get out of my comfort zone by doing something radical in a third-world country halfway around the world. Not everyone needs to take this tactic. Whether it's in Calcutta, Geneva, Washington or Dallas, I can seek to follow God in service and in prayer, to make good choices, to recognize evil. I wonder how this revelation will manifest when I return home. How will I negotiate a lifestyle that is simpler in honor of the poor? How will I spend my money, spend my time, and spend my energy? I fear my lazy tendencies will draw me back toward my previously-scheduled lifestyle, though I know that fully going back can't happen; my journey was simply too extraordinary. My friend Carolyn here in Calcutta says this, simply and profoundly, about adjusting back to life in the US: "I hope I never do fully re-adjust: comfort is nice but not always good." I don't want to get lazy and dismiss the life-changing and incredible gift of perspective I've been given. Do me a favor, friend . . . kick me in the ass if I do.