‘Listen to Him’

A Column by the Most Rev. Ronald M. Gilmore

Bishop of Dodge City

It is hard to see tears through sunglasses. But the break in the conversation, the swelling of the chest, and the lengthening silence testified to their presence on Thursday afternoon.

They were there as I walked around our shattered church in Greensburg. The roofless building was a jumble, was a twisted mess of brick and metal and wood and glass. The people, the small knot of parishioners who were there, the people were not.

They were hurt, of course. They were struggling to absorb what they had lived through that dark night. They were struggling to give voice to their experience. They were overwhelmed by the scale of the problem before them.

For their homes were gone. Their church was gone. Their town was gone, quite literally gone. Days and weeks of uncertainty stretch out before them. Months and years of rebuilding stretch out before them. Anxieties piled up around them on that afternoon as the debris piled up all around them, and all around their town.

But they were not glum. They were not paralyzed. They mocked the fierce storm in their conversation, they almost dared it to come back. They laughed at it through their anxieties and through their tears. They were down-to-earth, heart-on-sleeve, human about it all.

And they were helped to be so, not only by their own inner character, but also by the outpouring of compassion that was passing over them in wave after wave. Their suffering called others … around the diocese, around the state, around the country … to suffer with them. That communion in suffering makes all of us more human, and more divine: more like Christ who had compassion on the crowds.

I am proud to know them, the Catholics of St. Joseph. I am proud to be in the same Church with them. I am proud to be their Bishop.

+ Bishop Ronald M. Gilmore

Es difícil ver lágrimas a través de anteojos para sol. Pero las interrupciones en la conversación, el ensanchamiento del pecho, y la prolongación del silencio testificaron su presencia el jueves por la tarde.

Ellos estaban ahí cuando caminé al rededor de nuestra vapuleada iglesia en Greensburg. El edificio sin techo era una maraña, una enredada mezcla de ladrillo con metal, madera y vidrio. Las gentes, el pequeño nudo de feligreses de ahí, las gentes no estaban.

Fueron dañados, desde luego. Estaban batallando por asimilar lo que habían vivido en esa oscura noche. Estaban batallando por poner en palabras su experiencia. Estaban aplastados por el tamaño del problema delante de ellos.

Porque, sus casas, deshechas. Su iglesia, deshecha. Su ciudad, deshecha, literalmente deshecha. Días y semanas de incertidumbre se extienden frente a ellos. Meses y años de reconstrucción se extienden frente a ellos. Esa tarde, a su rededor se apilaban una angustia tras otra, igual que los escombros se apilaban a su rededor, y al rededor de su ciudad.

Pero no estaban abatidos. No estaban paralizados. En su conversación, se burlaban de la fiera tempestad casi hasta la retaban a regresar. Se reín de esto entre sus angustias y entre sus lágrimas. Estaban con las pies sobre la tierra, el corazón en la mano, humanos en todo esto.

Y se les ayudó a estar así, no sólo por su propio carácter interno, sino también por el flujo de compasión que pasaba sobre ellos, oleada tras oleada. Su sufrimiento invitó a otros ... al rededor de la diócesis, al rededor del Estado, al rededor del país ... a sufrir con ellos. Esa comunión en el sufrimiento nos hace a todos más humanos, más divinos: más como Cristo, que se compadecía de las muchedumbres.

Me enorgullezco de conocer a los católicos de San José. Me enorgullezco de pertenecer a la misma Iglesia, con ellos. Me enorgullezco de ser su Obispo.

+ Obispo Ronald M. Gilmore