Everything is Sacred – Katie Dutton
On our second day in San Salvador, we had the opportunity to meet with an Ecclesial Base Community. These groups have been meeting in varying capacities for decades, and their relationship with the formal Church is rocky. They have a rich history in El Salvador, and, as they explained to us, each time they meet, they begin in “the reality.” After discussing their lives, they read the Word of God, listening to one another as they examine what Jesus might be saying today, still basing their conversation in “the reality.” My journey to the CSTM was met with what we would say in Irish: “Céad Míle Fáilte Romhat, a Íosa” or “a hundred thousand welcomes, O Jesus”, which illustrate the vast warm welcome of the faith-filled intentional community here, who clearly walk and learn together as pilgrims.
Noticing the stunning murals that surrounded us there, one group member asked why there were no depictions of anything explicitly religious, as this community grounded themselves so deeply in their faith. Looking around at the work he had painted, including the beautiful scenery of El Salvador, women working together, and a woman gazing at her reflection in the sky, one of the members of the community responded, “Todo es sagrado.” Everything is sacred.
This perspective grounded my time in El Salvador. Certainly, it was the perspective of Oscar Romero, Rutilio Grande, and others who faithfully dedicated their lives, in many cases to the point of martyrdom, to the people of this country. Learning about these martyrs, as well as those whose names we will never know, brought to life so many of the things I had read in preparation for the trip. We speak so much of these faithful people who gave their lives in pursuit of the Gospel, who determinedly challenged the oppression against their people, but we forget that the injustices didn’t stop, and, based on what we saw, are actually ongoing.
This resilience was especially evident in Arcatao, a town in the mountains bordering Honduras known for its resistance to the oppression of the Salvadoran people throughout the Civil War (1979-1992). The home of my hostess was dotted with tributes to family members who had lost their lives or gone missing in the war. Romero’s watchful gaze looked out over it all, as if questioning, how is this still going on? Why are my people forgotten, again? And more importantly, what are you going to do about it?
Even with these questions looming over us, there was an abiding sense of hope among those we met. Children ran in the streets, growing up carefree in the shadows of the mountains where their parents and grandparents had stood firmly against the oppression of their people. Murals dotted the walls, a young girl pierced through with a soldier’s blade in one, a slash of violence that reminded us, as it must remind the children of the community, that the peace that now fills the air of Arcatao was fought for, and that the fight is not over.
So much of our theological study can become heady– we develop a secret vocabulary that we use to analyze the world around us, and this academic analysis can leave us distant from “the reality” in which the members of the Ecclesial Base Community ground themselves. How different might our study be if we, like Romero, looked unflinchingly at this reality– at the sacredness of the people and places we see, at the beauty and resilience of the communities we are in, yet also at the ever-evolving structures of violence and oppression that continue to mar our world.
Would we be moved to change it, even if it went outside what we had always known, like the people of the Ecclesial Base Community? Would we take action to fight and remember it, to stand firm with our community like the people of Arcatao? Or would we allow the long journey home from San Salvador to Boston to close our eyes to the reality? These are the questions that I’ve sat with as I consider what our role is in continuing Romero’s fight– not to put him on a pedestal as a martyr of some long-forgotten age, but as a man whose fight for justice ought to live on in us, as it does in El Salvador among those who have carried on his legacy.
If we truly believe that what Romero was doing was holy work, then we ourselves have a lot of work to do. As Sister Peggy reminded us, it is necessary to “expand your capacity for God.” In doing so, may we, like the people we met and learned about on this trip, have the courage to follow God’s will, but also the courage to be God’s hands and feet in this world that is so in need of both God’s love and justice.
See My Hands, Touch My Wounds
Adriana Sepúlveda-Ramírez
In the Gospel of John, the Risen Christ came to his disciples. Eight days later, he appears to them once more and explicitly invites Thomas to see and touch his body. “Do not be unbelieving, but believe,” he insists (John 20:27). There is something about encountering a scar-bearing body that does not leave you unchanged. To me, our CSTM 2026 El Salvador Immersion was an experience of encountering risen-wounded bodies. It was to be intensely exposed to the Paschal Mystery of Christ that is actualized in the story of the martyrs and victims of war violence – both the ones held at gunpoint as well as the ones bearing the gun.
To be welcomed by the people who suffered senseless persecution and oppression, to learn from them what it means to be a faith community in the midst of war has strongly illuminated my ongoing theological and ministerial formation. I feel that, in the midst of my graduate studies, I run the risk of reading and writing theology solely from an abstract and theoretical perspective. We can forget that our faith is a passionately enfleshed faith; our God is a God of extravagant love, poured out to the extreme. Many encounters during our immersion faced me with the wounded-resurrected body of Christ: my conversations with the resilient survivors of war in the small town of Arcatao, in the region of Chalatenango; listening to the families of migrants tirelessly searching for their disappeared loved ones; praying before the countless remains of martyrs and war victims.
Seeing and touching the faith and struggle of our Salvadoran brothers and sisters renews my reason to study theology and prepare for ministry. What do I strive to hold at the heart of my professional and academic formation? It is nothing other than my faith and discipleship of Christ, who brings the whole of human existence and history into the very heart of God.
Our second day brought us to the crypt of the Cathedral of San Salvador. There, I contemplated the final resting place of beloved Óscar Romero as dozens of people approached his tomb, touched the bronze exterior, genuflected, or whispered prayers of thanksgiving and intercession. They brought their joys and griefs to the feet of the martyr. Archbishop Romero declared in one of his homilies: “A Christianity that does not touch the reality of human suffering is a barren Christianity.” It is another way of urging: See their hands, touch their wounds. The way to recognize Jesus today is to approach, touch, and experience la realidad of those who suffer (Matt 25:35-36).
This time of walking alongside brothers and sisters of El Salvador and encountering their story of hope and suffering leads me to exclaim, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28). I pray that my faith in Christ leads me to a constant encounter with la realidad, the whole of our suffering and hopeful human realities. Here, I can discover Christ himself, the God of the Living. When I see these hands and touch these wounds, may I ask, “What have I done, what am I doing, and what shall I do for Christ?” (Spiritual Exercises, 53)
