The Saint of Ansul Avenue

Ansul Avenue was the name of the unpaved, dirt road in our Barrio in South Modesto where my uncles, Quirino and Juana Mendoza used to live when I was a kid. After they died, the house remained vacant for some time, and just after I married and asked my cousin Sally if we could rent it and she conceded to let us have it for $50. a month which was cheap even for the 1960's.

It was a simple wooden structure which my uncle had built, with 4 small bedrooms, one bath, a rickety old garage and out buildings where we lived for about two years, memorable ones being that it was our first home which we relished in making our own.

Goodwill and second-hand stores obliged us with many bargains on used tables and furniture, and the rest I myself built from bricks and wood, and my wife's wifely artistic touches for decor.

After a time, I ran into an old high school friend-of-a-friend, Bill Briggs who rented a room from us and shared in the expenses, while my wife cooked for the three of us. It was an idyllic setting, one we cherished for a time to come. Bill learned to love Mexican food, especially the hot salsa my wife made from scratch.

He and I had much in common, our love for books, jazz, philosophy (bullshitting), and cheap red wine. We prided ourselves in finding cheap wine at the local liquor stores, but our major find was when we discovered "Vino Americano", a Burgundy wine, at 99 cents a gallon! Much deep philosophy emanated from this find.

It was during this time, probably well into the depths of that gallon of Vino Americano, and deep into some pseudo religious philosophical debate that he said to me one day, "Richard, you are the Saint of Ansul Avenue."  I was flattered but somewhat embarrassed being compared to a saint. Being the sinner that I was, I had hardly considered myself a saint. A devil maybe, but not a saint!

I had, of course seen the plaster and wooden statues of saints at church and watched people light candles before them and my mother lighting candles and praying to them on her home altar. But me, a saint? Maybe, if I stretched it little, or redefined the word some, I might, on a long shot, qualify. I had always pictured the saints as people who suffered much, denied themselves the pleasures of life, and prayed incessantly, and certainly not ones who indulged on worldly lusts and Vino Americano.

Anyway, I have mostly forgotten that moniker, until my wife's recent illnesses and life in chronic pain when a friend visited us and after sharing our struggles and suffering with her, she said "Ay, Don Ricardo, es usted un santo." (Oh, Richard you are a saint.) "Si", I said jokingly, "un santo con cuernos!" I responded, making the sign of two "horns" on my head. She laughed inconsolably. "No, usted es un santo", she repeated.

Now, that makes two people who have endowed me with the title. How many more votes do I need to be canonized, 10? 12? But I'm kidding, of course, and may the real saints forgive me.

Nonetheless, I will continue in the hope that my good deeds blot out my sins, or at least some of them. Please light a candle for me (not to me), the Saint of Ansul Avenue.

Greater Love Hath No Man: Martyr or Coward?

Image via Wikipedia

The word Martyr conjures in me images of fear, ecstasy, faith and terror. The Christian stories of the martyred saints, Peter, Paul, Stephen, and Joan of Arc are both inspiring and chilling.

Especially the supreme sacrifice of Jesus.

I have never really had the courage to stand for anything I believe in and the thought of dying for a principle frightens me to death (no pun).

However, it seems to me that the crux of Martyrdom is the giving of one's life for one's belief.

Perhaps the most ominous example is that of the early Christians who chose to face Lions rather than denounce their faith in Christ.

In all religions, faiths, cultures there are probably stories of people who have died for causes. They have killed and been killed "In the name of God."

Legions have given their lives for causes worthy and unworthy, just and unjust.

Witness the recent debate over whether Jihadists who strap bombs on themselves killing dozens of infidels, including women and children, for the sake of their Deity, presumably assuring themselves a special place in heaven, are martyr or terrorist.

But we have a new ingredient in the mix. The martyr is supposed to die!! What if he screws up and lives after killing others in the name of God? Shouldn't he ask for a tighter noose, a sharper axe or sword, a second bullet, a hungrier lion and submit to dying?

Or will he say "Ooopps, God, I'm sorry I really didn't mean it!? Epecially, after he has taken the lives of a dozen poor souls?

Point in question: the recent massacre at Fort Hood, Texas. While no one knows for sure, the media talk is that the act for Nidal Malik Hasan was one of Jihad. If it was, he should have died, yet he lived. He should therefore request immediate death, and not accept another breath of life.

Yet today on CNN, his lawyer is saying Hasan is considering a plea of not guilty for reason on insanity!

Doesn't that automatically negate the act as one of Martyrdom? You can't have it both ways! Unless, of course, he means that Jihad is insanity.

I wonder where failed Martyrs go, Heaven or Hell? Or Limbo? Or whether they even go at all?

Blessed Are Those Who Have Not Seen

Yesterday's Gospel Reading was the powerful story in the Book of John about Thomas, the supreme doubter, doubting Thomas. When he scoffs the stories that Jesus has been raised from the dead, he boasts that he will not believe until he can put his hand into the wounds in Jesus' hands and side.

When the risen Jesus appears to him and challenges Thomas to put his hand into his wounds, the scoffing Thomas can only drop to his knees:

"My Lord and My God"

Doubters make the best believers when they see truth. Doubt appears to be the path to knowing. It is the mantra of science. The scientific method. Else God would have made us puppets who were programmed to believe, beings without free will.

However, HE's taking a big chance because many "Pendejos", fools, skeptics or disbelievers continue to doubt, even when they are banged over the head with the truth. Witness "The Flat Earth Society" in England. Or those who deny the Holocaust.

It is not easy to admit you were dead wrong about something. Is it pride? Stupidity? Both? Skeptics want things to fail just so they can show they were right all along. Witness the right wingers who can't wait for Obama to fail, even if it means their own demise, just to prove they were right!

My mother used to say "ere's un incredulo" (you are a disbeliever) when it came to religious stuff. I wanted proof that God existed, a miracle, a revelation, a sign. I have been right there alongside of Thomas most of my life.

Speaking of signs, one billboard just outside Modesto, alongside the 99 hwy. always posted religious messages and once beamed: " I would rather believe in Hell and be wrong, than not believe in Hell and be wrong!"

Hmmm. Interesting point. What have we to lose if we believe in a God that is good and wants only good from us, and then discover there is no God after we die? At least we would have lived a decent life. It seems to beat the odds at slot machines in Vegas?

"Thomas: you believe because you have seen. But blessed are they who have not seen, yet they believe."

A Mother's Faith: Santos & Milagros

My mother was named Guadalupe, after her patron saint, The Virgen of Guadalupe and she had an abiding love and faith in the virgen. This print had a prominent place on the family altar which she had formed atop a mint-green dresser in her bedroom. Always, votive candles burned before the images of saints (santos) she had brought with her from Mexico. She loved to tell the story of the virgen's apparaition to the indian, Juan Diego and of how miraculous she was. "She appeared to an indian", she would stress, "not to the Europeans or the priests, but to an indian." She seemed especially proud of that.

Another image that was dear to her was San Martin de Porres, the black South American saint, pictured with his broom to emphasize his humble status. He was especially kind to the poor and to animals. One of her favorite stories of Martin was of a miracle he performed in a church that was infested by mice. "Look", he told the mice, "you must move out of the church because the priest if getting ready to exterminate all of you." The mice obeyed Martin, exited the church, and were saved.

One of my favorite prints was one of San Antonio (Saint Anthony) holding a Christ child. It is a beautifully colored print and seemed almost holy to me. I knew little about him but in the print he lovingly holds the child and looks heavenward, bathed in a glow of golden light, the child with a halo around its head, peers benevolently at the viewer. He wears the traditional brown Fransican robe tied at the waist with a rope, and a rosary tied to it.

The print depicting Mary was, I felt unique. It is softly colored and her expression is one of peace, tranquility and tenderness. One hand is pointing to her sacred heart (burning with the fire of Her love) and the other holds a branch of white lilies. No wonder my mother prayed to the mother of all mothers, who understands our human suffering, especially those of a mother.

El Santo Nino de Atocha (The Christ Child of Atocha), was yet another of her favorite "santos". The print, a delicate black and white lithograph on old, yellowed paper, she kept in a simple wooden frame, depicts a Christ Child sitting in a chair, wearing a strange plumed hat, holding a staff in his left hand and a small basket in his right. He wears sandals on his feet. I recall thinking how the artist had failed to capture the face of a child, and how he looks too grown up in it. At the time, I had no idea about the stories of a mysterious child who magically appeared to the sick and needy, in the far off Atocha, Spain, bringing them food and water.

The Virgen of San Juan de Los Lagos was yet another of her favorites. She was especially miraculous my mother said. She is pictured in a triangular shaped, elegant and fluffy blue gown, rich with gold brocade. Long and wavy locks of hair tumble down her shoulders, and an over sized crown graces her head, bordered by two cherubims holding a banner which reads: "Immaculate Mother Pray For Us", in Latin, and crescent shaped moon at her feet. I will never forget visitng the church in San Juan de Los Lagos, Jalisco in Mexico with my mom about 1965. The entrance to the beautiful old colonial church is lined from floor to ceiling with retablos (miracle boards), documenting the hundreds of miracles attributed to her. Painted by amateur artists, the child like images on tin depict the suffering of mankind, and the lettering on each one tells of the specific event, with names and dates, and the divine intervention of La Virgen in their lives. I was stunned. As I wandered around outside the church I found a large open room and stepped inside. Piled to the cielings and along its walls were stacked, dozens of old dusty wheelchairs, crutches, and old arm, leg and body casts. When I asked my mom what it all meant, she said "These are things left behind by people who came here in them and left, no longer needing them." I felt humbled, and embarrased by my stupid question.

I often scoffed her faith: "Mom, you don't really believe this stuff about miracles and Santos, do you? Shaking her head she would say "You are an incredulo! Se te ha metido El Diablo." On occasion, I would find one of the statues on its head, or a print facing the wall. When I asked about it she would say "I am punishing him. I am tired of praying and praying for your older brothers and he fails to answer me! He will stay that way until he answer my prayers!"

Today, a small, abandoned altar graces an upstairs bedroom in my home, and some of her statues and prints of her santos still grace it. While I never could acquire the faith of my mother in the santos and milagros (miracles), I did learn to respect it. Maybe it was El Diablo that prevented it, just like she always said?