Leviticus
13:1-2, 44-46
1 Corinthians 10:31 – 11:1
Mark 1:40-45
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I spent last weekend in
Monterrey, Mexico, helping bring a deacon classmate to his final resting place.
Deacon Jose Alfredo Blakely-Perez
was born in nearby Ciudad Madero, Mexico. He got his Bachelor’s degree at the
Monterrey Institute of Technology and went to work at a local company in
Monterrey where he met the girl of his dreams. The two eventually married and
moved to Canada, to pursue advanced degrees. Jose eventually attained a PhD in
Computer Science, and even taught for a time at Indiana University in
Bloomington.
24-years ago, Jose went to
work at Microsoft as a software architect and later became a senior executive.
He led a brilliant career there. In fact, he holds 19 patents for his work at Microsoft.
He was a faithful,
practicing Catholic, but wanted to do more for his Church.
So, he became involved in,
and eventually a leader, in the Cursillo Movement of adult retreats. There, he
felt called by God to the diaconate and entered the long, grueling five year
formation.
Once ordained with our class,
Deacon Jose served at St. Brendan’s Catholic Church in Bothell for five years
until his death in early January.
On January 12th,
his Memorial Mass was held before a crowd packed to overflowing at St.
Brendan’s. Archbishop Sartain presided, along with concelebrants Bishop
Eusebio, and a few close priest friends of Deacon Jose and his wife Luci, and
over 30 deacons, including most of his classmates.
Father Steve Sallis and Jose’s
29-year-old son Alfredo (himself a PhD candidate in Genome Science and Technology
at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville) both gave beautiful, moving
eulogies about an amazing man who died way too young.
Our deacon class wanted
someone to be present to Deacon Jose’s wife Lucinda, son Alfredo, and their
family as they took Jose home to his final resting place. After much
discussion, I was asked to go.
At first, I must admit to
being a little fearful and nervous about traveling to northern Mexico. The area is under a
U.S. State Department travel advisory for dangerous criminal activity. But what
I found in Monterrey was nothing like what I expected. I found a sprawling city
of eight million people, a modern city, a proud city, known as being the heart
of industry in Mexico.
I think we’re fearful
of a lot in our country. Fearful of people who are just like us, but who live
south of the border. There’s even talk of building a wall between our two
countries.
We are so fearful of the
world, a fear that mostly comes from ignorance.
Fear is what drove the Israelites
to create special rules for people with leprosy. They were to declare
themselves “unclean” and were banished from the community. The Israelites
believed the disease was a divine punishment by God for a sinful life.
Jesus knew this was nonsense –
and broke the rules to heal the man with leprosy. Jesus saw beyond the reality
created by His society, to the real human dignity of a man standing before him
who believed in a miracle.
Imagine the fear of the
Apostles, and the crowd around them, as a leper approaches Jesus and asks to be
“made clean.” Jesus did not fear. He even did what was forbidden by the rules of
his Jewish faith. He reached out, touched the man and healed him.
Do we sometimes insulate
ourselves from the suffering of others out of fear? What would Jesus say about
how we treat others we consider outcasts in our society? Are our actions or
inactions driven by our fears?
Ever heard of Denver Moore? Denver
was a homeless man living in the streets near the Union Gospel Mission in Fort
Worth, Texas.
He was born in Louisiana in
the 30s and lived a hard life as a boy in the cotton fields of the Jim Crow South.
Denver once tried to help the mother of a friend, a white woman, whose car had
broken down. Some white men came upon the scene, tied a rope around Denver and
dragged him around for several miles. He survived and left town on a train,
hoping to find a better place. But he didn't.
Denver became an angry man,
a scary man, a homeless man known for violent outbursts, usually while carrying
a baseball bat.
But one woman saw beyond her own fears to the heart and soul of a man needing Jesus’ healing. She imitated Christ with her life. In fact, in a
dream, Debbie Hall saw this very man and knew he would do something miraculous
to change what people thought about homelessness in her city.
Debbie Hall and her husband
Ron volunteered at the Union Gospel Mission feeding those experiencing
homelessness. Debbie was an eager
volunteer, her husband Ron, not so much. He was scared to even park his car in
the neighborhood.
When they both met Denver
for the first time, he broke into the feed swinging his trademark baseball bat,
breaking glass windows and smashing tables, angry because someone stole
something from his encampment.
Debbie told Ron, “That’s the
man from my dream! That’s the man who is
going change everything!”
So, Ron reluctantly went after him. Afraid
and cautious, he asked the man his name: Denver Moore. He then asked Denver if he could be a
little friendlier at the shelter feed. To which Denver said, “You wanna be my
friend? I’m gonna have to think about that.”
Over time, Ron and Debbie
got to know Denver, and Denver began to change. He was no longer scary or angry
or violent. He started dressing and acting differently.
Denver warned Ron to keep an
eye on Miss Debbie. He said she was very precious in the eyes of God, and the
devil was making her his target. Shortly after that conversation, Debbie was
diagnosed with incurable cancer. But she kept coming to the Mission several times a week and led a community transformation of the
neighborhood and mission.
Debbie died just two years
after meeting her homeless friend. For her funeral, she had one request of her
pastor, that Denver be allowed to speak.
During his eulogy, the
overflow crowd of rich and poor witnessed a miracle transformation come to
completion and Debbie’s dream come to fruition.
This is what Denver Moore
said, in his own words,
“I didn’t meet Miss Debbie. She met me. I didn’t want
to know Miss Debbie or any other white woman for that matter. But ever since I
known her Miss Debbie wants to be my friend. I’m sure she was a friend to every
soul in here. I still haven’t figured out why she wanted to know a fella like
me. I sure wasn’t nothin’ to be proud of.
“I didn’t meet Miss Debbie. She met me. I didn’t want
to know Miss Debbie or any other white woman for that matter. But ever since I
known her Miss Debbie wants to be my friend. I’m sure she was a friend to every
soul in here. I still haven’t figured out why she wanted to know a fella like
me. I sure wasn’t nothin’ to be proud of.
I was captive in a devil’s
prison most of my life. Many folks see me there locked up and pass me by. I
don’t blame them. I was not nice. Dangerous. I was probably just as happy to
stay in prison.
She was different. She seen me behind them
bars. And reached way down in her pocket and pulled out the key God gave her to
set me free. She’s the only person to love me enough not to give up.
Now I stand here a changed
man. A free man.
 |
Miss Debbie, she’s a whole
nother kind of different. Miss Debbie, she dream of a better place for the
homeless. And I ain’t talkin’ about
heaven now. I’m talkin’ about right here… in your town.
Now I’m gonna pick up Miss
Debbie’s torch and I’m going to carry it well.
And it would make Miss Debbie real happy if you will make her dream come
true, and pick up her torch and carry it around, too.
Whether we is rich or
whether we is poor, or something in between, we’s all homeless. Every last one
of us. Just working our way back home. Welcome home, Miss Debbie. Welcome
home.”
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Welcome home, my dear brother
Deacon Jose. Welcome home.
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(Here's a preview of the movie about Denver Moore's life. Peace)
