Now this journeyman friar is at the province in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Thankfully, he’s still connected to our humble ministry. Read Father Greg’s article “Sacred Places, Sacred People,” where he writes about Conventual Franciscan Father Charles McCarthy’s outreach to Indigenous Americans. In typical Father Greg fashion, he weaves a powerful story about culture, faith, forgiveness, and living in harmony with our Indigenous brothers and sisters. We hope you like his story. 

Is he a writer? For sure. A producer? Yep. A poet? A public speaker? An educator? A pilgrimage leader? A friar-of-all-trades? Yes, to all. In this season of gratitude, I’m thankful for friars in the world such as Father Greg. I’m thankful that he continues to share his talents with us and our readers. We’re better for it. 

Have a great Thanksgiving! 

Conventual Franciscan Friar Charles McCarthy sees his ministry with Native Americans in the Southwest as one of accompaniment and respect. 

The soft-spoken Franciscan leads me into the 17th-century Church of St. Joseph. I pause for a moment to take in the silence and the sacred space—the white adobe walls, the carved wooden vigas (beams supporting the roof) and reredos, or altar screen, with portraits of saints. Murals on the sanctuary ceiling and church walls capture the world as seen through the vision of the Laguna people. 

Since photography is not usually permitted inside, Conventual Franciscan Friar Charles McCarthy explains the symbolism. A couple of months later, the church will come alive for me with parishioners from Laguna Pueblo as I celebrate the Sunday liturgy there, conscious that I am standing in the footsteps of missionaries who have served the Laguna people since 1699. 

According to records kept by Marquette University, Franciscans from Mexico established the mission of San José de Laguna in 1699 and served there until replaced by diocesan priests in 1852. The Franciscans returned in 1910 and have ministered here since—first, the Order of Friars Minor’s St. John the Baptist Province, Cincinnati, Ohio, and, since 1985, the Province of Our Lady of Guadalupe (OLG). 

A friar of OLG Province, Father Chris Kerstiens, OFM, continues to assist the parish and the neighboring missions of Acoma Pueblo as parochial vicar. Friar Charles arrived in June 2021 to become the first Conventual Franciscan to serve as pastor in Laguna and Acoma, in collaboration with OLG Province and the Conventual Franciscan Province of Our Lady of Consolation. 

Like so many non-Native ministers in Indigenous Catholic parishes, they have taken on the learning curve that confronts anyone seeking to serve in a culture other than their own. 

‘No to Colonialism’ 

According to a study by the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate (CARA) in a 2019 document called Two Rivers: A Report on Catholic Native American Culture and Ministry, about .09 percent of US Catholics are estimated to be American Indian or Alaskan Native, a total of 708,000, based on 2015 figures. 

The CARA report notes that “over more than 500 years, the diversity of the global Church has grown in the United States as evangelization, colonization, slavery, and immigration have transformed the background and demography of residents.” 

Demographics and the ethnic makeup of many US Catholic parishes have changed greatly. The resulting upheaval has not always been peaceful: merging parishes due to priest shortages, juggling Mass schedules to accommodate liturgies in multiple languages, maintaining Catholic schools for immigrant students, becoming advocates for justice in the face of the ongoing awareness of racism and colonialism in the United States. 

_{Language or cultural barriers aside, Father Greg Friedman says that God is calling us to embrace one another.}

Most recently, Americans beyond the Catholic Church have found themselves wrestling anew with long and sad legacies of slavery and colonialism—even as the nation coped with unrest, political division, and a global pandemic. 

Such calls for change are often coupled with the need for “reconciliation,” “economic restitution,” and—most prominently—“decolonization.” 

On an apostolic journey to Ecuador, Bolivia, and Paraguay in July 2015, Pope Francis addressed the Second World Meeting of Popular Movements. He declared: “Let us say no to forms of colonialism old and new. Let us say yes to the encounter between peoples and cultures. Blessed are the peacemakers.” Like his predecessor, St. John Paul II, Pope Francis humbly asked forgiveness “not only for the offenses of the Church herself, but also for crimes committed against the Native peoples during the conquest of America.” 

‘Two Rivers’ of Faith and Culture 

Friar Charles was born on the South Side of Chicago in 1951. He began the path to Franciscan life in the Conventual Franciscans’ seminary system in 1969, in the time of change within the Church begun at the Second Vatican Council. He left formation after two years to earn a degree in secondary education, while also steeping himself in Native American studies. 

Returning to the seminary, he earned his master’s in divinity degree in an ecumenical setting at Northwestern Lutheran Theological Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota. He made his first profession as a friar in 1975 and was ordained a priest in 1979. 

Friar Charles then began a diverse ministry career—vocation animator; missioner in Honduras and Denmark; immigrant/migrant minister in the Rockford, Illinois, Diocese; pastoral ministry at an urban Pueblo in El Paso, Texas, and an English/Spanish/Chinanteco parish in Richfield, Minnesota; and Hispanic ministry in Louisville. After two years attempting to reinitiate an urban ministry among First Peoples in Albuquerque, he was assigned as pastor serving the Laguna and Acoma Pueblos. 

Bishop James Wall of the Diocese of Gallup, New Mexico, is former chair of the US Bishops’ Subcommittee on Native American Affairs. He has spoken of “the two rivers of Native American tradition and Catholic faith that flow into one.” 

After my visit to Laguna Mission, I sat down with Friar Charles to explore these two rivers. 

How much influence did your studies at a Lutheran seminary have on you? 

Oh, probably huge, because we examined theological principles from different angles and from different points of view. Theological study was contemporary. It was actual. It was an energizing time to be in. That study also involved what is called “contextual education.” 

How do you define “contextual education”? 

Taking theological reflection to the place and experience of ministry. When arriving in a new place, one looks around, goes to meet people, isn’t quick to say that one knows what’s going on when one doesn’t. It’s OK to say, “I don’t know.” 

For example, when ministering in a neighborhood, find out where the fire department is, police station, hospitals, the schools. Meet school principals, civic leaders, and offer your assistance. What issues are people in the neighborhoods—as well as the kids in the schools—facing? What impact might pastoral ministry and theological reflection have on the people’s reality? Get the census figures: What’s the makeup of the neighborhood? What are the income levels? What’s the poverty level? 

_{The Tortuga Mountains in Las Cruces, New Mexico, provide a serene backdrop as Friar Charles McCarthy, OFM Conv, hears confession.}

Have you extended that approach to ministry among Native Americans? 

When I came to Albuquerque, I needed to find where the Native populations were living, in which parishes, so I could approach pastors and see if there was a willingness to collaborate. It’s important to find out who the Indigenous people are. 

Do they come from a big nation, like the Navajo Nation (over 300,000 members)? Or are people from a tribe of just a few hundred members living in an urban setting? What network do they have? 

Beyond “where people are,” it’s important to know what the cultures are. For example, there is no monolithic “Native American culture,” right? There is a diversity of cultures that fit into what we box into “Native American” or “First Peoples.” 

Ministry depends on the relationship between Native peoples, their cultures, and the Church. Besides a Catholic presence, there are places where the Mormons, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, as well as the Native American Church are active. There are many historic frustrations and hurts between the peoples and the Churches. These “scars” impact how one can encounter a reality and accompany people. 

What does decolonization mean? 

Decolonization is an awakening of cultural identity and values among First Peoples worldwide impacting European thought and processes. It involves reclaiming ethnic identity and values and is a movement to redress the injury without whitewashing or burying the experiences. 

In the United States and Canada, treaties were signed concerning land use and territory, rights, and autonomy but were, and often still are, ignored. From the First Peoples’ perspective, the European “invaders” took the land and moved First Peoples off their land. There was wholesale dislocation of peoples, annihilation of cultures, even an elimination of some peoples. 

So, decolonization involves changing perceptions? 

There is a perception that Native people are poor, unintelligent, incapable of doing anything at a “cultural” level. The reality is [that] diverse peoples [are] informed with sound cosmologies and an integral relationship with nature, often radically different from European thought. First Peoples are incorporating this “Native” understanding as they teach in the universities, work as civil servants, first responders, and scientists, and are impacting the dominant society. 

Yes, there’s poverty. Poverty’s causes are, at times, resulting from the historical dislocations, active marginalization of First Cultures, disenfranchisement, and climate change. The people of Laguna and Acoma, for example, are traditionally agricultural people. Within a few generations farms and pastures have dried up. 

How do we overcome perceptions? 

I’m not a Native person, so I’m outside that loop. I must figure out how to appreciate and respect the people in the loop. I need to honor their voice, to encourage their voice to be heard, to call the voice forth: “Who and how are you?” 

At a recent listening session of Franciscans with Navajo people, a Secular Franciscan woman stood up. She was an elder, probably in her mid-to-late 80s. She said: “When your brothers first came out here, before they did anything, they sat with our holy men to hear our story. The friars understood who we were, and many of them learned our language.”  

Learning to listen and honor traditions is core to entering the context of the lives of people to learn how to be present and to accompany. 

Cultures are often secretive. Are there times when people share their ways? 

Right. At one of the Pueblos, when we’d finished with a liturgy, another friar heard drums in the village. He said, “OK, we can’t go that way because we have not been invited.” There was a private ritual underway. 

One day, at Laguna, while exiting after Sunday liturgy, the sacristan said: “Don’t go out the door, Father, stay here. Say goodbye to the people here. There’s a traditional ritual being celebrated in front of the church. Only the people can participate.” On another occasion, there was a procession with the patron saint. Somebody comes scurrying up: “Father, stop. You went past the point.” 

When I asked, “What point?” I was told, “Back there, you were supposed to stop and offer the saint incense to bless the four directions.” She then explained what I was expected to do. People will tell you what they need you to do. 

_{Youths from Laguna Pueblo, accompanied by drummers and chanters, perform the Eagle Dance during the installation of Archbishop John C. Wester at the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi on June 4, 2015.}

What are some points of intersection for Christianity and indigenous cultures? 

Blessing is common to all cultures. But how do you bless? We bless with holy water. The Navajo bless with corn pollen. The Pueblos bless with corn pollen and corn meal. There are some blessings with tobacco, sage, sweetgrass, and many other organic items. 

Like us, Native cultures have healing rituals. Where we do healing rituals with oil, depending on the culture, First Peoples may use different herbs and smudge [smoke], as with the Plains Peoples. Here people don’t use smudge (as often). They know how, but it’s not something that is originally from the local culture. A lot of people don’t realize that Christianity and Judaism, like Native religions, are lunar. For example, for us, Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon of the lunar equinox. 

And we both reverence creation, right? 

We use the words Creator and creation. First Peoples often find it easier to talk about God as Father, Mother, because the Creator and the earth are the two principles that are equal in giving us life and supporting us and supporting each other. It isn’t dualism, but it’s duality, complementary—I think there’s a difference there. The feminine, the masculine, the yin and the yang. How many cultures have that? The power of the earth as mother. The earth is our origin. It’s where we return. 

Do you have any examples of how christian and indigenous cultures can share symbols? 

A potter from Acoma Pueblo made a clay incense pot for one of our friars. She asked if she should paint a cross on it. So, I showed her a picture of something that her mother, also a potter, had made at St. Ann’s Church in Acomita. It was a cross—a symbol common to both yet distinct as well. 

When she had completed the incense pot, she explained its symbols: The cross for people in the Southwest symbolizes the four directions, the four winds and the North Star—the same symbol has multiple meanings. The cross on the pot has stripes through it, which symbolize rain, a blessing. 

So In the End…

Cross-cultural ministry is about accompaniment and respect, a willingness to encounter and attempt to understand diversity. Life in a culture other than one’s own is more about listening than speaking, more about discovering together than giving answers. Christianity has picked up many traditions “along the way,” enhancing its roots. 

What does Christianity—what could Christianity in dialogue look like, where you are?

American Experience on PBS 
Check local listings 

Iran is a study in contrasts. It is a place wedded to simplicity and to its ancient traditions, yet rhinoplasties and sex reassignment surgeries are commonplace there. It’s a youth-dominated culture (around 70 percent of the population is under 30), yet it’s one of the oldest civilizations in the Middle East. And our own country’s mercurial relationship with the Persian nation goes back generations. One of the darkest chapters in that shared history took place in 1979 during the hostage crisis in Tehran, which lasted well over a year. And that is where writer-director Robert Stone places the central narrative of American Experience’s Taken Hostage: what led to the crisis and how its legacy stains our nations’ current relationship. 

On November 4, 1979, armed Iranian college students ambushed the United States Embassy in Tehran and took 52 American diplomats, members of the military, and civilians hostage. The world watched over the next 444 days as the relationship between our two countries—which was once amicable—devolved into bitterness and mutual mistrust that simmers to this day.  

Taken Hostage takes viewers on a thoughtful, impressively researched journey from when the US and Iran were allies to the tattered remains of its current relationship—and how this hostage crisis upended any diplomatic foreign policy with Iran. 

Robert Stone, whose fearless plunge into his subject rivals anything produced by Ken Burns, takes his time with this examination. Featuring interviews with journalists, former military, and those who endured the crisis firsthand, Stone allows the film to unfurl at a steady pace. The result is a powerful, measured look at a traumatic event, yes, but also the uneven road that led us to it. Stone offers a thoughtful and confident examination of two bickering countries and the innocent people stuck in the middle. 

Taken Hostage, as powerful a piece of documentary filmmaking as you’re likely to see in these last months of 2022, sheds some light on the delicate dance we have with the Middle East. It also shows us that as long as Iran remains an energy superpower, the dance is far from over. 

Also from PBS 

Showdown with Iran is available at PBS.org. 

In 2002, President George W. Bush included Iran in his now-famous “axis of evil” speech (the others being North Korea and Iraq). That speech put the oil-rich and nuclear-capable Middle Eastern country on blast. Frontline’s Showdown with Iran, from 2007, examines how the nation, which has a robust and well-funded military, has elbowed its way into prominence on the world stage.

Showdown is, strangely, somewhat dated and wholly evergreen. Our relationship with Iran is still nonexistent: No diplomatic ties exist. Frontline’s documentary is a time capsule of where we were and, potentially, where we are headed.

Smile. At your family, your coworkers, strangers. Smile at the bus driver, the cashier, the guy crossing the street while you wait at the stop sign. That outward projection of inner joy might be the simplest, clearest way to show you’re delighted just to have another day on earth.

Pray. For the most part, we know from childhood to say “please” and “thank you” to the people with whom we interact. But how often do we remember to thank God, the one without whom we’d have none of this wonderful world? We can never thank God enough, and that’s OK. A simple prayer—a thank-you from the bottom of your heart—is all God wants to hear.

Give. If you’re reading these words, there’s a likelihood you have a pretty good life and have been provided with more than you need. All of us here at Franciscan Media know we have! What among our things can we give to others? What money, resources, and possessions do we take for granted that could be the difference-maker for someone else?

Serve. One of the greatest things we can do for others is to give of our time. Whether it’s handing out meals in a soup kitchen or lending an ear to a friend in need, service is a powerful way to walk with Christ and bear grateful witness.

Share. Even those who are materially poor are often rich in wisdom and experience, two gifts that can be easily overlooked. What knowledge have you amassed that might change the life of a young person? What hard-learned lessons can you lovingly impart to show your thanks for all that life has taught you?

Love. We have what we have because God loves us. It’s really that simple. And we have the power to reflect, and magnify, that love in our relationships with others.

Remember. Family and friends are the most beautiful blessings God gives us. When you’ve lost a loved one, you can celebrate cherished memories as a sign of how much you valued that person’s place in your life and how much richer your life is as a result.

Remind. It’s easy to fall into a rut of negativity, especially when people close to you are struggling. And who among us hasn’t struggled these last two years? Sometimes we all need a little nudge, a reminder of how good we really do have it. So go ahead and vent and commiserate—but don’t forget to balance it with a reminder: thousands of things go right for each of us every day.

Write. The idea of a gratitude journal is nothing especially new, but the reason it’s been around so long is because it’s a good idea! Each day, jot down at least one thing for which you’re thankful. Chances are that once you get in the habit, you won’t want to stop.

Speak. We saved the most obvious one for last! It’s so basic, but so impactful. Say “thank you” as often as humanly possible. Really, do you ever get tired of hearing those words?

Her name was Ms. Flowers, an elderly parishioner to whom I was asked to bring Communion. I had never met her in my years at the church where I was the deacon. I was told that she was brilliant and wise—that long ago she was a great traveler and lecturer on the arts. She had fallen on difficult times after an accident but remained as elegant and knowledgeable as ever.

I walked up the building’s concrete steps. Strewn on the front yard were remnants that reflected the area: old whiskey bottles, fast-food wrappers, and cigarette butts. I stepped into the apartment building and was met with the undeniable odor of urine and hopelessness. I rang the bell to her apartment and was buzzed in. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. After a moment, I heard a quiet shuffling and a melodic voice say, “I’m coming!”

As the door opened, I stood without moving. Words wanted to escape my lips, but nothing came out. It was more than a door that opened; it was what lived in that small apartment that took my breath away. I’m not saying it was like Dorothy’s bedroom door opening to the land of Oz. There certainly was no dramatic change from black-and-white to Technicolor, but there was a sense of something inside that apartment that was far more beautiful than what was outside those walls. It was the presence of holiness that startled me.

Ms. Flowers looked up at me with this knowing smile that reassured me. She ushered me in. Had she not, I’d likely still be standing there with my mouth agape. She had set up a little table with teacups. The sunrays through the window kissed her teapot and the cups that sat on cloth doilies. I pulled the pyx out of my pocket and laid it on the table with the tea. She quietly uttered, “Amen.” 

I listened as she showed me pictures of her travels. She spoke of how blessed she had been—how God had given her many years, many adventures, and many difficulties to overcome. She faced those difficulties and found that, through faith, she had become stronger because of them.  

Children of God

Ms. Flowers had lost all that she had: her nice home, her money, her expensive clothing, her exorbitant vacations, and her grand adventures. She spoke of love lost and promises broken. But there was no pain in her voice or regret in her eyes. It was as if she were reading a story of someone else’s life. She had separated from that part of herself. That part of her life was gone; it was painful but necessary.

Sometime after I had heard Ms. Flowers’ stories, I began the prayers for the reception of the Sacrament of the Eucharist. When I presented the Eucharist to her, she looked at the holiness of it, smiled, and whispered, “Amen, my Lord, amen.” 

Ms. Flowers offered me crackers and tea she had prepared. She thanked God for providing us a delicious meal. And we ate.

I cannot explain how the crackers tasted. I cannot describe how the sweetness of the hot tea caressed my mouth. I kept saying to myself over and over, “It’s just crackers and tea. It’s just crackers and tea.” However, in this place, with this woman of God, everything was more than I saw, more than I felt, more than I perceived. Everything was greater than it was.

In time, I left the apartment. The following Sunday, Father McDonald informed me that Ms. Flowers had passed away the day after I had visited her. I was deeply saddened. He asked me if my visit with her affected me. I said it had, profoundly. It felt as if I had been in the presence of an angel. He told me that, every once in a while, God shows us how to be his child. Ms. Flowers was one of them.   

Let Us Pray

Give grace, O Lord, that in moments of anxiety,
I reflect your love and not my anger. 
Give grace that I might reflect your
generosity in my moments of selfishness. 
Give grace that I might speak love
into the face of hatred.
Give grace, O Lord, give grace. 
Amen. 

And I am thankful. I have always felt sorry for those who have never had the way or the wanting to befriend the saints. These holy but imperfect souls come in every description, ethnic background, and personality.

They all have something to teach us, something that draws us closer to our God and to our true selves. Because I so enjoy connecting with the saints. It’s like being asked to spend time with my own family or dearest friends. Who could not find a favorite in the likes of Clare and Francis of Assisi, Thérèse of Lisieux and Ignatius of Loyola, Teresa of Avila, and John of the Cross? These six are among the Church’s wisest of guides. And they were just waiting to be asked, as the unnamed disciple asked Jesus himself, “teach us to pray” (Luke 11:1).

Theoretically, we all want to pray more as soon as “time allows.” Yet prayer tends to get preempted by things beyond our control. What we fail to see is that these events cannot hold a candle to the worthiness of prayer. So, we count on God’s willingness to wait, without complaint, for our promised attention down the road. I do not believe that anyone has ever put it better than Barbara Brown Taylor, in her book An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. She nails it when she observes, “To say I love God but I do not pray much is like saying I love life but I do not breathe much.”

I was led to pray with Francis on Mount La Verna as he begged God for the privilege of sharing Christ’s suffering on the cross. His prayer was so fervent that it generated the stigmata for Francis, and a more mature appreciation of suffering for me. Years later, when my only son took his own life, I came to understand what it meant to bear the wounds of Christ in my heart, my mind, my memory.

I was led to pray with Clare at her bare-bones enclosure in San Damiano where she planted her soul in silence and praised God in the Liturgy of the Hours. Her example encouraged me to create my own monastic cell in a corner of whatever home our oft-transplanted family occupied.

I was led to pray with Ignatius as he imaginatively applied his physical senses to recreating the Upper Room where the Lord Jesus hosted his Last Supper with his friends. And the saint and I were among them, hearing Jesus’s voice as he blessed the bread and wine, tasting his Body and Blood, feeling our hearts grow heavy with the threat of his arrest.

I was led to pray with Thérèse at the Carmel of Lisieux where she lived her Little Way of self-conquest and simple conversation with the Lord. She and I consoled each other when Jesus appeared not to hear a word we uttered.

I was led to offer the Lord’s Prayer with Teresa at St. Joseph’s Chapel in Avila, where La Madre taught me to enter into this familiar prayer’s inner meaning. With her help, I was able to turn an often-empty vocal prayer into a meditation on filial love, trust, and ever-willing forgiveness. I was led to pray with John of the Cross as he, in contemplation, ascended Mount Carmel, emptying himself of all concerns and anxieties along the arduous way. I followed behind him, hoping to be filled at the bubbling mountain spring of God’s surpassing love, wisdom, and delight.

For decades, the saints have been my mentors in prayer, faith companions whom the centuries cannot separate, beloved friends bound by Wisdom who “in every generation…passes into holy souls and makes them friends of God, and prophets” (Wisdom 7:27). Our saints await us, gathered under the Spirit of Wisdom’s bright wings. Let’s pray.