r. Gildo is a Xaverian who has been working in Bangladesh for some 20 years, in the medical field. Over the last few years, he takes the bus and visits the small village of Chuknagar, about 40 miles from Jessore, to provide some relief to those who are sick there. He does this service every other weekend, whenever is free from his hospital turn at Jessore. 

“I spend every Saturday and Sunday visiting about 100 patients with Gospel-like self-giving, putting in the first place the children, the elders, the widows and the poor of the Gospel. I must confess that it’s a new experience for me, even though I am used to dealing with them in the halls at the Hospital in Jessore. I learned to appreciated more and more the people privileged by God according to the scheme of the Beatitudes: the poor, the hungry, the thirsting for justice, the excluded because of race, religion, political status, and class…”

On one November morning, as Dr. Gildo adventured on his 40-mile trip to Chuknagar, he took pen and paper and wrote his Christmas Letter, reported below, with reflections and thoughts that are ever challenging and powerful for today. May his thoughts continue our personal willingness to understand and learn from each other.

 

Thoughts of Christmas and Cross from a bus in Bangladesh

ere I am on this bus, waiting to leave, together with people who are wondering who I am, a stranger among them. I am a foreigner in this part of the world, in fact, mainly because of my white skin, my strange accent, and my way of answering patiently to their questions. They are amazed that I am able to answer in Bengali to their questions put together in some broken English. In this part of the world, there are few white people who are able to speak Bengali fluently, and so their curiosity increases even more.

My white skin, I said: they say it’s a sign of blessings. And yet, it’s a mark, the sign of those who are privileged. Your skin speaks of your richness. And even though you might not be rich, you just have to accept that. They will never believe in you, when you share with them that you don’t have a bank account. They cannot imagine that you left your home country to live here in Bangladesh, in order to serve others. It’s incomprehensible. And yet, you need to be thankful for this mark of white skin, for today it entails an absurd and revolutionary message. Your skin envelops your message. And you can try hard to tell them that you are not married, or you don’t have children, that you don’t have a salary and that you left everything in this world to come among them, a corner of the world from which everyone wants to leave. They do not believe you!

I look around me… the mud houses are endless in this stretch of road, and this bus brings them to view. I don’t know why, but I have been thinking about the Cross for quite some time: that Cross I preach, that Cross I witness daily…

My white skin: they say it’s a sign of blessings. And yet, it’s a mark, the sign of those who are privileged. Your skin speaks of your richness.

To whom? Do I witness the Cross to those who are already nailed upon the cross of poverty, of ignorance, of oppression, of injustice, of disease…? And it is in that sudden moment that I realize I’m preaching to myself, to my soul, to my faith, to my hope, to my vocation. It is I, the first person that needs to believe and be converted by the Cross!

“Go and preach…” the Gospel remind us. As I said goodbye to my family and friends about 16 years ago, the Bishop gave me the Gospel and the departing Crucifix. But what do I know about the cross? What do I know of a Crucified Christ? It is during these trips toward Chuknagar, the little village that awaits me, that I often fix my eyes on these people who fill this bus to the brim.

Am I here to preach to them the meaning of the Cross? They will never understand the cross, for they were born on it, they grow with it, and upon the cross they continue to live day in and day out. They are the ones who teach me about the meaning of the saving cross; these are the people who know the true meaning of joy in poverty, serenity in suffering, hope in desperate moments, ever searching for justice.

These are the poor whom the Gospel calls blessed, my traveling companions who risk their lives on these broken-down busses. They are the ones who will never tire to ask for help on the road, or those who look at me with a curious and jealous eye. They are the sick who long for my coming to them each weekend… those who stop me on the way as I approach the mission house. They are the one who show me the meaning of the cross chosen by the eternal God who did not give up on us, and dwells among us. Among the many buildings that I see with my eyes as I approach Chuknagar, the mud houses are those which resemble most the stable where Christ was born 2000 years ago… He is still born in them, today.

I don’t really know if my thoughts make any sense to you, and if its meaning is of value on Christmas Eve. However, I wanted with this reflection to share with you my gratitude for your support, and friendship. With your remembrance you continue to sustain my journey in this strange adventure on the roads of the world, ever announcing that God will never be tired of us, and who continues to be born in our midst, within these mud stables.

Dr. Gildo Coperchio, s.x.
from Centro Studi Asiatico - Asian Study Center