A Whisper in Our Hearts

What you hear in the whispers, proclaim from the housetops.
--Matthew 10:27

In a refugee camp in El Salvador, I heard the whispers of the poor. Such whispers were nearly overcome by the thuds of nearby bombing and machine-gun fire. But still an audible whisper could be discerned: "Tell your people this: Send bread not bombs. We have too many wives without husbands, too many children without parents."

In the hush of the evening, the whispers of Christians serving the persecuted in Guatemala spoke of the threats waged against them for expressing solidarity with the poor. The whispers of a Nicaraguan mother relayed her love for her beloved son, kidnapped by the contras, and her forgiveness for her persecutors.

The setting for such exchanges had been brutal: injustice, rampant poverty, persecution from every direction, war and death, literally all around us. And yet, and yet: the whispers! What I heard whispered under the breath was an invitation to love, to share in peace of heart. The presence of this peace was given in shared powerlessness, nonviolent love, gentle resistance, and humble service for one another. Peace reigned in the heart; the word was out, a quiet whisper amid the turmoil of war.

The whispers of the poor taught me how to proclaim from the housetops--softly, simply, without clinging to power. Softly, steadily, I shared the good news: "The poor of Central America have forgiven us. We can stop the bombings in El Salvador, the military support of oppressive powers, the violence against the Nicaraguan people, the death-grip over Honduras. Through love, we can open our eyes and discover sisters and brothers."

I went to the Pentagon and spoke with Secretary of the Army John Marsh. Surrounded by bloody battle scenes of the American revolution, I softly spoke about what I had seen and heard. And more--a proclamation: "There is a way out! We can stop this senseless brutality and begin to heal the wounds we have inflicted. We can offer food and medical supplies and our disarmed hands in friendship to everyone." Mr. Marsh said, "No, not as long as there is the possibility of communism. I cannot stop you from saying the things you want," he continued, "but being in a position of responsibility, I will not do what you want me to do."

It was time to go, but I confided one more offer to my friend: "In the name of the gospel and in the name of the poor people who are getting killed in Central America because of the U.S. military, please reconsider."

I RETURNED TO MY home in the Bronx to listen. In the rustle of the wind came an invitation to go to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, to invite the military cadets to consider the consequences of American imperialism and violence toward the poor of Central America.

I followed that whisper onto the grounds of the West Point campus. With other friends I crossed an invisible line into the private courtyard of the main dormitory, where we distributed leaflets that pointed out the connection between American military policies, West Point, and the sufferings of the poor in Central America. Scores of cadets leaned out their windows, looking down on us as if we were some Christian spectacle about to meet our God in a Roman coliseum. We gave out our message, quietly, to those who would take it.

Then, a commander approached us: "Stand right here!" he said. "Why?" I whispered. He repeated his order. Thinking of all that I had seen, all that I had heard, I began again, softly, steadily, walking around, handing out leaflets to those who would take them.

We were handcuffed. We were searched. And we breathed a prayer in a moment stilled forever, a prayer let loose into the wind of the times toward the One who listens and hears. "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us. Grant us peace." A whisper engraved in the solitude of our hearts.

We were questioned, photographed, fingerprinted, filmed, processed, and told repeatedly to stop singing. "I apologize for any inconvenience I may have cost you," I said to each military police officer who guarded me. "I want you to know I bear no ill will toward you. I'm doing this on behalf of the poor of Central America...." "That's all right," came the response each time, with a disarming smile.

As I was being led around the building, I looked up and noticed a photo of my friend Mr. Marsh standing before the American flag, symbol of power. He may not hear of my detainment for a long time, I thought, but this silent action, I feel sure, will announce my solidarity to the poor of Central America and to all who have ears to hear the whispers.

I was escorted out onto a balcony, there being no room inside for me, and was made to sit on a cold floor for three hours with my hands cuffed behind me. And there, overlooking the Hudson River colored by autumn, in the solitude of my heart, I heard the whisper come through the trees--the whisper of accepted powerlessness, voluntary poverty, redemptive suffering, weakness and helplessness embraced in a new emptiness and compassion, the spirit of nonviolence. A whisper heard by the poor: "Peace! I am with you. It is the Lord who speaks."

I heard the spirit of peace, the whispers of the God who blesses the brokenhearted of Central America with a heartfelt kingdom of love and justice and a yearning for the truth. My heart, now broken, knew a peace that cut deeply into my being. That day my whisper was joined with the whisperings of the poor around the world, in the housetop of the human heart, into a prayer engraved in the solitude of God.

John Dear, S.J., a Jesuit scholastic and the author of Disarming the Heart: Toward a Vow of Nonviolence, was a high school teacher in Scranton, Pennsylvania, when this article appeared.