After six hours of scaling steep ridges, our small caravan of horses and indigenous Ngäbe youth finally crested the hill, carrying all we needed for the days ahead. But the usual welcome in this village—the chaotic, joyful shouting of children—was noticeably missing. Instead, we were met with a heavy, suffocating silence. As we approached the simple wood-plank chapel, Bechi, a young Ngäbe woman, broke the confusion with a whisper that pierced deeper than the trail’s exhaustion: “The babies are dying.”
A virus was tearing through the village, stealing the breath of the newborns first. While some families had already begun the desperate descent toward a distant health center, others remained huddled over the sick. They were drinking traditional cacao, their prayers a rhythmic plea for light to pierce the shadow of the “tomb.” Our planned itinerary—summer catechetics and meetings for our agricultural program—dissolved instantly. Over the following days, we moved from house to house, praying, sharing cacao, and standing in that sacred, heavy silence where human words prove only an intrusion.
Experiences such as these force us to realize that the revitalization of our Vincentian vocation does not begin in the hushed silence of a sanctuary or the climate-controlled efficiency of an office. It begins where Christ is waiting for us—in the “gritty,” often uncomfortable reality of the peripheries. While we often speak of “visiting” or “serving” the poor, true revitalization requires immersion. This is not a “ministry strategy” or a line on a resume; it is a theological necessity. It is the tierra santa where the abstract Gospel becomes a living, breathing neighbor.
Vincent taught us to “turn the medal.” If we look at the marginalized through the eyes of society—or through the windshield of a car as we drive by—we see only “problems” to be solved or misery to be managed. But when we step out and walk those same streets, the medal turns. This collapse of distance is the only cure for the “savior complex” we might at times hold. We learn that we do not bring God to the poor; we go to the poor to find the God who is already there, working, suffering, and hoping. In this space, we move from being “benefactors” to being brothers and sisters, realizing that the light often burns more brightly in a windowless shack than in our own fortified community houses.
Consequently, we must be careful not to “professionalize” our charism into extinction. When our work becomes a mountain of paperwork and logistics, we risk treating a human being as a “case file.” Deep immersion forces us out of the safety of our defined walls and into the vulnerability of the encounter. Our pastoral care, organized charity and advocacy for justice must flow from a continual closeness—at times like the few who climbed to the foot of the Cross, unable to resolve the situation, yet steadfast in their faith. This is the “sacrament of the cup of coffee” shared under a leaking roof. In these moments of patient listening, our original fire is reignited, and we remember that we are called not just to alleviate poverty, but to stand in awe of a human dignity that no systemic injustice can crush.
This “reverse mission” teaches us how little we actually know. The poor become our amo y señor (masters and teachers), offering us a “theology of trust” and a radical dependence on Providence that we, in our secure lives, often forget. When we witness a mother praying with absolute conviction for the fragile child in her arms, our own faith is stripped of intellectual pretension and returned to its Gospel roots.
To live “with” the poor is to stand at the foot of the Cross. We may avoid this because we fear the “smell of the sheep,” the helplessness, or the pain. Yet, it is precisely in this “tomb” of human suffering that the Resurrection may become most palpable. When we commit to staying present in the dark spaces, we witness the miraculous: dignity reclaimed, community formed in a soup kitchen, and a joy that persists against all odds.
There are many “Bechi´s” whispering to us today, “The babies are dying.” This is not an invitation to pity, nor a call to be heroes. It is an invitation to a true encounter—to let go of our securities and give ourselves over to others in ways that are vulnerable and unpredictable. By choosing to step out of our comfort zones, we allow ourselves to be “broken open.” This intentional movement from the center to the margins, and from the head to the heart, is the perpetual spring that keeps our charism from becoming a museum piece. To be a Vincentian is to be a person of the encounter and it is only in the world of the marginalized that we truly find the Christ we have vowed to follow.
