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What do a New York-born Ukrainian Jesuit scholastic from a Midwest province and Honduras have in common? Virtually nothing.

Tuesday, June 10, 1986.
I try to work the tenseness out of my neck and shoulders as I wind the red Toyota jeep down the mountains. My concentration is still above, in the little town of Yoro, where Edy and Beto and Moncho are conducting a beginner workshop in dramatizing the Gospels. I'm worried about the group from the village of Santa Marta. This will be Beto's first time directing an illiterate group. I think he can do it. Another pair of helicopters swoops toward me and a sonic boom thunders through the canyon.

I try to switch my concentration below. The gringo convoy drivers determined to assert the Empire's total and exclusive dominion over the roads assault my consciousness through the breech opened from above. I rally the defenders and we hold firm.

Back to the neck and shoulders. This time I go directly to the San Pedro Sula airport. There's the cause.

Will I get there on time? Will' George and I be able to pick each other out? Does he have enough Spanish to get through immigration? How will he react to Honduras and to the teatro? Will he survive the sink-or-swim- plunge into the Honduras reality?

Will he survive the first acid test: Customs?

Virtually nothing. Yet it is the "nothing" that makes my observations somewhat objective and the "Virtually" that leaves open the invitation and possibility of finding commonality. This duality frames my whole experience.

Wednesday, June 11, 1986.
Caribbean Paradise day. Takes George to an idyllic Carib village on the coast. The salt Water and the sun soothe the pangs of culture shock.

Honduras itself is full of contrasts, as evidenced by my first few days in the country. We were beginning a workshop in Yoro, the mountain capital of this department.

Thursday, June 12, 1986.
Guillermo, George and I set out from the theatre at 8:30. Guillermo is our resident expert at breaking in gringos.

The mountains are at their most gorgeous, strutting their palette of new greens in the constantly changing light that entices and enhances their mystery. New greens that conceal the nakedness of the raw wounds beneath.

I try to explain to George how the workshop is organized. When we get there they will be divided into village groups, rehearsing individually pieces the groups can take home to their villages. After lunch Guillermo will take a session of exercises and theatre games. Then Edy and Beto will warm them up on the Gospel the whole group is doing together. At 3:30 we all go over to the church and I'll take the rehearsal there. We go back to the Center for dinner, then back to the church to do the Gospel in the evening parish Mass.

Just watch today, George.

The trip up displayed the magnificence of the country and an almost invasive presence of its weariness. Landscapes obstructed by billboards advertising brand names which contain letters not even in the Spanish alphabet; deep-green mountains with open sores caused by the tearing away of is mahogany and cedar and pine, leaving only grooves from the subsequent erosion; and even the tranquility of Yoro itself overpowered by a supersonic fighter jet booming through the sky.

We arrive at the Center in Yoro. I hear various rehearsals in progress inside. Good; no major problems. I turn off the motors and the jeep explodes.

But nothing has happened. the children recover and gaze upward and then drift back to their playing. A young man hurls an obscene gesture at the sky and resumes his amble.

I will remember the young people at the workshop by their smiles. Which showed their gentility and their sense of discovery at trying something new and finding a new way of expressing themselves.

George watches. I'm still not sure how much he understands.

At 3:30 the whole group -- some forty-five from five villages and the town plus the four fragua instructors plus George and myself -- set out for the church. I gab as we string out along the dusty street, luxuriating in the fresh mountain air. My group turns the corner heading for the plaza and I hear kids shooting off firecrackers ahead of us.

As we walked to the church to practice the Gospel we had just learned, the streets were filled with the sounds of chickens clucking and children playing. The citrus trees were in bloom and the mountain breeze carried their fragrance through the street. A little girl sang "Te quiero Dios"

As we turned the corner a car backfired -- three times. When people started running I knew it wasn't a car.

I brake the initial forward instinct of the group around me and bark them against the wall. They obey more readily than I expect. I take a deep breath and peek out.

I see a Goya painting: stilled motion whirling around a blur of red and black and tan straddling a corpse and hunching into the rifle in the frozen moment before he pulls the trigger.

He's aiming towards the opposite corner of the plaza. Whoever he's aiming at is aiming in our direction. I plaster myself against the wall.

We heard another shot. The lady in the doorway on the corner started crying as she looked toward where the shots were coming from. She screamed "(Es mi hermano!-- It's my brother!". The man next to her, as if to imply that she was making something big out of something quite ordinary, said "Callate -- Shut up".

Edy turned to me and said "Welcome to Honduras".

Silence. Then people seem to sense that it's over and breathe again. I motion to Edy and Guillermo to reconnoiter while I shepherd the group around me. "Get them into the church as fast as we can."

Later inside the church just yards away from where the man was shot we sang: "Yo tengo fe que todo cambiará -- I have faith that all this will change."

After rehearsal I try to reassure George. "I hadn't expected your baptism by fire to be so literal."

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Against this backdrop the actors and actresses of El Evangelio en Vivo perform.

Allow me to correct you, George. That's ĦEl Evangelio en Vivo!, as in Oklahoma! or Carnival!: The Gospel: Live! Twice the punch in Spanish.

Perhaps this is what makes the project so striking and its impact so visible. During rehearsal the neighborhood children seem to find their way to the church where the actors are working. They bring their baby sisters, Their embroidery, Their cats. They sit and watch witch wide eyes. They leave repeating gospel verses the way kids in the States repeat lines from their favorite commercial.

A group rehearses the Acts of the Apostles. A white dove flies in and perches on the cross above the altar as the narrator reads "and the Holy Spirit was upon them". If you will excuse the symbol, bordering on a pious clich, it gave me pause to realize that yes! the Holy Spirit is upon this project. The Spirit is obvious in the smiles of the congregation and in the attention they give to the word proclaimed in this way. And obvious in the little ones repeating the dialogue.

There are those who see doves perching on crosses and dare to leap into the realm of the Holy Spirit; there are those who see pigeons flying around and ask who is going to clean up the mess.

Tuesday, June 17, 1986.
Now that he's experienced the workshop phase of the project in Yoro, I orient George on the Progreso phase.

The eight actives of the fragua company are spread around the city: four have afternoon high-school groups, four have night-rehearsing groups in the different barrios.

Take the bicycle and go with Guillermo on his rounds tonight and tomorrow night. Get to know the groups find how you can help Guillermo, especially with the less experienced directors and the problem groups.

Next week we'll try the third phase.

The dramatizations have become a part of the life of the parish: a life deeply rooted in the people.

Before the statue of Christ carrying his cross, the man who sells snow-cones in the street offers his petition as he starts his day pushing his cart. An hour later in front of the same statue stands a little boy eating a snow-cone.

A teenager in the pew next to me says "por mi culpa" and beats his breast to a salsa rhythm instead of the traditional three thuds. A determined clique thinks that the faster you say the words to the players the holier you are. The old women come in from the rain wearing their towel-veils the way we did in our First Grade Nativity Pageant as shepherds. The children ad just their clapping to the "leader" who can't keep a beat.

And everyone gives total attention to the performers re-enacting the Gospel.

Saturday, June 21, 1986.

George and I set a schedule for the six-week block ahead.

Three hours of classical ballet for the fragua company six mornings a week. An hour of theatre dance for barrio groups three afternoons a week. Shape up the groups in San Martín and Corocol barrios in the evenings. Accompany a follow-up-weekend into the mountains every fortnight

Definitely a learning experience.

How different from my childhood. Instead of running inside at the first raindrops, a little baby sitting outside with her older sister laughs as the fresh rain breaks the heat of the afternoon. Cats here have only seven lives; perhaps they automatically write off the other two for malnutrition and war.

Sometimes it's exactly the differences which are behind my frustration. I set my expectations on where I was at such and such and age. Halfway into the attempt to rehearse I realize that they didn't grow up with record players. They were never in a high-school band or orchestra or choir.

So why am I surprised they can't get the rhythm of the Adagio from Mozart's k631?

Oscar gave me permanent teeth marks in my lower lip. Every step, no matter how perfectly executed, is either late or early. Does Karen really think her beautiful smile will distract me from the fact she'd rather space out then sweat?

What is this strange morning scenes Guillermo suffers from? Can Edy really believe the Friday night dance is an excuse for Saturday morning? Didn't Moncho ever go on a long car trip with his mother so she could teach him you take care of "Those" things before you start?

Ballet boot camp is in full swing.

A conversation overheard:

"People do not come late to my classes."
"George, you're not in the states."
"My teachers would never tolerate students who showed up late and didn't work hard."
"George, Working here means working with the people nobody will work with."

Industrialized man face to face with the Myth of Development.

There have been victories.

Karen's "please-don't-yell-at-me" smile has been converted into a style that powerfully overshadows her less-than-perfect technique. And is a tad less spacey than before.

Moncho's been much more responsible and punctual the last few weeks. He wants to continue learning new steps even if I have to mail them to him.

Beto has mastered the French vocabulary. Although he still insists on calling a pas de chat a padre Jack.

Guillermo at 30 is allowing himself to discover new things his body can do. Edy has found that his charm can't save him from every one of his screw-ups.

Oscar has a grand jef en tournant that would make more advanced dancers jealous. And he will never be late again now that he knows that if he'll spend the morning working in the yard instead of watching himself dance in the mirrors.

Friday, August 1, 1986.
George gives his final dance class. The company have a little ceremony to thank him.

Guillermo presents George with two small Maya whistles. "We want to share with you this small part of our cultural heritage. Thank you for sharing your cultural heritage so generously with us".

George turns his dance shoes over to Oscar.

They have three pieces ready. The first is a beautiful Adage done to the Prologue of St. John's Gospel read over Mozart's K. 631.

The second is a Flight into Egypt set to a Rubén Blades song about Colombian migrants crossing into Venezuela. The third is a salsa version (also by Rubén Blades) of the Wedding Feast at Cana.

Sunday, August 3, 1986.
George is with Pablo back up in Yoro on a follow-up-weekend and final visit. The rest are giving a workshop for beginners in Progreso. It's been tough going because most of the 60-odd participants are illiterate.

the workshop closes with a showing of the pieces the group have ready to take back to their villages. They've come a long way in one workshop.

The fragua dancers debut their John Prologue and their Flight into Egypt as their part of the showing. Moncho explains to the workshop participants: "We're beginners in ballet just like all of you are beginners at acting.

Barishnykov never had such a rapt audience. A pity George has to miss it.

As the group from Yoro enacted the Parable of the Sower, I realized that I wouldn't be around to see much of the harvest of the project. What I have seen I will keep with me for a long time. Like a child meeting his out of town grandparents and getting to know a whole other part of his history, I've never felt more American than now that I know this other part of our heritage.

"What do a New York-born Ukrainian Jesuit scholastic from a Midwest province and Honduras have in common?"

Virtually nothing?

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green & pleasant land.

Thursday, August 7, 1986.
I try to work the tenseness out of my neck and shoulders as I dodge the traffic on the way home from the San Pedro Sula airport.

Three days of canceled flights before we managed to get George out this morning. Another learning experience.

Peace.

Jack Warner sj
(With a little help from William Blake and George Drance sj).

P.S.: Help keep (El Evangelio en Vivo! on the road.

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St. Louis MO 63108

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