Delores Mission Sees Homeless Men as Modern-Day Versions of Juan Diego

To a world that celebrates stock options, celebrities and A-list power couples, they are nobodies. The men who huddle every night in the sanctuary of Delores Mission Catholic Church in Boyle Heights have no home. Few speak English. Most have no steady job, waking up before dawn to scrounge for menial work as day laborers.

But on a chilly night this week, in a street procession of devout prayer and festive song, the community of about 50 homeless men was affirmed and honored as a place where God resides.

In the eyes of Delores Mission parishioners, the homeless men represent modern-day versions of Juan Diego, the humble Indian peasant whom Our Lady of Guadalupe chose -- above the powerful conquistadors and lofty church clerics -- to carry forth her message in the hills of Mexico 471 years ago.

As Roman Catholics celebrated the feast days of the Virgin and the newly canonized St. Juan Diego this week, Delores Mission parishioners formally recommitted themselves to the cause of needy immigrants.

They also publicly proclaimed, through one testimony after another, a timeless biblical truth: Whether leading slaves out of Egypt or embracing lepers and prostitutes, God smiles on the castoffs, the poor and the weak.

“Who we really think is important is not important in God’s eyes,” said Father Michael Kennedy, the parish’s Jesuit pastor who has devoted much of his life to aiding Latin American immigrants and refugees. “God really does choose and make special [the] people who are the most poor and vulnerable. It’s a mystery.”

The parish’s recommitment to sanctuary comes nearly 10 years after the death of the legendary Father Luis Olivares. The fiery priest, who died of AIDS contracted from a blood transfusion, caused an uproar in 1985 when he and Kennedy chose to contradict U.S. foreign policy and violate immigration laws by offering their parish at the time -- Our Lady Queen of Angels -- as the first sanctuary church in Los Angeles for undocumented refugees fleeing terror, torture and war in El Salvador.

The parish’s recommitment also comes at a time of rising calls for a crackdown on the burgeoning homeless population in downtown Los Angeles.

In recent weeks, police have conducted sweeps of skid row and downtown business owners have called for tougher laws against sidewalk encampments and outdoor feeding.

“The conditions on the streets are even worse these days because of the raids and crime,” Kennedy said. “Now, more than ever, people are in need.”

On the night of the dedication, the procession of about 100 men, women and children wound through the streets of Boyle Heights as neighbors cheered from their porches. Some strummed guitars or carried lanterns.

Others held homemade banners of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the dark-skinned mother of God radiating glittering rays of light. Many of the homeless men wore ponchos emblazoned with a handwritten plea: “St. Juan Diego: Pray for us.”

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9 Nights of Preparation

It was the seventh of nine nights of preparation for the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, whom Pope John Paul II has designated as the patroness of the Americas. The group stopped at one house, lavishly decorated with an outdoor shrine featuring a life-sized painting of the Virgin surrounded with flowers, flickering candles and a backdrop of the Mexican flag. A homeless man gave his testimony.

“I have not only found shelter here, but also I have learned in this community about love,” the man proclaimed.

The procession ended at another home festooned with red and green paper chains. Before another outdoor shrine, parishioners presented a skit of the tale of Juan Diego, portraying the skepticism of the local bishop over whether the mother of God would really appear to such an insignificant peasant. The men were presented socks as a sign of the church’s continuing commitment to serve them, and the circle of parishioners extended their hands to them in blessing and prayer.

Tomas Aquino and Arturo Hernandez are two of the men who were honored. Aquino is a 46-year-old retired police officer from Argentina. Hernandez is a 29-year-old textile worker from Mexico. Both say economic meltdowns in their hometowns after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks cut their incomes in half and compelled them, for the sake of their hungry families, to make the perilous journey north for the first time.

“You see your family hungry and you say, ‘I have to take a drastic measure,’ ” Hernandez said. “There is great risk in leaving your own country, but someone has to do it, so here I am.”

Both men wandered the streets for days, cold, hungry and shell-shocked. Aquino came one month ago with $4 in his pocket, and when that was gone he picked up odd jobs at the central produce market and elsewhere to feed himself.

Hernandez arrived two weeks ago with the name of an acquaintance who was supposed to help him. When the acquaintance failed to come through, Hernandez spent cold and lonely nights at MacArthur Park.

Through word of mouth, the two men heard about Delores Mission. They were immediately welcomed, and given showers, hot meals and cots in the church sanctuary. Every day, they rise at 5:30 a.m. with the rest of the homeless men and set off to find work.

Aquino has already landed a job as a carpenter and, he says with a beaming smile, is able to send $140 of his $240 weekly pay back to Argentina -- an infusion of cash just in time for his wife’s birthday.

Hernandez is still trying to find steady work, but he voices confidence and a brimming desire for self-improvement. He has even brought his textbooks from Mexico to study for his high school diploma while here. He dreams of making enough money to return to his hometown of Ensenada and start his own business.

“I never dreamed I would ever be homeless,” said Aquino, a man of dignified mien and salt-and-pepper hair. “But from the moment I set foot here, I have been treated with so much warmth.”

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14 Years as Sanctuary

For 14 years, Delores Mission has served as a sanctuary community. Parishioners have also operated the Guadalupe Homeless Project, which offers temporary shelter, food, clothing, medical services, legal assistance, spiritual guidance and classes for English and other job skills. The program serves about 600 men a year, mostly from Latin America, but also has begun drawing people from Canada, Germany, Romania and India.

Now, however, the program is facing an uncertain future. Cutbacks in foundation grants and government funding have left the $240,000 program with a $100,000 budget shortfall, says program director Arturo Lopez, prompting the community to appeal for help.

Many of Delores Mission’s parishioners say that serving the homeless is a privilege that helps them feel the presence of God. Their service, they say, is also part payback for what they received during their own times of turmoil.

The parish is filled with riveting tales of crisis, compassion and faith. Esperanza Vasquez, 60, arrived here from Mexico 24 years ago on her own with seven children because her husband had stopped sending money; once here, she found that he had taken up with another woman. She found solace and support at Delores Mission and never left.

Ana Zarzano’s toughest times came when her husband’s health collapsed after working in a Los Angeles chemical factory with no protective clothing.

The Mexican native cares for her permanently disabled husband and two children on a $7,000 annual income, mostly welfare, although this week she was named manager of a new church-affiliated thrift shop. Despite their tight budget, she and her family are trying to put together food baskets for the homeless men.

“My family is poor, but we have to help these men out because they have no one but us,” said Zarzano, who takes turns cooking for the men while her children decorate the tables. “The more I give, the more blessings I receive with my children and family.”

Mario Fuentes, the church’s community organizer, fled his native El Salvador in 1980 with nothing but the clothes on his back. An active leader in the student movement at the time, Fuentes said he vocally criticized government policies and began receiving numerous death threats. He arrived in Los Angeles dazed, he said, and survived only through the kindness of strangers.

“We give back because we really know what it is like to live under tremendous pressure and limitations,” Fuentes said. “Because we know those who came after us come with the same needs.”

He pauses.

“It’s very important not to forget, not to forget,” Fuentes says. “There is joy in service. There is life.”