who joyfully gathered for his ordination at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Oklahoma City. But how could we know that in eighteen years most of these same friends and relatives would again gather in Our Lady’s cathedral, this time for his funeral Mass?
Father Stanley’s first four years following ordination were spent serving as an assistant in four different parishes in Oklahoma, which involved a variety of ministerial duties and activities. Periodically, I would receive a letter from him, in which he would usually share a bit about the parish where he was serving and what he was doing. He was always positive and obviously enjoyed his work, except for the time he shared his woes about trying to keep his elementary-school religion classes under control: “Would you please give me some ideas I could try?” Since, as a teacher myself, I had some experience in that area, I shared a few hints with him.
In the spring of 1967, Father Stanley asked his bishop if he could serve as a missionary priest in the parish of Santiago Apóstol (St. James the Apostle), in the town of Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala, site of an Oklahoma-sponsored mission. After some deliberation, the bishop granted the request. Thus that summer Father Stan literally left all that was familiar — family, friends, food, language, the red dirt of Oklahoma — packed his pickup with supplies the missionaries in Santiago had requested, and headed south (some 2,500 miles) to his new parish, his new beginning.
God’s Flock Is in Your Midst; Give It a Shepherd’s Care (cf. 1 Pt 5:2)
Stan incurred unexpected realities as he gradually found his niche with coworkers and among the people with whom he was destined to serve. Obviously, he possessed hidden reserves of inner strength, convictions, and a deep faith that motivated him to succeed. Learning to understand and speak the languages of the people, both Spanish and Tz’utujil, were noteworthy accomplishments for him. Because of Stan’s ability to converse with the people in their native languages, there was increased involvement with them in their sacramental life, liturgies, and family life. He visited the elderly and sick in their homes and learned and appreciated their customs. Stan’s identification with the people of Santiago Atitlán was not difficult for him because of the simplicity of lifestyle he himself embraced.
A Glimpse of My Brother as a Priest and Missionary
I was blessed with the opportunity to spend two different summers, 1972 and 1975, working at the mission with Father Stan and three sisters from my religious community, the Sisters Adorers of the Blood of Christ. These summers contained a cache of treasured memories for me, as our time together as adults had been very limited due to our ministries. To observe his relationship with the parishioners, how comfortable he was in his surroundings, and his dealing with many unexpected events throughout a day was a precious gift to me.
It was most rewarding to see Stan in different roles of ministry: celebrating liturgies was special, going to the market, showing some young men how to fix the truck that wasn’t running, fixing an electrical problem in the hospital, working on the farm with the men, having fun with the children, visiting the elderly or sick in their homes, burying someone’s loved one, and myriad other activities. So obvious to me was his gentleness, his truly being for others (not just doing for them), and his attentiveness and responsiveness to them when he was locked in conversation. I was not prepared for what I experienced or the conditions of his surroundings I observed, but my appreciation, gratitude, and pride for my brother rose to a new level.
Though Stan was busy with his own duties much of the time, and I was kept busy helping the sisters in our work, we did find opportunities to get away for a “day off.” I often (about weekly) went with him to the outlying little churches where he offered Mass. Sometimes we had to take the mountain roads, which had steep drop-offs and were narrow and downright scary. One of the first times on such a trip he wryly remarked, “If we start sliding off, jump out!”
One afternoon we walked about a mile up the mountain to a location from which we had a beautiful view of Lake Atitlán, with the towering volcanic mountain San Pedro behind it and the village below us. The beauty of the landscape was breathtaking; the poverty below us was heartbreaking. This place was, for Stan, a place of quiet, a sacred place where he would retreat on occasion to renew his spiritual and physical energies by communing with his God. I truly felt honored that he shared this sacred place with me. I knew that this was not his first visit to this site, and I know that it was not his last. The whole experience on this mountain site was, for me, worth the tedious trek, because of the peacefulness of mind and heart I received.
It continues to challenge me to know that my brother, an ordinary person like you or me, could give himself in the prime of his life to such a complete dedication to serve “the poorest of the poor” of another culture and language, and to give of himself in such an extraordinary way. All of which led to “the shepherd who didn’t run.”
With a heart filled with gratitude, I remember my brother, Blessed Stanley Rother, who because of his love for God and the Tz’utujil Mayans of Guatemala, allowed God’s plan to unfold in his life. That life and death culminated in the beatification ceremony of September 23, 2017. The beautiful music, ceremonial rites, presence of the hierarchy of the Church, the thousands gathered for the celebration, continue to overwhelm my memory with unbelievable joy and blessings.
Literally hundreds of Rother-Smith relatives from around the country celebrated the event with us. Many of them we never met before, but their presence was most special.
In Blessed Stanley’s Christmas letter of 1980 to the people of Oklahoma, he asked for their prayers. In my closing remarks, I ask all of us to pray to him, using the same prayer: “Pray for us, Blessed Stanley, that we may be a sign of Jesus to his people.”
Sister Marita Rother, A.S.C.
December 2018
Chapter 1
Love to the Extreme Limit
July 28, 1981: The Shepherd Who Didn’t Run
It was a quiet, clear night in the lakeside village of Santiago Atitlán. For almost a week now, the moderate, cool temperatures in the Guatemala highlands had been chilly enough for a jacket in the middle of summer.
Sounds travel far in this isolated region of Guatemala, where the only recurring nighttime noises are animal ones. No sound of A/C units. No sound of cars and highways. No planes flying overhead or trains nearby. The type of silence experienced by most people in the United States only when camping in the deep woods, during a storm blackout, or by someone living in farm country. It was a silence well familiar to Stanley Francis Rother, a native of Okarche, Oklahoma.
The sound of three men breaking into the rectory of St. James the Apostle Church at 1:30 a.m. must have carried well beyond the village square — their enraged voices and aggressive movements like nails hammering a public message of terror to any listening ear.
Wearing civilian clothes and ski masks, the three Spanish-speaking Ladinos (non-indigenous men), were familiar enough with the parish complex to know the precise location of the pastor’s upstairs bedroom. They rushed there first but found no one in the room.
Then across the hall they seized Francisco Bocel, the 19-year-old brother of the associate pastor, who had been working at the rectory and staying there provisionally. They put a gun to the terrified young man’s head and threatened to kill him if he did not take them to the pastor immediately.
Francisco led the attackers down the stairs and to the door of a corner utility room. He knocked, calling out in terror, “Padre, they’ve come for you.”
That’s
