its citizens. The ballooning impoverished majority longed to shed hunger, fatigue, and misery; they desired to clothe themselves in human dignity. Many thought Romero had been named archbishop to thwart the efforts of those who were organizing to say “no more repression!”
During his years as a priest, Romero had shown little inclination to speak out against injustice. True, during his last two years as bishop he had begun to privately demand investigations into some of the more blatant abuses that occurred in his rural diocese, the poorest of El Salvador. Yet the church authorities who named him archbishop in 1977 did so expecting and wanting him to remain quiet and not make waves. Progressive priests and laity mourned his appointment, upset that the new bishop would halt or hinder their efforts for change.
Thus, it came as a jolt to onlookers when, within months of being named archbishop, Romero had morphed into a fearless and articulate spokesman of international stature who demanded his people’s liberation. That he effectively threatened the powerful was demonstrated when they hired an assassin to silence him.
What transformed Romero in his sixties, a life stage not commonly known for radical changes in ideas and attitudes? How and why did he shift from a priest of piety and prayer who shied from political confrontation to one who audaciously preached Jesus’s message of justice on airwaves reaching his country’s remotest corners? What caused him to leapfrog from a stalwart of the old-style Catholic Church, steeped in ritual and emphasizing personal sin, to a champion of its daring modern stance on societal sin and just human relationships?
On the surface, it appears the archbishop underwent a conversion. His transformation brings to mind the Apostle Paul, who self-righteously held the clothes of an early follower of Jesus while the believer was stoned to death as a Jewish heretic. As Paul headed off, “still breathing out murderous threats,” 2 to persecute additional followers of Jesus in Damascus, the Holy Spirit zapped him. When the scales fell from his eyes, Paul became “executive” rather than executioner of this new Jewish band.
Romero didn’t just look on in the “stoning” of young priests of the Vatican II generation who preached a kingdom of God existing in the here and now rather than in some faraway heaven. He did more than observe. He hefted and hurled some rocks of his own—verbal stones. He targeted the young priests, both Jesuit and diocesan, who put Vatican II reforms into effect. They had been duped by Marxist propaganda, Romero insisted in the press, thus adding his bishop’s clout to the ruling elite’s justification of its brutal repression.
When questioned about his transformation, which he often was, Archbishop Romero downplayed the notion of a conversion. He acknowledged that his views and behavior had changed, but he also pointed out that he had loved God from an early age and had dedicated his entire life to the Christian church.
Perhaps a better metaphor for Romero than the “blinding light and falling away of eye scales” is that of the “surprise lily.” Romero’s commitment to the radical Gospel matured and strengthened underground, waiting for the right environment. Then in a burst of consolidated experience and faith, a brilliant bloom jumped two feet out of the ground overnight. Observers, wide-eyed, asked, “Where did this come from?” They hadn’t seen the burrowed amaryllis bulb as it quietly built reserves.
However it came about, the working of the Holy Spirit in Archbishop Romero’s life lurks as the restless question behind this biography, as it does in most writing about Romero.
Journalist María López Vigil makes a powerful observation about Romero. He’s unique, she notes, in that he broke two rules of human behavior: that old people do not change; and that the more authority an official attains, the more that official distances him- or herself from the common people.3
I might add that Monseñor did not conform to another common trait of aging: loss of physical energy. If Romero’s schedule during his three years as archbishop were a railroad timetable, a train derailment or wreck would inevitably ensue. Yet in the midst of a packed, highly stressful agenda and dealing with one tragedy after another, Romero was never calmer and in better health and disposition in his entire life. He derived this energy and inner tranquility, I believe, from the poor who loved him and the Holy Spirit.
Most biographies of Romero concentrate on his three years as archbishop, from 1977 to 1980, when his prophetic voice rang out. A large amount of material documents these public years.
This biography fills gaps in Romero’s first twenty-five years—from his birth through his ordination as priest. Because I had set out to write about Romero for young adults, I focused on Romero’s family and his early years. In 1998, I was fortunate to secure interviews with the archbishop’s four surviving siblings and a retired parish priest who had studied with him as a teen. Father Bernardo Amaya’s prodigious memory served up details to garnish with color and personalities this formative period in Oscar’s development.
Archbishop Romero’s story remains as relevant today as it was several decades ago. The question he confronted in El Salvador now assumes global urgency: how can we humans best relate to one another in an unjust world of few “haves” and many “have-nots” to reduce inequalities and create sustainable communities. The answers he provided remain equally relevant. My hope is that with the passage of time Romero’s witness not become solidified in dusty tomes, murals, and marble statues, as valuable as these works are to render homage and encourage memory, but rather that his journey become a dog-eared guidebook to engaging in life with faith and courage.
2. Acts 9:1 (NIV)
3. Palumbo, “María López Vigil,” 8.
1. A Time to Intervene
(1977)
Monseñor Oscar Romero clung to the handgrip above the passenger seat as Father César Jerez raced, honking and weaving, through San Salvador’s congested streets.
“I pray they haven’t tortured him.” Romero murmured, his voice as tense as his posture on this Friday morning of May 6, 1977.
“They’ve already tortured four and killed . . .” Jerez didn’t need to complete the sentence. Romero, installed as archbishop of the San Salvador diocese two and a half months earlier, was all too aware of the violence being served upon priests in his country. He was as informed as Jerez, who served as the provincial, or superior, of Jesuits in Central America.
Since January, military officials had arrested and tortured four priests, expelling two of them. They kicked out of the country another three priests and two seminarians and refused re-entry to seven priests returning to El Salvador. Two months ago the military ambushed Father Rutilio Grande’s vehicle, executing him and his two passengers.
Now Romero and Jerez rushed to see Father Jorge Sarsanedas, a Jesuit from Panama who helped with ministerial duties in the archdiocese. National Guardsmen had apprehended Sarsanedas five days ago. Today was the first time the churchmen were allowed to see him.
After parking at National Guard headquarters in the capital’s hub, Jerez and Romero hurried to the monolithic gray building. Monseñor Romero shivered as he entered the center. Stories abounded of hidden torture chambers and detention cells here, and he felt certain the tales weren’t rumors.
Colonel Nicolás Alvarenga, chief of the National Guard, rose partly to his feet and leaned against his enormous mahogany desk to greet the church leaders as they entered his office.
“Please
