Martin de Porres: A Heart Open to Love

Martin’s heart and the heart of God

Martin de Porres was born more than four hundred years ago, in 1579, in Lima, Peru.  He was born a mixed-blood child, a mulatto, the son of an African woman (Ana, born in Panama of African slave parents) and a Spanish father, named Juan de Porres.  Martin’s soul was African and his heart Spanish.  And he had barely taken his first breath when the clash between these two worlds began to play out in his own small heart.  In 1533, about forty-five years before Martin’s birth, Atahualpa, the king of the Incas, had been assassinated by the Spanish conqueror, Francisco Pizarro. Overnight, the indigenous and African peoples of Peru - and throughout the Americas - became servants and slaves of the Empire.  Dominican friar, Bartolomé de las Casas, writing shortly before Martin’s birth, described what he had witnessed in the newly-discovered lands of the Americas:

“I [have seen] Christ in the Indies not once but thousands of times beaten, afflicted, insulted and crucified by those … who destroy and ravage the Indians...” in their greedy pursuit of gold and power.

It’s a war that continues to plague our world to this day.

But Martin de Porres was more than just a poor kid born into a difficult and hostile world; he was also a saint.  And that is why we remember him today.

Soon after his birth – possibly even the same day – Martin was baptized in the Church of San Sebastián in Lima. His baptismal record reads: “On Wednesday, the ninth of December 1579, I baptized Martin, son of an unknown father and of Ana Velázquez, a freed Black woman.” It was not an easy beginning – especially with an absent father – but as Martin’s story unfolds, one cannot help but glimpse the marvelous plan of God’s goodness and providence.  The water poured over Martin’s head that day – saturated with the saving grace of the Holy Spirit – flowed into his heart, marking the beginning of a new creation. 

God transformed what looked like an unfortunate error into a beautiful work of art.  “Behold, I make all things new!” says the Lord, our God (Rev. 21:5). Six years later, the very same baptismal fount would welcome another beloved child of God into the Church.  Her name was Rosa de Santa María, Rose of Lima, the first canonized saint born in the Americas.

Martin’s childhood was difficult, to say the least. He was laughed, scoffed at, and ridiculed – frequently called a “mulatto dog.”  But it is precisely in the midst of the pain and struggles that we see the miracle of God’s love at work.  Wounded time and time again by hatred and racism, Martin found a way to accept and even celebrate his mulatto, multi-colored heart, and in this way he was able to grow into an icon of love and human freedom.  His heart, like God’s, seemed to reach out to the whole world – friend and foe alike – giving us a powerful example of what it means to embrace diversity in our own times.  What for others would have easily turned into a life of bitterness and anger, for Martin became an opportunity for holiness.  Martin entrusted the chaos and poverty of those early years to God, who took the Spanish and African threads of his heart and wove them into a beautiful tapestry of love.

If we were all really honest, we’d have to admit that we are all mulattos and mestizos – people of “mixed blood” – in one way or another. Most of us are sons and daughters of immigrants and refugees.  We are Italian-Americans and Irish-Americans and Polish-Americans and African-Americans.  Our families immigrated here from Puerto Rico and Germany and Iraq and the Philippines.  God didn’t invent passports; we did.  And borders?  On God’s map they don’t exist.

The truth is, folks, we are all in this boat together.  Our world is a rainbow made in the image and likeness of God.   Some of us like a good arroz con pollo, while others prefer a Greek salad, a falafel, a pizza or a juicy hamburger.  Whether it's the music we listen to, the food we eat, the news we read or the spouse that we marry, we all live, and move and have our being in a world of incredible diversity. Some were born here and others were born there.  Some are Democrats and some are Republicans. We are brown and red and white and black and yellow and everything in-between.  But no matter what colors of the rainbow flow through the blood in our veins, we are all children of God. This is what Martin de Porres learned from life.  His every breath was a discovery that God’s heart was universal – a heart of many colors.

One of the Dominicans from Martin’s community gave this testimony about Martin:

“Brother Martin was a man of great charity, who ... healed his brothers when they were sick but also assisted in the larger duty of spreading the Great Love of the world… [They called] ‘father of the poor.’  Moreover, he cared for lay people outside [these walls] from every state of life, healing them of their pains, wounds and inflammations ... and thus an infinite number sought him out and all found in him some help: the sick, relief; the afflicted, consolation; and the rest, refuge.  He did this willingly, his semblance [always] happy and peaceful.”  -fr Antonio Gutiérrez, OP

St. Paul says this in his Letter to the Ephesians:

Now in Christ Jesus, you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.  For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one, breaking down the dividing wall … that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace … through the cross … So you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (Eph 2:13-19).

Martin’s whole life was a living witness of how God can create harmony and beauty out of seemingly opposing differences. 

There is no greater love

From the time that he was about eight years old, until the day he entered the Dominican priory at age fifteen, Martin lived in the home of a woman named Isabel García, in the very poor Afro-Peruvian neighborhood of Malambo.  Each day Martin would have seen African slaves being led through the streets – chained together – waiting to be sold for work in the gold and silver mines. The slaves were kept in fenced-in areas, called corralones, guarded by dogs.  We can only wonder what went his young mind as he passed by these cages filled with human beings.  What did he think about?  What did he feel when he looked at the color of their skin, realizing that it was the same color as his own skin?  How did that environment of violence affect him as a young boy?  And today, how does it affect our youth, many of whom live in neighborhoods plagued by violence? 

Perhaps Martin’s greatest gift was his capacity to let God turn his suffering into compassion.  Where did he learn this?  How did he know to give his wounded heart to God, so that God could heal him?  It is interesting to note that it was precisely during those years, living in the Malambo neighborhood, that Martin began to spend long hours of the night in prayer.  This is what one of the witnesses said during Martin’s beatification process:

Martin asked Isabel García for a wax candle stub ... Afraid of a fire, but mostly wanting to know what was happening, Isabel allowed herself to be tempted by curiosity.  Drawing near to the young boy’s room, she peered through the cracks in the door.  What she saw deeply moved her.  Martin was on his knees, quiet, silent, and praying before an image of the Crucified [Christ]. His dark silhouette was piously outlined against the glow of the candle … it seemed almost impossible for such a young child.

There he was – a young kid of ten or eleven years of age – talking to God in the silence of the night.  What words did he speak to the Crucified Christ during those nights of prayer?  It was at night, if we remember, that God visited the people of Israel, enslaved in Egypt, and set them free from their bondage.  It was in the middle of the night that the young Samuel was called by the Lord, answering in his youthful innocence, “Here I am” (1 Sam 3:4).  It was in the thick night of death that Mary Magdalene heard the voice of the Risen Christ calling her by name (Jn 20:16).  As the psalmist sings, “It is good to give thanks to the Lord … to proclaim your love in the morning, your faithfulness in the night (Ps 92: 2-3).  It seems that not only did Martin spend his nights speaking to God, but God spent those same nights speaking to Martin.

At age fifteen, Martin bid farewell to Sra. García, walked a few blocks to the Dominican priory of Our Lady of the Most Holy Rosary, and asked to enter as a lay brother.  He was welcomed and immediately assigned to help care for the sick friars as assistant infirmarian.  Martin was well prepared for the task, because as a young boy he had apprenticed under two healers, learning both the art of preparing herbal medicines, and the multi-faceted trade of a barber. In those days, barbers did just about everything that a family doctor and dentist and pharmacist and nurse and physical therapist would do today – and a bit more.  They cut hair, pulled teeth, treated burns, dressed and stitched wounds, fixed fractures, did minor surgeries and prescribed medicines.

Even though Martin was right at home in his new task of caring for the sick brothers in the priory, the infirmary job was not without its challenges.  One day Martin went to visit Father Pedro Montes de Oca, who had just been informed that his leg was to be amputated the following day. Trying to lighten things up a bit, Martin made some joking remarks that angered the priest. Fr. Pedro reacted, calling Martin “a mulatto dog.”  Unaffected by the angry words, Martin left the cell joyful and laughing.  The next day Martin returned with a rather strange item: a caper salad for Fr. Pedro.  “Well, Father, are you still mad? Eat this little salad of capers which I bring you.”  The priest was in shock, for all day, racked with pain, he had been craving one thing: a caper salad!  Realizing his error and aware of God’s infinite goodness, he asked Brother Martin to pardon his angry outburst. Martin smiled, holding no grudge for the previous day’s racist remark. Then, laying his hands on his leg, Fr. Pedro was healed immediately.

This is what it means to cross borders and enter – nonviolently – into the world of our neighbor, who, unfortunately, is sometimes our enemy.  Martin, instead of returning evil for evil, chose the playful path, trying to win over his enemy with humor and love.  Says St. Paul: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Rom. 12:21).

Martin’s playful, loving response reminds me of the story of Christmas Eve, 1914, on the World War I battlefield in Flanders, when suddenly – out of the blue – a young German soldier began to sing “Stille Nacht,”– “Silent Night.”  Some fellow soldiers joined in, and before they knew it, the British and French responded with their own Christmas carols.  Before long, the enemies from both sides left their trenches, shook hands, exchanged gifts, and shared pictures of loved ones.  And then, right there in the midst of war, they played a game of soccer.  Is this not the love that is born when we listen to God in the silence of the night? Was it not during Martin’s silent conversations with Jesus at night, illumined with the tiny stub of a candle, that he learned of Jesus’ own nonviolent heart of love?

Of course, the World War I generals were not at all pleased with the spontaneous outpouring of friendship among enemy forces.  How in the hell can you win a war if your soldiers show the enemy a picture of their family?  It’s not in our national interest to befriend the enemy!  If Martin de Porres were here today, maybe he would invite us to resolve world conflicts with soccer games or, even better yet, a caper salad-making contest!  Imagine!  After Occupy Wall Street, we could start a new movement: “Caper Salad lovers for Peace!”

Martin believed that the world could be healed through compassion.  Racism is a sin, but we don’t get anywhere if we just kill the racist. Martin, who was a victim of racism, chose to break the cycle. Who is going to teach our children today to respond to hatred with love?  How many more teen murders or teen suicides do we have to read about in the paper before we learn to reach out and embrace our young people, spend quality time with them, love them unconditionally?

Martin didn’t respond by attacking the enemy.  He chose the more difficult path: victory by caper salad!!  Not only did he take the priest his favorite salad, but in the process, he also healed his leg – and his heart, and his soul.  It takes more courage to forgive than to hold the enemy bound by his/her sin. It takes more guts to love than to hate. Few have said this more clearly than the other Martin, Martin Luther King, Jr.  Preaching at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery Alabama in 1957, Dr. King said:

To our bitterest opponents we say: We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering.  We shall meet your physical force with soul force.  Do to us what you will, we shall continue to love you … Throw us in jail, and we shall still love you.  Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our community at the midnight hour and beat us, and leave us half-dead, and we shall still love you. But be ye assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom, but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process, and our victory will be a double victory.

One of my favorite bumper stickers is the one that says: “Do random acts of kindness.”  Could it be that easy?  Do we dare conquer the world with love, and in this way, do what Jesus taught his disciples to do? 

Jesus, on the night before he was violently killed – knowing that he was about to be betrayed – did not rouse his disciples to attack the enemy.  No, he gathered around a table with them – on the Holy Night dedicated to remembering the Exodus of God’s People from their slavery of Egypt – and shared a meal with them.  But it was not only a meal.  He gave his whole life to them. Everything – body and blood.  He chose to love everybody, even his enemies, rather that do harm to the other.  Do we dare join Jesus and Martin in building a new world – one small, gentle act of kindness at a time?

Friend of all

Martin loved animals and he loved creation.  For years he served the Dominican priory not only as the infirmarian, but also as the portero – the brother in charge of answering the door.  It was at the door that he was in constant contact with the world, their problems, their sufferings, their joys.  Martin was always getting in trouble with the prior of the community, because he was forever bringing another sick person or wounded slave or stray dog into the priory!  The prior had to forbid him at one point: “No more sick dogs in this priory!  This is not a kennel!”  So what did Martin do?  He took his colony of stray dogs over to his sister’s house – having to give them lessons on how to “do their business” outside of the house and not in the kitchen!

 One day Martin invited his friend, Juan, to join him on a trek up into the mountains outside of Lima. While they were walking through the hills, Martin cut off a branch of a fig tree and carried it to the top of the hill, where he dug a hole and planted it.  Two weeks later he and Juan returned to the spot.  “Father,” remarked Juan, “the fig tree you planted eighteen days ago is already budding,” to which Martin responded, “Thanks be to God, within two or three years it will bear fruit for the poor who pass by this way.”  For Martin the earth was God’s garden of plenty.  It belonged to everyone – even the cattle, but especially the poor.

God’s Table of Plenty

There is another wonderful story about Martin’s friendship with the animals that is well known, but in my estimation, rarely understood. We often see this story depicted in pictures about St. Martin. Here is the story, told by the Dominican brother who witnessed it:

One day [I] walked into a room near the kitchen to find a strange sight.  At Martin’s feet were a dog and a cat eating peacefully from the same bowl of soup.  Suddenly a little mouse stuck his head out from a hole in the wall.  Martin, without hesitation, spoke to the mouse, “Don’t be afraid, little one.  If you’re hungry come and eat with the others.”  The mouse hesitated but then scampered to the bowl of soup from which the dog and cat were eating.  Watching all this [I] could not speak.  There before [my] eyes, at the feet of the mulatto St. Martin, a dog, a cat, and a mouse were eating from the same bowl of soup, natural enemies eating peacefully side by side.

Too often people simply say, “Oh, what a cute story!”  Sometimes we turn the lives of the saints into fairy tales and say, “Oh, what a cute saint …  Oh, look at cute little Martin de Porres, floating around the priory with a broom in his hand!”  Could it be that we’re afraid to go too deeply into these stories, because we might have to make some changes in our own lives?  I would like to look at a story from Matthew’s Gospel, that I hope will help us to understand this important story from the life of St. Martin de Porres: 

“One day a Canaanite woman approached Jesus and asked him if he would heal her daughter, who was tormented by a demon.  The Canaanites were not Jews.  She was a Gentile, a non-believer.  Jesus was not even supposed to speak to people like her.  At first he refused her request, saying, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”  In other words, “You are from a different tribe; I can’t help you.”  He then used a harsh phrase: “It is not fair to take the children’s food (the food of the Jews) and throw it to the dogs (the gentiles).”  Concerned for her sick daughter, she had no choice but to persist: “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.”  Jesus was left speechless: “Woman, great is your faith!  Let it be done for you as you wish.”  The girl was healed immediately (Mt.15:21-28).

This gospel story is vitally important if we want to understand Jesus’ life and message. Jesus lived within a culture and a religion that saw the Gentiles as an inferior race, as enemies – not so different from how the Spaniards viewed the Indians and Africans in the Peru that Martin lived in.

The great miracle in this story is that Jesus does finally ‘break bread’ with the Canaanite woman and her daughter, recognizing her great faith.  But even more important: he breaks down the religious walls that excluded and divided the world into good and bad, holy and unclean.   Unfortunately, our politicians - and sometimes even our religious leaders - continue to build these walls of division in our own day. Look at the wall running along our southern border with Mexico. Look at the list of people told they are not worthy to receive communion at mass in our own churches.

Jesus not only healed the daughter who was tormented by a demon, but he healed the religious divide that separated himself from them. He reached out and offered the Canaanite woman and her daughter the gift of his unconditional love. He realized that to deny this pagan woman and her daughter the gift of his compassion was actually being unfaithful to his vocation as God’s beloved Son.  So what did he do?  He invited them to sit with him at the table of God’s love. 

“Why does your teacher sit with tax collectors and sinners?” (Mt. 9:11), asked the religious leaders. For Jesus, it was not a problem at all, because it was love – not purity – that was the guiding principle of his ministry.

Martin’s entire life was about welcoming the little ones to God’s table.  Whether it was a wounded dog or a wounded African slave, for Martin the issue was God and the Kingdom of God.  Martin understood that God’s house was to be a home for everyone.  So when he welcomed the dog, the cat and the mouse to eat at the same bowl of soup, he was teaching us something about the Reign of God, about the expansive love of God’s heart.  Martin – like Jesus – had opened up a space within his heart for the outcasts and the little ones to break bread together. 

This is not a children’s story.  It is the gospel, pure and simple, a story about God’s table of unconditional love.

What Jesus did with the Canaanite woman, and what Martin did with the mouse was to open their hearts and offer simple hospitality: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Mt. 25:35).  Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker movement in the U.S., said that we offer hospitality to the poor “not because it might be Christ ... but because they are Christ.”[1]  Maybe the question that we need to pose to ourselves every day – both in our society and in our churches – is, “Who is missing from our table today?”

I would like to end with the story from my own life and ministry.

Several years ago I met a middle-aged man who was dying of AIDS.  I met him at a Catholic hospice for the dying – mostly street people – who were sick with HIV-AIDS.  He had lived in the streets for many years – dirty, hungry, broken and alone.  At the hospice, he was given a bath, a clean bed, food and good care.  He had been a practicing Catholic in his youth, but his life had taken unexpected and tragic turns, and he had wandered from the faith.   

A second or third day after arriving at the hospice, the man got up enough strength, and with great effort made his way to the chapel for mass.  It had been many years since he had been inside a church, but suddenly, after a long time, he wanted to see God again.  He came into the chapel about the time I was beginning the homily.  He listened attentively, and since I knew it was his first time in the chapel, I glanced at him from time to time during my preaching.  I could see a new peacefulness in his face, and it gave me great joy to see him feeling at home in God’s house, safe from the violent streets for the first time in many years. 

It came time for communion, and with his cane in his hand, and with great effort, he got in line to receive the body and blood of Christ.  He was quite tall, and as he made his way slowly to communion, I glanced at his face a couple times; it looked like the face of the prodigal son, running towards the open arms of his loving father.  He had almost reached where I was distributing communion when one of the hospice volunteers grabbed him, pulled him from the line, and sat him down, telling him that he was not prepared to receive the Lord, that he needed to go to confession before he could receive communion.  He sat down, his face filled with confusion and sadness. 

After mass I asked the worker who had removed him from the communion line, “Before you made your rash judgment regarding his moral life, did you happen to look at his face?  Did you not see the radiant face of a man who, after a long time away from home, was making his way back to the arms of a loving, merciful God?” 

He had so hoped to touch God and to experience God’s love after so many years of wandering far from home.  The following day I visited him at his bedside.  He told me bits and pieces of his tragic life story, and that he was sorry that he had wandered from God for many years.  I reminded him of God’s great love and gave him holy communion. The next day he died.

When I remember the radiant light of this man’s face – so hungry for God’s love – St. Martin’s words to the mouse come to my mind.

 “Don’t be afraid, little one.  If you’re hungry come and eat with the others.”