CANCELADA

Why They Threw Us Out of Guatemala

Copyright 2012 William C. Frey

Foreword p. 2

The Beginning p. 5

The Background p. 21

Brushes with the CIA p. 33

A Saint in Caesar’s Household p. 40

The Exit p. 46

[2]

Foreword

This is for Paul, Mark, Matthew, Peter, and Suzanna. In October 1971, your

lives suffered a major disruption. With only two days’ notice, we had to pack our

belongings, say goodbye to our friends, leave our home in Guatemala, and fly to

the United States, a country that for most of you was a foreign land known only

through brief visits. That was a long time ago. Nonetheless, I’d like to recount for

you some of the events that led up to our having been expelled from our home.

My hope is that you can see the hand of God at work in the process, and perhaps

draw some profit from the experience.

On October 1, I left very early in the morning for an important appointment

downtown. I came home about noon and your mother and I plucked all of you out

of school and brought you home. I told everyone that we would have to move, and

that it would have to happen within the next couple of days. At that time, we had

been living in Guatemala for just over four years where I served as the bishop of

the tiny Episcopal Church in that country.

For two days you watched as a parade of people – some friends and some

total strangers - trooped through our house helping you pack up all of the essential

[3]

items you wanted to keep. One of the hardest jobs was finding homes for all our

animals. You had a real menagerie, a couple of golden retrievers, rabbits, a white

rat. María, our beloved maid, wept as she helped get our things in order, prepare

food, and tried to maintain some sense of order in the house.

There was a palpable atmosphere of tension and apprehension in the house.

I was busy holding emergency meetings in the dining room with Church leaders,

giving instructions, filling out the forms necessary to transfer power of attorney to

the proper committees. Some people cried, others expressed anger and distress.

Nosy reporters and photographers invaded your space. Sleep was at a premium.

The long and the short of it was that within forty-eight hours you were

uprooted from home, school, friends, and with the exception of mother and father,

from everything else that was familiar to you. There was an emotional farewell at

the airport with thirty or forty friends from several parishes.

The flight leaving for Miami that day was booked to capacity, but God

provided a good friend to enable us to find space on the flight. The captain had

apparently been informed about our circumstances, and as soon as we were seated

a flight attendant brought your mother and me a couple of glasses of Scotch and

soda, saying “The captain says you’ll probably need these.”

[4]

We had lived in Central America for nine years, five in Costa Rica, and then

four in Guatemala. Four of you had been very young when we moved to Costa

Rica, and Suzy, you of course were born there. So you suddenly found yourselves

deposited in an alien land, the United States of America, where for months you

lived as strangers, in a series of borrowed houses, with a totally unpredictable

future.

I’ve never asked you directly how that affected you, and since it all

happened so long ago, the memory is undoubtedly buried deeply, covered over by

all the things that have gone into the making of your lives since that time. It may

seem unimportant. However, as you know, past events do have a way of making

themselves felt in the present in unexpected ways. Memory is a complicated and

mysterious phenomenon. And just in case you ever get curious, I want you to have

a record of the events that led up to this major change in your lives.

Why did a sovereign government choose to expel from its territory an

insignificant cleric and his family? What did the authorities fear?

[5]

The Beginning

It was about six-thirty in the evening, September 30, 1971, when I drove our

Ford station wagon into the gravel driveway of our home in Zona 10, Guatemala

City. It was beginning to get dark and there was an extra car parked outside. It was

a strange time for a visit, and I sensed that something was going on. That notion

was strengthened when your mother met me at the door with a tight hug and a

"Thank God you’re all right!”

I had just driven back to the city after completing a three-day visit to several

of our small mission churches in the eastern part of the country, around Lake

Izabal. The time there had been exhilarating. I had baptized and confirmed a large

number of new converts, and worshipped with enthusiastic congregations in three

different villages, Mariscos, San Felipe, and Campo Dos. A reporter from a

Church magazine who was there described one of the events this way: “The tiny

frame chapel was jammed with 165, people, nearly all of whom had to stand

throughout the service – except for sleeping babies on the floor. Arches of palm

fronds, fresh pine needles on the floor, a mighty chorus of hymns – all known by

heart – a genuine experience of a Christian community’s worshiping. One could [6]

not imagine a more fitting farewell for any missionary bishop – although no one

knew it was a farewell.” I was filled with hope for the future of our tiny,

struggling Church in Guatemala and couldn’t imagine why your mother and our

visitor, seemed so distressed.

“Why shouldn’t I be all right?” I asked. The worry lines on their faces said

that something was troubling your mother and Gwynne Barillas, the wonderful

Christian woman who worked as my bilingual assistant and secretary. It was

evident that the two had spent several hours together. The ashtrays were full, cups

were scattered around the living and dining rooms, and there was a half-eaten plate

of Marias on the coffee table. Apparently, you five children had already gone to

your rooms to do homework or to read.

Gwynne spoke first, and seemed to be apologizing for something. “Oh,

Señor Obispo, I didn’t know what else to do. I was terrified and I finally had to

tell them where you were. We were afraid that you might have an ‘accident’ on

the way back.”

“What in the world is going on, and who are ‘they?’” I asked. The story

came tumbling out, first from Gwynne, and then from Barbara. The Judiciales, the

Guatemalan Secret Police, had come to my office earlier in the day, demanding to

see me. No reason was given for their presence, simply a demand to produce the [7]

Bishop. My office was in a converted residence on a large plot of ground on one

of the major suburban thoroughfares. A grassy inner patio was surrounded by a

series of rooms that served as worship space for the Iglesia de Santiago, (St. James

parish) and diocesan offices, as well as a residence for Doña Meches, the

caretaker, and her family.

Unconvinced and dissatisfied with Gwynne’s claim that I was not there, the

police had pressured and questioned everyone in the building. They seemed

convinced that Meches was hiding me someplace, and terrorized the poor lady

until she broke down in tears. They searched the grounds and all the buildings

down to the last broom closet, and of course, found nothing. Finally convinced

that I was not there, they started in on Gwynne, demanding to know my

whereabouts. After an hour or so, she finally gave up and told them.

The Judiciales were not people you wanted to argue with. Their reputation

for brutality was well earned, and reports later showed that many of them were

members of the faceless “Death Squads” which had been responsible for the

disappearance and assassination of large numbers of Guatemalans during the

fifteen year old undeclared civil war. They seemed to be immune to political

controls, and indeed, most of them had remained in power through many different

regimes, from the far left to the far right.

[8]

As they left, they gave Gwynne a message. “Tell him to report to the

Central Office for Immigration at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” She waited

until they were out of sight, and then raced to our house to talk to Barbara. The

message could mean anything. But the police’s hostile and threatening demeanor

made the women fear the worst. Given the fact that the country had been under

martial law for almost a year, and that tensions were running high, it didn’t take

too much imagination. There was only one highway between Guatemala City and

Lake Izabal, and it would not have been difficult to arrange for an “accident” along

the way.

Your mother describes that afternoon and evening this way: “At the time of

our expulsion none of you had driver’s licenses so I hadn’t yet learned the art of

keeping vigil, as parents of teenage drivers are apt to do. (Except at the side of an

occasionally sick child.) So we waited with our ears tuned for the sound of every

car engine that turned into our cul de sac. Gwynne had gone over and over the

events of the morning, and together we tried to find encouragement and

reassurance in what had or hadn’t been said by the police. We both avoided

mention of the so-called accidents that had been cover-ups for assassinations. And

we tried to avoid words that would communicate our fears and apprehensions to

you kids. As far as you knew, your dad was on his way home from Mariscos after

[9]

visiting the churches in that part of the diocese. We were thankful for the

distractions of questions, homework, reminders of snacks to be offered, just

anything that deflected the dread, and provided a few moments’ diversion. Finally,

after too many cups of coffee and too many cigarettes, the familiar crunch of tires

on the gravel drive ended the nightmare. We rushed to meet your father who

hadn’t a clue as to what had gone on or what was about to happen.”

To be honest, I had been concerned for some time. A couple of weeks

earlier, I had gathered a group of several Christian leaders, both Roman Catholic

and Evangelical, and we had issued a brief statement calling for the end to martial

law and a restoration of Constitutional guarantees. We had begged both sides to

the conflict to cease the killing, and to search for a peaceful solution to the nation’s

problems. The declaration was modeled on one I had written a year earlier with

only temporary success. I figured that my mistake had been playing Lone Ranger

and that if we broadened the base we might have better results. We were able to

publish the statement because, in honor of Independence Day, September 16, the

government had relaxed the press censorship that had been in place for about a

year.

When it was made public some of my friends suggested that I was reckless

and foolish. Others said they admired my courage, but that something bad would

[10]

probably happen. Paul and Mark, you may remember that one afternoon you came

home from the Colegio Americano in a state of great turmoil. Your schoolmates,

the children of middle-class Guatemalans, probably echoing the words of their

parents, had told you, “What your old man said was right, but they’ll probably kill

him for it.” It was one of those teachable moments and we had some good

conversation about justice, and how following Jesus could occasionally get you

into trouble.

Later that day, while meeting friends at the airport, I ran into an American

woman from the English language service at Santiago. She admitted that my

concerns about the level of violence were accurate, “but you were an idiot to say

anything about it publicly. We just have to keep quiet. There’s nothing we can do.

Besides, it isn’t even our country!”

“Idiot” I could understand, but her last remark caused me the most trouble.

Surely, Christian concern for the victims of injustice has no nationality and no

borders. I thought Jesus had dealt with that issue once when he was hounded by a

Greek mother begging healing for her daughter. “Even the dogs eat the crumbs that

fall from the master’s table,” she had replied. Whatever else that story may have to

say, it shows that God’s concern knows no national frontiers. And, nothing we can

do? Surely she would have admitted that one can at least pray. But real prayer is a

[11]

risky enterprise. What if God were to answer and say that he wants you to be the

instrument of his response to the prayer?

To be honest, I hadn’t given much thought to the matter of my personal

safety. The thing just seemed so right that there didn’t appear to be much of a

choice. But I had developed, belatedly to be sure, some deep apprehensions about

the family’s well-being. It was not unheard of for political enemies to kidnap or

kill a family member of the person they wanted to punish or pressure. Perhaps I

had been foolish to expose you to possible retaliation for my own actions. It was

the only time in my life that I could see some value in the institution of clerical

celibacy.

Still and all, the fact that the government had decided to do anything came as

something of a surprise. Two weeks had passed and nothing had happened. The

Vice-President had sent a message telling those of us who had signed the

Declaration that we should stay in our churches, reading our Bibles and celebrating

our masses and stay out of things that don’t concern us. We tried to send word

back through unofficial channels, but I don’t know if it ever arrived. Our message

was, “the God we meet in the Bible and at the Altar sent us back to see you!”

With the order to report to Immigration the next morning, I wasn’t sure just

what to do. So I called Bill Pryce, a friend from the American Embassy who had [12]

recently moved to town during the interim between U.S. Ambassadors. The

previous Ambassador, our good friend, Nathaniel Davis, had recently been

transferred to Chile, and a new one had yet to be appointed. I told Bill what had

happened, and his reply took me by surprise. “I was afraid they might do

something like this,” he said. “Assume that your phone has been tapped - have you

talked to anyone you shouldn’t have, or said anything that might be

incriminating?” I replied that I hadn’t done anything incriminating so I surely

hadn’t said anything.

The surprise wasn’t that our phone might have been tapped. I had suspected

that for several years because of other events unrelated to the current situation. But

that an American Embassy official seemed to take it for granted was something of

a shock. He suggested that we come over to his house and talk. Probably because

he assumed that someone was still listening.

Your mother and I hurried over, and found a couple of other people from the

Embassy and the Consulate there as well. Bill Pryce said that a week or so earlier,

the President had said to him “we are going to have to do something about that

bishop of yours.” He asked me if I wanted the Embassy to intercede on my behalf.

I said no. I had been sent to Guatemala by the Church and not by the State

Department and certainly didn’t want to confuse that issue in any way.

[13]

The young American Consul’s first name was Larry – I can’t recall his last

name – and he pointed out that the reason for demanding that I go to the

Immigration Office was undoubtedly because they had decided to cancel my visa

and expel me from the country. “You’re probably no longer in any danger from

the government, but you may be in some from the other side. If they could harm

you and throw the blame on the government, they wouldn’t think twice.” Then he

made the extraordinary offer of driving me to the Consular office the next

morning, using his car rather than mine. I accepted gratefully.

The night was short and restless. About six-thirty, Larry picked me up and

we drove downtown through the dawn. A couple of other friends accompanied us.

We arrived just as the office was opening, and it was obvious that the clerk was

expecting me. He was, if anything, more nervous than I was, and seemed to be

deeply troubled by the conflict between his faith, which taught him great respect

for any member of the clergy, and his duty, which was to take my passport and

cancel the visa which had given me official residence in the country. He was very

polite and very apologetic. After stamping my visa with a big “Cancelada,”

accompanied by a notice that we had seventy-two hours to leave the country, and

affixing the official revenue stamps which were an essential part of every

[14]

governmental transaction, he apologized once more and said, “That will be seventy

-five cents for the stamps, Padre.”

Now, seventy-five cents wasn’t going to break me, but my sense of the

absurd surfaced and in mock consternation I replied, “¡Esto sí que es el colmo!

This is really the limit! Here you are, throwing me out of the country, and now

you’re asking me to pay for the privilege. That’s too much!” It turned out to be

too much for the poor desk clerk and he quickly retreated into an inner office,

murmuring, “Momento, padre. Just a moment, Father. Just a moment.” He

emerged a couple of minutes later, grinning from ear to ear, and said, “You don’t

have to pay for the stamps.” With that, the tension was broken, and my whole

group was dissolved in laughter.

We left, and I rode to the American Embassy with my friends. I had been

scheduled to meet at noon that day with a group of people from Senator Fulbright’s

Foreign Relations Committee. They were in town gathering information on the

political situation in Guatemala and the implications for U.S. foreign policy. I

asked if I could meet with them earlier since I now had business of my own to

transact, and time was of the essence.

They were very polite and of course, interested in my situation. We talked

for about a half-hour, and I shared with them my own concerns about the level of [15]

violence, and the possibility that our own government might be involved. I had

long had reason to believe that the CIA operatives in the country were not only

gathering information for consumption back home, but were also sharing

intelligence with the Guatemalan military or the Secret Police, the Judiciales.

Whether the Committee members followed up on this or not, I have no idea.

By the time I left the Embassy, the newspapers were out, and the story was

already on the front page. Two of us who had signed the declaration were foreign

nationals, (the other was a Spanish Roman Catholic priest) and had been deported.

All the others, including a Roman Catholic bishop, had been severely reprimanded,

threatened, and told that they would be under close scrutiny from that time on. The

title “Bishop” had earned me a bit more notoriety than the others, but we were all

accused of being communist sympathizers, subversives, and dangerous to the

public welfare. One story even had a list of the subversive organizations that I

supposedly belonged to. Not only did I not belong to any of them, I had never

even heard of them.

A troubling bit of information came from another quarter. A Roman

Catholic auxiliary bishop, a man about my own age who had become a friend, and

whose episcopal ordination I had attended, was questioned about the affair. He

had known about the Declaration, had expressed sympathy with it, but had

[16]

declined to participate publicly because of his position as assistant to the

archbishop. However, to the press he said that he had long suspected me of

subversive or communist leanings, and was not at all surprised by the current turn

of events.

That was when strange things began to happen. A visiting Lutheran pastor

read the article, and asked me how I felt about being “betrayed by a Judas.” I

knew myself well enough to predict the answer to that one. Normally I would

have felt as I have always felt when anyone accused me falsely, or interfered with

my own well-considered plans. From my earliest days I had been cursed with a

Teutonic temper, and had made very little progress in combating it. I might hide it

once in a while, and keep it from becoming physical, but I had never mastered it.

In a word, I would have been enraged and would have searched for some way to

retaliate verbally. Of course I would be angered by betrayal.

But something unexpected had happened deep inside my heart. I found a

deep concern and love for the bishop who had accused me, and felt that he must

have been pressured into making the statement against his own will, and I

suspected that he was probably struggling with himself for having done it. For a

fleeting moment I wondered if Jesus had felt this way about Judas.

[17]

As I examined this surprising reaction more closely, I found much the same

thing happening with regard to the government officials who had taken the action,

and who had made such damaging, and false, statements about me and my actions.

There was no feeling of anger but rather one of compassion. I recognize that this

may not sound like much to people who regularly behave with equanimity when

they face such powerful opposition, but in the light of what I knew about my own

character, it was as though a seismic shift had occurred deep within my

personality. And I also knew that it was not something that I had manufactured or

was piously faking; I was not the author of it. I suspected it came from God.

It was probably close to ten in the morning when I got back home to share

what had happened with your mother. Obviously many things had to happen

almost at once. We immediately set out to pick up you children from your schools

and tell you the news. Matthew, you complicated things a bit by deciding to stay

at school until closing so you could play soccer with your friends! And I arranged

for an emergency meeting of my Diocesan Council of Advice, to begin making

arrangements for a transfer of legal and financial affairs, as well as immediate

plans for the future of the church. We also had to call a moving company and

arrange for them to come and pack the rest of our belongings.

[18]

God had provided some unexpected help as we began making plans for an

immediate departure. Our good friends, Peter and Connie Stouse, had been

visiting Costa Rica where Peter had done some graduate work at the University,

and had just arrived for a few days visit with us. Both of them were bilingual and

could enter into the necessary activities such as answering the many phone calls,

dealing with visitors who had heard the news, and helping us pack. The sister of

the Roman Catholic bishop who had signed the Statement called to offer her

condolences and express her anger at the “sinverguenzas” who were evicting us. I

tried to caution her to calm down saying that the telephone was probably tapped.

Her response was, “I hope it is, and I hope those (expletives deleted) are listening

to every word.”

The decree had given us seventy-two hours to leave, but when we checked

the airline schedules, it was evident that we would have to shorten that term to

forty-eight hours. Even with that, things looked bleak since the only flight that

would fit the government’s timetable was the Pan American flight to Miami, and it

was full. The Lord intervened again, and a good friend, David Knight, who

worked for Pan American Airways in Guatemala, arranged to have seven

passengers bumped and our names entered to replace them.

[19]

The flight was uneventful, but word of our expulsion had reached Miami

before us and reporters besieged us as we came through the Customs area.

Someone had taken a picture of your mother sitting on the stack of our nineteen

suitcases, holding a guitar belonging to one of you. And for several years people

assumed that it was her instrument and invited her to play.

I managed to convince the reporters to wait until we had checked into an

airport hotel before responding to their questions. I was still in something of a

daze, but I do recall relating the events that led up to our hasty departure. At least

one of the reporters had managed to contact the Guatemalan Consul in Miami to

get his side of the story. It was evident that he had not been informed about

anything and had to call his superiors in Guatemala before responding. However

he did manage to say, “Whatever that Bishop says, it’s a lie!” As you can imagine,

the stories that appeared were not very complimentary to the Guatemalan regime.

The next day I had several phone calls from friends. The first came from an

American priest who had spent a number of years in Latin America. We had

served together for a while in Costa Rica and were good friends despite the fact

that his political views were substantially to the left of mine. He sputtered a few

words of greeting, then said, “I don’t know what to say to you.” I answered, “Bill,

[20]

you’re trying to say that I didn’t deserve to get kicked out – I’m not radical enough

to deserve the honor.” “That’s it!” he shouted, “That’s what I’m trying to say.”

The next call was from another priest friend, Max Salvador, a Cuban exile

who had a great ministry in Miami. The Castro regime’s newspaper, Gramma, had

published a story on the affair, apparently painting me as a hero of the revolution

opposing a fascist Guatemalan administration. Max had read it, and with tears in

his eyes said, “Bill, we’ve been friends for so long. Why didn’t you ever tell me

you were a communist?” It took several years to convince him that he was wrong.

And then there came a call from the local Episcopal Bishop, Jim Duncan,

who said he and his family were going on vacation and wouldn’t we like to use his

house? God provides

[21]

The Background

San José, Costa Rica, is located on the meseta central, a central plateau a

little over three thousand feet in altitude. There are rarely any marked temperature

extremes and the only two seasons are wet and dry. Guatemala City is similar,

standing about the same altitude as Denver, and is known as the “land of eternal

spring.”

But the first difference we noticed in moving from Costa Rica to Guatemala

in October of 1967 had nothing to do with the weather. Rather it was the presence

of so many armed guards on the streets. Costa Rica was a peaceful place where in

1948 an almost bloodless coup had abolished the military and diverted the money

saved into programs of medicine and education. There was no army, just a

National Guard of some thousand members and they were rarely seen. The most

lethal item the police carried seemed to be a screwdriver. This would be used to

[22]

remove the license plates of traffic offenders, the theory being that you would have

to pay a fine to get the plates back. But many people simply kept on driving

without them.

By contrast, in Guatemala there seemed to be soldiers on almost every street

corner, armed with rifles or automatic weapons. And to make the scene look more

sinister, they wore the scuttle-bucket helmets and leather breast straps typical of

Nazi uniforms in World War II. Each day the newspapers brought news of

skirmishes between the authorities and the guerillas or of tortured bodies

discovered in shallow roadside graves. Although on the surface life seemed to go

on fairly normally, we were aware of a darker side. Several months before we

arrived, two Maryknoll priests, the Melville brothers, had been spirited out of the

country by their Order. Their sympathy for the poor, coupled with their own

interpretation of Liberation Theology had led them to become actively involved

with one of the Marxist guerilla groups operating in the country. We hadn’t been

there a month when two American military attachés were assassinated by one of

those same groups just a few blocks from the building where I was renting

temporary office space.

Shortly afterwards, a friend who worked for the U.S. Air Force showed me

some captured documents from one of the guerilla groups that outlined their

[23]

strategy. I learned later that it was taken straight from the Marxist/Leninist

Handbook for guerilla activities. The idea was simple. They were a minority with

minimal support from the people. So the tactic was to strike at selected military or

even civilian targets with some act of violence in hopes of tempting the

Guatemalan military to overreact by engaging in massive retaliation or by

curtailing civil liberties – all this in the hope of winning popular sympathy for the

guerilla’s cause. As far as I could tell the tactic was working perfectly and the

Guatemalan military was responding on cue. Martial law, or the estado de sitio,

was a frequent occurrence. Among other things it meant that there were curfews,

and if you happened to be in an automobile after dark, the interior lights must be

on so the police and military could see who you were and what you were up to.

We got another brief taste of the tension during our first weeks in the city.

We had moved into a house in a residential area to the north of town. One

morning, without warning, there was a tank parked at the end of our street and

soldiers were going from house to house searching for who knows what. I had

already left for work, but Barbara and you children were still at home. We still

hadn’t completed unpacking from our recent move, so when the soldiers entered

our house, they went from room to room, opening boxes with the muzzles of their

rifles, fishing up and examining whatever was inside. And not too long after that,

[24]

the guerillas published a threat to bomb some of the city’s school buses. Thank

God, that threat never materialized.

Unlike living in Costa Rica as a missionary priest of the Episcopal Church,

being bishop of that Church in Guatemala brought some new opportunities. One

of the most obvious differences was the occasional invitation to diplomatic

receptions and cocktail parties. Your mother and I found ourselves minor players

in a whirl of social events, the Fourth of July, the “Queen’s birthday party,”

seasonal celebrations, or the welcoming of some new diplomat.

At one of the first of these parties I found myself in conversation with the

U.S. Army’s military attaché at the American embassy. The colonel was a career

military man, third generation West Point graduate. You have to remember that

this all took place at the height of the Cold War, with the U.S. almost paranoid

about Communist attempts to infiltrate and influence foreign governments. The

Vietnam War was at its peak. Popular attention in the U.S. was focused on the Far

East, but the Cuban revolution and the Bay of Pigs fiasco were still recent

memories. Having lived in Central America for over five years at that point, I was

acutely aware of Latin American feelings toward the U.S. Since the Spanish-

American War our country felt free to intervene militarily in the western

[25]

hemisphere whenever some U. S. economic interest was threatened. The countries

had freedom but the people knew that it was freedom at the end of a leash.

So I asked the colonel why we had such a large military presence in

Guatemala. I don’t believe that my voice had an antagonistic tone at that moment.

But it may have. Nevertheless he replied by saying that Guatemala was very

important. “If we lose Guatemala…” he continued. I interrupted by saying, “I

didn’t think we owned Guatemala.” He quickly recovered and continued, “What I

mean to say is that if Guatemala is lost to the free world, we lose our access to the

Panama Canal.” I was dumbfounded and said, “Who, in his right mind, would

ever think of going to the Panama Canal over land?” And his reply shocked me

even more. “I never thought of that,” he said.

We continued our conversation for a while and spoke about the various

Marxist guerilla groups operating in the country. There were apparently three

separate groups, all with the same goal of destabilizing the present government.

One group answered to Beijing, one to Moscow, and one to Havana.

I continued questioning the colonel and by this time I know I was getting

antagonistic. “Sir, can you see any difference between someone who is a

doctrinaire Marxist, one who has socialist leanings, and one who is simply a

[26]

nationalist seeking independence for his country?” He paused and thought for a

moment, then said, “No, they’re all the same.”

I was so shaken by this encounter, thinking that the colonel was bad for

public relations, an example of the “ugly American syndrome.” Later that week I

confided my concern to a civilian diplomat. Within a couple of weeks, out of the

blue we received a dinner invitation from another U.S. Army officer, a captain, and

a total stranger. We accepted and spent a pleasant evening with very congenial

folks. But I couldn’t avoid the impression that it was a carefully orchestrated

event, designed to show me that not all of our military representatives were as

hawkish as my colonel.

My primary concern had nothing to do with politics. I had been sent to

Guatemala to shepherd and grow the small Episcopal Church there. Anglicanism

was fairly new in Central America. Some of the early missions had been

established along the eastern coastal areas to minister to the black West Indian

population who had moved there to manage and work on banana plantations and to

build the railroads. Later chaplaincy congregations were established, attached to

the British Embassies in the capital cities. They ministered largely to the ABC ex-

pats, Americans, British, and Canadians. The Episcopal Church assumed

leadership over these congregations in the 1950’s.

[27]

Our Church in Guatemala was tiny in the nineteen sixties. We had three

small mission congregations in the capital city, a budding youth program initiated

by one of our clergy, an ex-Roman Catholic priest from Bolivia. In addition there

was a large agricultural complex in the eastern part of the country near Lake

Izabal, with half a dozen mission stations, a small clinic and an experimental

rubber plantation. Our clergy were mostly foreigners, a couple of Americans, a

Puerto Rican, the Bolivian, a Dutchman, and a Mexican. However good our

Spanish may have been, we still had to communicate the message of Jesus Christ

through a series of cultural barriers. We all brought cultural baggage that we were

often unaware of. My priority, as I saw it, was to raise up a cadre of national

leaders who would be better equipped to share the Gospel with their fellow

Guatemalans. The current Episcopal Bishop there is a product of these efforts.

But we could not ignore the political realities that surrounded us. In August

of 1968, just a few days after I returned from almost a month in England attending

the Lambeth Conference we were rocked by a tragedy that came too close to home.

As you remember, our house was just around the corner from the residence of John

Gordon Mein, the American Ambassador. We had become friends and you,

Matthew, had a great relationship with one of the Ambassador’s sons. Several of

you had been home for lunch on August 28th, and had waved goodbye to Mr. Mein

[28]

as he left home for an afternoon meeting. Within minutes he became the victim of

an attempted kidnapping and was murdered on the spot. I have a vivid memory of

attempting that night to comfort all of you, and especially you, Matthew. You were

inconsolable and I had no answer to your question, “Why do they have to kill

people’s dads?”

I had been puzzled by the relative silence of all the churches about the

violence, the undeclared civil war that racked the nation. In some other parts of

Latin America the Church was a potent voice in combating unjust economic

structures and rallying to the side of the poor and oppressed. In the United States,

churches and church leaders were deeply involved in the civil rights struggle. Why

were Christians so passive here?

To be sure, there were exceptions, small groups of Christian leaders who

would meet for Bible study and discussions of how we Christians might have a

beneficial impact on our society. But, as they say, after all was said and done,

more was said than done; there was little or no action. The powerful Roman

Catholic Church appeared to be closely linked to the government, the military, and

the status quo. And most of the evangelical Christians, of whom Guatemala had a

large number, were reluctant to involve themselves in anything that might look

political.

[29]

Early in 1969 a member of one of the Bible-study groups told me that a

group of university students would like to meet with me. I agreed and invited them

to our house one evening for coffee and dessert. To my surprise between twenty

and thirty people showed up, young men and women, most of whom seemed to be

in their mid-twenties and early thirties. They expressed concern that many of the

victims of the country’s “death squads” were university students and professors,

that they felt singled out by the perpetrators of violence. I assumed that among

their number were a few members of various guerilla groups, or at least people

sympathetic to the guerilla cause. I explained my theoretical opposition to all

political violence, whether it came from the left or the right. That didn’t seem to

slow them down.

Then they asked the big question. “How long is the Church going to keep

silent in the face of so much violence and oppression?” My first response was to

tell them that they had the wrong bishop, that I was leader of a tiny, almost

microscopic church, and that the person they needed to talk to was the Roman

Catholic Archbishop downtown. “He’s the one with the influence,” I said.

They told me that they had indeed tried to meet with him but that he had

refused. “But aren’t you a bishop?” one of them said. “Yes,” I replied. Without

[30]

pausing he asked, “How long is the Church going to keep silent in the face of so

much violence and oppression?”

After a few more minutes of conversation I acquiesced. I offered to write a

statement deploring the violence and recommending the creation of a national

commission to study the causes of the problem. I borrowed this last idea from

Lyndon Johnson who, in the mid-sixties had created such a commission to study

the problem of racism in the U.S.

I told the group that I would buy newspaper space to publish the statement.

(This was a common custom in Guatemala for anyone who wished to make a

public statement about virtually anything.) Several people interrupted me and said

that I didn’t need to buy newspaper space. Instead, they would arrange a press

conference for me. The idea sounded good, and the next day I set out to write my

statement.

I began with the obvious: “The worst evils happen in a society when people

of good will remain silent in the presence of violence or oppression.” At that point

my mind was thinking about what had happened in Germany in the early 1930’s. I

went on to deplore the needless bloodshed that the country had been experiencing,

and ended with the suggestion about a study commission.

[31]

True to their word, within a couple of days the group arranged a press

conference. I was amazed at the turnout. Representatives from all the major

newspapers were there as well as radio reporters with their recorders and TV folks

with their cameras. The statement became headline news overnight. I was

flabbergasted and mystified. How could someone like me cause such a ruckus? I

began to realize that in a largely Roman Catholic culture, the title “Bishop” carried

a lot of weight. It didn’t seem to matter what I was bishop of!

The proposal seemed to strike a nerve and say what a lot of people had been

thinking but had neglected to say publicly. The Chamber of Commerce endorsed

the idea, as did the National Bar Association. There were some favorable

editorials. About two weeks later I received a phone call from two members of the

Guatemalan Legislature, inviting me their afternoon session during which they

passed a resolution establishing the Commission I had suggested. As a neutral

party, the President of the National University would chair the Commission and

other members would be added by the legislature. I was overjoyed. There was

hope that something good might happen.

I have to confess that my joy was mixed with some caution. As I said

before, I had been sent to Guatemala to look after and lead the small but growing

Episcopal Church there, not to upset the political apple cart. My mission was the

promotion of the Gospel and most of my time and energy were devoted to that

cause. Making public statements occupied only a tiny part of my time. Still, the

[32]

Christian faith has no room for murder and terrorism, and reconciliation is a central

element in the Gospel. I was convinced that the witness, ecclesiastical and

political, was consistent with my charge.

In 1970 Carlos Arana Osorio, a military man, was elected president and he

immediately abolished the Commission.

[33]

Brushes with the CIA

Though we lived in Guatemala while I served as bishop there, for several

years I also had charge of our half-dozen missions in Honduras. We hadn’t yet

trained many national priests, so, in the ‘60’s most of our clergy there were

American missionaries. In a conversation with one of them, he laughingly told me

he had been approached by a CIA agent and had been asked to help them gather

information about people in the town where he lived. I asked him what his

response was and he said, “I told him I already had a job and didn’t need another

one.” My first reaction of one of amusement, but the more I thought about it, the

more uncomfortable I felt. What would happen if it were known that a missionary

priest was gathering information for the CIA? All of us would be under suspicion

and our ministries would be severely compromised. Within an hour my discomfort

had turned to downright anger.

I have to confess that at that point I was so naïve I could hardly believe that

the CIA would stoop to using missionaries as assistants in its covert operations. In

later years I discovered that the practice was widespread and that there were agents

[34]

whose principal occupation was riding herd on the clergy. This all came to light in

1975, and after a public outcry the practice was abandoned.

But I was ticked off and I wanted to do something about it. My father had

always taught me to go to the top if I wanted results, so I decided to contact the

head of the CIA in Washington to complain. There was a new ambassador in

town, Nathaniel Davis. So, late one afternoon I went downtown to meet him and

to ask him who was the Director of the CIA and how I could contact him.

Nathaniel was very gracious and welcoming. I told him that we were

neighbors and we discovered that we both had children of approximately the same

age and so we promised to get together with our families at the earliest

opportunity. He also gave me the name of the CIA Director, who at that time was

Richard Helms.

It was late afternoon when I left the building, and the Embassy had closed.

As I opened the door through which I had entered, I discovered that the corrugated

steel curtain, which protected the street-level doors and windows of the place, had

already been rolled down and my way out was blocked. Just as I was closing the

door and stepping away from it, a young Marine guard walked into the room. He

apparently thought I had just walked in through the steel barrier and his eyes were

wide as saucers. “Sir,” he blurted, “how did you do that?” My first response was [35]

to say, “We bishops can do anything.” But then to calm him down I explained and

he graciously escorted me to an unblocked exit.

The following Monday morning, I called Gwynne Barillas into my office to

take a letter to Mr. Helms. When I finished dictating, she looked up and said,

“You’re not going to send this, are you?” My anger had not settled down and the

letter was far from gracious. So I replied, “No. But I had to get that one off my

chest.” So we proceeded to do a second draft.

I complained about my priest having been invited to work for the Agency.

I’m afraid that my naiveté showed through as I said that the whole thing was

probably a “blunder by some underling in the field.” I pointed out the obvious

consequences of exposure of a missionary as a CIA agent. Lest he worry about my

personal loyalties (the Cold War was at its height) I explained that I had served as

a priest in Los Alamos, New Mexico, and that the FBI had already checked me out

thoroughly for security purposes. My primary allegiance was to God, but I was a

loyal American citizen. I mailed the letter before noon.

Shortly before supper the following Wednesday, I received a call from a

friend at the Embassy, Max Krebs, who was the Deputy Chief of Mission, saying

he had something he wanted to talk to me about and could I come over for a drink.

I said, “Sure, Max.” and drove to his house. As we sat down together, drinks in [36]

hand, he said, “Bill, the Director has asked me to thank you for your letter and for

your concern. And he wants to assure you that it wasn’t one of our agents who

contacted your priest in Honduras.” In my letter I had not mentioned the priest’s

name, nor, as I recall, had I said anything about Honduras. I began to realize what

I was dealing with. “Well, if it wasn’t one of our agents, just who could it has

been?” I asked. “That’s what we’d like to find out,” said Max. “We were hoping

that you would persuade the priest to cooperate with us so we can get to the bottom

of this.”

“Well, obviously that decision would be his, but I’ll ask him on one

condition,” I said. “What’s that?” asked Max. I replied, “That you give me your

word of honor that it wasn’t one of our agents who approached him in the first

place.” Max paused, was silent for a moment, and a minimal grin crossed his face

as he said, “That is the content of the message I have been asked to relay to you.”

We both laughed and I commented that neither of us was very good at the cloak

and dagger business. I knew that they knew, and they knew that I knew. End of

chapter, or so I supposed.

Fairly early in our stay in Guatemala I had met an American business man

who recognized my name from our time at Lamar High School in Houston. We

engaged in some prolonged conversation during which he revealed that he was

[37]

going through some personal problems. He asked if I would be willing to give him

some pastoral counsel. Of course I agreed and we began to meet on a semi-regular

basis. We seemed to make some progress, and after about six months he felt he

was doing better and we broke off contact. But after another six months he was

back, having difficulty sleeping, drinking too much, and having trouble at home. I

tried again, but after another half-dozen sessions I told him that I was flummoxed.

Nothing he had told me seemed capable of producing the symptoms he reported. I

was ready to give up. He glanced nervously around my office then said, “Let’s go

for a ride in my car.”

As he drove he confessed that he had been working with the CIA as an

informant. He said at first it all seemed like fun, cops and robbers sort of stuff and

very patriotic. It was exciting, he continued, no harm was done. He simply

reported information on people he knew or met. But lately some of the people

about whom he gave information had been turning up dead and he hadn’t

bargained for that. He suspected that the Agency was sharing intelligence with the

Guatemalan military or with the Judiciales. He felt both guilty and trapped. He

thanked me for my help, but said he would probably have to stop coming. “I have

to go on the box. And this will all come out.” “The box” is jargon for lie-detector.

And he was right. We never met again.

[38]

Obviously, when I had written to Richard Helms, a copy of my letter had

been forwarded to the local CIA station chief. He apparently opened a file on me.

Unbeknownst to him, one of his employees was an Episcopalian who occasionally

drank too much. When that happened, I would get a phone call informing me

about what was in the file.

Because of the recent conclusion of the Second Vatican Council, ecumenical

relations in Latin America were on the rise. I’ll never forget the time when in 1963,

after the death of Pope John XXIII, there was to be a memorial funeral service in

the Roman Catholic Cathedral in San José. I asked our Bishop who he was

sending as Anglican representative, and he said, “No one.” I immediately raced

the two blocks to the church, and when questioned, identified myself. There was a

bit of a fuss, and a prayer desk was set up for me inside the sanctuary, close to the

ceremonial casket. Splendid isolation, in full view of everyone! When it came

time for the Papal Nuncio to preach, he began his remarks, “Distinguido

Presidente de la República, distinguidos Señores Obispos, distinguido

representante de la Comunión Anglicana…” I could hardly wait to tell the bishop.

A year or so after we moved to Guatemala I met Sean Holly, the Labor

Attaché at the American Embassy. We were about the same age and he confessed

a great interest in theology. He had been a Maryknoll seminarian earlier in life and

[39]

liked to keep current. He was especially interested in the Vatican Council. We had

a number of good conversations, and I loaned him a couple of books I had on the

subject. Early in March of 1970, your mother and I were taking our friend, Jane

Rixman, to the airport. We stopped for lunch at a popular restaurant on the Avenida

Reforma, and I ran into Sean who introduced me to his luncheon guest, a

prominent labor leader. As we were leaving Sean offered to give me a ride back to

my office but I explained that we were on our way to the airport. A few minutes

later, Sean was kidnapped by the guerilla group, FAR. I’ve often wondered what

might have happened if I had been in the car with him. And thanked the Lord for

my preservation.

I learned about the kidnapping later that afternoon, and immediately went to

the Holly home where I spent much of the weekend with the family. Interestingly,

our telephone service was defective that whole weekend with nothing but a loud

hum on the line. We had suspected the phone for some time – odd clicking noises

during some conversations - so that was no big surprise. Sean was released

unharmed on Sunday in exchange for several rebel captives. But I don’t recall

getting my books back.

[40]

Much later I learned that part of Sean’s portfolio was to keep tabs on

American missionaries collaborating with the CIA. But he never attempted to

recruit me, nor did he ever ask me any inappropriate questions.

A Saint in Caesar’s Household

Sometime early in 1971 I received an anguished letter followed by an

equally distressed phone call from a parishioner at the Church of Santiago. The

man was a clerk in the Police Department. In the course of his activities he had

accidentally come across a piece of paper intended for other eyes. It contained a

list of people targeted for elimination, a “death list.” At the top of the list he

noticed the name of a fellow parishioner and friend, Roberto Hernandez, a local

physician. Roberto was good friend of mine also. He was an avid Christian who

had been active politically with the Christian Democratic Party, a group somewhat

left of center, but still part of the mainstream political process in Guatemala.

The man – I’ll call him Jaime – was in a tough spot; he was a minor clerk

and had no power to act. Worse, he couldn’t tell anyone at the office that he had

seen the document. Not knowing what else to do, he begged me to “do something.”

“You’ve got to do something to prevent Roberto’s assassination.” But what could

[41]

I do? I had no friends in high places, no political influence, not even a certainty

about the source of the death list. No certainty, but certainly a strong suspicion,

along with most Guatemalans, that the large numbers of political assassinations

were being carried out by out-of-uniform members of the military on orders from

someone higher up in the political hierarchy, and possibly with encouragement

from our own government. (I got some evidence of this only recently after

President Clinton declassified a number of State Department documents, one of

which was written by another friend from Central American days, Viron “Pete”

Vaky. Vaky had been a member of Santiago while he served in Guatemala until

early in 1968. He wrote a memo outlining his concerns. In it he said, “The official

squads are guilty of atrocities. Interrogations are brutal, torture is used and bodies

are mutilated…In the minds of many in Latin America, and tragically, especially in

the sensitive and articulate youth, we were believed to have condoned these tactics,

if not actually encouraged them…we have not been honest with ourselves. We

have condoned counter-terror; we may even have encouraged or blessed it…we

suspected that maybe it is a good tactic, and that as long as Communists are being

killed it is alright.”)

Again, don’t deal with underlings; go to the top. So I asked Gwynne to see if

she could get me an appointment with the Minister of Defense, the equivalent of

[42]

our Secretary of the Army. He replied that he was too busy but that I could see the

Vice Minister of Defense. With some fear and trepidation, explaining to Gwynne

where I was going and why (just in case I didn’t return) I made my way to the

National Palace, an imposing structure on the city’s main plaza. As I entered the

building I felt apprehensive and exposed, perhaps a little like Moses being sent

back to Egypt where his face was plastered on “Wanted” posters all over the place.

I passed through a crowd of uniforms and found the right place. After

waiting for about ten minutes I was ushered into the office. The Vice Minister was

a stocky man with a pleasant demeanor. He was a colonel, as were most of the

officers in the building. The office was surprisingly small with typical

institutional furniture. The desk behind which he sat was large, and he gestured to

a chair in front where I was to sit. On the desk there were several file folders, a

stapler, a tape dispenser, and a forty-five automatic. Before we began the

conversation his assistant, also a colonel, looked in and said, “Café, mi coronel?”

“Sí, por favor, mi coronel.” And a tray with coffee for two and an assortment of

galletas was brought in.

In accordance with the Latin American custom, for about twenty minutes we

exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the national fútbol team, and whatever

else came to mind. At one point the Colonel asked me if my church was under the

[43]

authority of the Cardinal Archbishop of Guatemala, whose Cathedral was just

across the plaza. I replied that it wasn’t, that my church was “católica, apostólica,

y reformada.” To my amazement he said, “Why you must be an Anglican.” I

asked him where in the world he had even heard of the Anglican Church and he

told me that he had an aunt who was Anglican, “A great church with a noble

history,” he said.

With that I began to relax a bit, realizing that God had led me into the one

place in the whole building where I might find a sympathetic response to the

purpose of my visit.

Finally it was time to get down to business. “And what brings you here

today, Padre?” the colonel asked. I told him that I had information that the name

of one of our parishioners was on a death list. I said that I knew the man well and

that he was not in any way subversive, but was a loyal member of Guatemalan

society. He was politically active, to be sure, but with a legitimately recognized

party. Then I revealed my only weapon, “If anything happens to him, I’ll know

the source and I’ll 'pegar el grito,’ raise hell in the international press,” I said.

There was a long silence on the other side of the desk. The automatic looked

larger. Then the colonel sighed and replied. “You know, it’s hard working in this

building. It’s full of people with a Flintstone (los Picapiedra) mentality who [44]

believe that there are only two kinds of people in the world. There are

Communists and anti-Communists. If you’re not obviously one then you must be

the other. It’s very difficult for those of us who know the world is more complex

than that.” Another pause. “Of course,” he said, “there are no such things as death

lists. They don’t exist.” Pause. “But if they did exist, I can assure you that I would

be in a position to guarantee that no harm would come to your friend.”

I could barely believe my ears. Not only had I been led to the only person

who knew something about my Church, but he turned out to be a good man and

sympathetic to my cause. I knew that I had met one of the “saints in Caesar’s

household.” I thanked him profusely, silently thanked God even more, and made

my exit. The afternoon air was more refreshing than usual that day.

After we were evicted I tried to keep up with events in Guatemala, but it

was hard to avoid having a sense of failure. True, our Statement had met with

wide public approval. Several editorials praised it, and as with my first attempt,

the Chamber of Commerce and the Bar Association got behind it. But it felt as

though all we had done hadn’t accomplished anything. Things seemed to go back

to the way they were before.

But that was an illusion. The Association of Guatemalan Journalists joined

in the demand for an end to the state of siege. A student at the University of San [45]

Carlos, the national University, was assassinated by right wing terrorists and the

University went on strike. When the hard-liners in the administration, including the

Minister of Defense who had declined to see me, demanded that the University be

taken over by the Army. And that was when some moderates in the military,

including and perhaps even led by the colonel with whom I had talked, persuaded

President Arana that such a move would only escalate the country’s violence. “No

more Guatemalan blood,” they said. Less than two months after our expulsion the

state of siege was finally lifted. A small victory to be sure, but at least it was

something.

Unfortunately however, the old order eventually retook control, and in less

than two years I heard that the officer who had dealt so graciously with me had

been murdered.

[46]

The Exit

Saturday, October 3, 1971 - After a restless night, we finally prepared to

leave. María and her daughter, Carmen, were both in tears. They had grown to

love our two dogs and insisted on taking care of them. We packed our portable

belongings, nineteen bags and a guitar, into the Ford station wagon and a

Volkswagen bus for the trip to the airport. I had a handful of passports and two

pocketsful of Pan American tickets that would take us to Miami.

Guatemala City’s airport was fairly new at that time, but we knew where to

go. We were somewhat surprised but totally delighted when we saw the

parishioners from Santiago and other congregations who had come to bid us

farewell. There must have been close to forty of them. An added bonus was

[47]

running into a good friend, a priest then serving in El Salvador, Onell Soto, who

happened to be passing through town.

But there were others who came to see us off as well. There were more than

usual armed security guards in the place, and more than the usual number of

ambulatory vendors hawking woven goods, candy, cigarettes, and souvenirs.

Many of them had ill-concealed pistols tucked in their waistbands, and were

obviously not professional salesmen. In the balcony a soldier kept a machine gun

trained on me wherever I went among the well-wishers.

There was a parade of tearful abrazos that only stopped when our flight was

called. We walked through the glass doors into the Concourse. I don’t know about

you, but my heart was overflowing with emotion. Some instinct prompted me to

glance back at those we were leaving behind. They were all kneeling, waiting for

one last blessing from their bishop. I couldn’t speak. The best I could do was to

stop, turn back, and tearfully wave a sign of the cross. Then we kept on walking.

For the next few months I think we were all basket cases. But, as you

remember, the Lord came to our rescue in many ways. And you, Paul, Mark,

Matthew, Peter, and Suzanna were amazingly resilient and have all done so much

so well in the years that have passed. I’m proud of all of you.

[48]

Dad

[49]