p A SERENE AND MILDLY EXOTIC MOUNTAIN TOWN of terraces and narrow lanes, Cuernavaca was a pleasant contrast to the cacophony and acrid smog of Mexico City. Parts of Cuernavaca are very rich. The local tourism office boasts the highest per capita concentration of swimming pools in the world. But other parts of Cuernavaca are very poor. There are barrios (slums) where thousands of people live with no running water. Before I approached the Revolutionary Democratic Front (FDR), the Salvadoran guerrillas’ political wing, I decided to visit Mendes Arceo, the so-called Red Bishop, personally. The sobriquet derives from his long involvement with libera- ’ tion theology, a type of Catholic ministry that preferentially concerns itself with the needs of the poor. The theology, a consequence, in part, of the reforms promulgated by the Second Vatican Council more than twenty years ago, undercut the clergy’s traditional alliance with the military and monied class that had defined the historical role of the Church in Latin America.

p For centuries, the Church had kept the people’s eyes set squarely on the hereafter. But in the mid-1960s, Mendes Arceo, and many other Latin American priests, began to encourage a more temporal outlook among the peasants. Sickness and hunger were no longer viewed as intractable burdens of the poor but as conditions that the people themselves might overcome.

p There was nothing intrinsically radical in liberation theology, but its consequence—the inspiration and organization of the poor—sent shivers through the haciendas and presidential palaces of Latin America. Even a hint of unity among the poor was seen as subversive and dangerous; it was assumed to be Communist-inspired.

p My first view of the "Red Bishop" was from across the flower beds in the courtyard of Cuernavaca’s centuries-old cathedral, the only place Mendes Arceo conducts audiences. His seventy-four years had stooped him a bit, but he still 13 stood well over six feet tall. His head was shaved, and I could hear the sonorous bass of his voice.

p He spoke to a little girl who skipped away with a giggle. For me, however, there was only icy politeness. The aloofness was understandable; there had been attempts on his life.

p A few more words from me and the ice turned to stone. Here was a gringo claiming he was a doctor, a self-admitted former military officer with no ties to the political left and no particular experience in Latin America, talking in mangled Spanish about his interest in humanitarian work in a war zone his own government had helped create. He might be CIA or a plain fool.

p Either way, the Red Bishop wasn’t taking any chances. He looked sternly at me and said there were poor everywhere who needed help. That was it. The interview was over. On the way out, a priest offered me the name of a nun who he said was doing health work among the poor in Cuernavaca.

p The town was filled with a melange of political exiles and disaffected intellectuals from all over Latin America. Surely, I thought, someone there would put me in touch with the FDR. From hindsight, this entire episode was absurd.

p I went to meetings and suggested I might know a doctor who would consider working with the Salvadoran guerrillas. If anyone knew anyone in the FDR, perhaps. . . ? But even if my clumsy overtures had gotten through, how would I possibly know the difference between an FDR representative, a KGB operative, a CIA agent, or anyone else? I couldn’t even ask many questions for fear of provoking suspicion.

p I looked up the nun. Her name was Sister Frances, and she was working with what is called a "base Christian community" in the diocese of Cuernavaca. These communities or CEBs (Comunidades Eclesidles de Base) are outgrowths of liberation theology. Established by priests and nuns in many Latin American countries, the CEBs combine traditional Bible study with training of lay ministers, "Delegates of the Word,” selected by the community. The teachings 14 emphasize a God who is just and loving, who acts on behalf of the poor and oppressed. Sister Frances explained that her work was deliberately and exclusively pastoral, never political.

p Sister Frances was serious but had a marvelous laugh. Unlike any nun I’d ever known, she wore street clothes rather than a habit. She was very proud of her community.

p It was located in one of the poorest barrios, no more than a squatter settlement built of discarded plywood, sheets of tin, and cardboard. But Sister Frances saw much more there. Making agile leaps to avoid the mudholes and garbage in the rutted lanes, she led me to a community meeting one evening.

p The community’s Delegate of the Word, an unemployed laborer who Sister Frances said had learned to read only one year before, offered several moving passages of Bible text. I couldn’t catch it all with my book Spanish, but his readings and the discussions that followed were as lively a Christian meeting as I’d ever attended.

p Then the indefatigable Sister led me and the rest of the parishioners down to inspect their great triumph—a community water spigot. After months of meetings and an agreement that everyone would contribute a few centavos to the project, the spigot had been duly approved and built. I suspect that hmore hope than water poured from that tiny pipe, but the mere fact of its existence was a minor miracle. Sister Frances had every reason to be proud.

p She certainly was accomplishing more than I was. Several weeks now into my "mission improbable,” I was still going nowhere. The FDR was treating me like a bill collector. If any of my messages were getting through to them, they weren’t responding. I was feeling very frustrated and just a little foolish.

There was self-doubt, too; the sort that keeps a person up at night. I tried to use that time to remind myself this was no lark I’d embarked upon. If I was going to El Salvador as a dilettante, this was the time to admit so and turn back. Sterner tests of my commitment lay ahead.