Society
Of The Divine Word

(In this reflection, Fr. Przemysław “Marcos” Szumacher shares with sincerity and gratitude the challenges, lessons, and experiences that have shaped his ten years of missionary life in Colombia. Originally from Poland, he has belonged to the Society of the Divine Word since 2001. He was ordained a priest in 2015 and has served as a missionary in Colombia ever since—first in Montería and now in the city of Cali.)

My name is Marcos. Although, in reality, I’m not Marcos—my name is Przemysław, and I’m Polish. I joined the Society in 2001. During my formation, I did my pastoral training (OTP) in Paraguay, where people started calling me “Marcos” because my real name was too difficult to pronounce. I then continued my studies in Poland, took a break from the Congregation because I was stubborn, and later decided to return and finish my formation. I was happily ordained a priest in 2015.

That same year, on the night of September 8, I arrived in Bogotá, and that’s when my missionary life in Colombia began. After six weeks of studying Spanish, my superiors sent me to Montería, a city near the Caribbean Sea. There we have two parishes, and I was assigned to Jesús Obrero Parish, together with Fr. Marcelino Belawa Nuhan.

It was a beautiful pastoral, community, and personal experience. Everything was new to me. Like every newly arrived missionary, I struggled to understand the Spanish spoken on the Caribbean coast. You can study the language, but everything changes when you live among the people and experience their way of speaking. That’s missionary life.

I made a great effort not to isolate myself, not to stay locked in my room unable to communicate with the parishioners. I realized how important it was to go out, sit with people, listen, and observe. That wasn’t easy for me. I made many mistakes. I used words and gestures the way we do in Poland. You might not believe it, but people would leave the parish crying, saying that “Father Marcos was rude,” while I thought I had treated them kindly!

When I found out that people didn’t feel comfortable speaking with me, I had to go back to the basics—be quiet, observe, and listen. That helped me immensely. Little by little, I learned how to communicate better: what local words meant, which ones not to use, when to speak, when to remain silent, when I could raise my voice and when I shouldn’t.

But you know what was the most beautiful part of that whole experience? The people, even though they sometimes suffered because of me, always came back to the parish. They were far more understanding than I ever imagined. They knew I wasn’t Colombian and gave me time to adapt to their culture.

I worked in Montería for more than five years. When I left, I felt I still had a lot to learn about the people of the coast. But that didn’t bother me much, because what matters most is to be with and for the people, and they value that deeply. Sometimes they may not understand you, but they’re happy simply because you’re there for them.

Of course, I also lived through difficult moments. Going out to visit families, I sometimes witnessed things you only see in horror movies. For example, once a family came asking for help because their son had been kidnapped. Everyone was crying. What could I do? This is Colombia. The young man had supposedly joined a paramilitary group—or maybe he was killed because he refused to cooperate with the criminal gangs. That’s the reality: almost no one comes back after being kidnapped. Those were moments when all I could do was sit with the family in silence, go to the church, and pray together, because truly there were no words.

In general, people seek the sacraments and simply want to be heard. My days passed between the altar, the parish office, and home visits—always with the people. I love the joy and optimism of Colombians, even in the midst of hardship. Day and night there’s music everywhere, and people play soccer on every street.

When life becomes hard and tears seem the only response, Colombians lift you up with their smiles and cheerfulness.

Sometimes I asked myself: Who is the real missionary? Because listening to people’s stories, I realized that I was the one being evangelized.

How can one understand the desperate cry of a woman whose 12-year-old daughter was kidnapped, raped, and murdered—and then hear her say, “I forgive them, I forgive them”? Without Jesus in her heart, no one could possibly do that.