Reflections

Well, I can check one more parish off of my pilgrimage checklist! Tonight, on a lark, I decided to go to Arvin--a really small town about 15 miles East of Bakersfield--and attend Mass at Saint Thomas the Apostle church.

As I expected, the Mass was in Spanish, even though it wasn't listed as such in the diocesan web site. It is an old-style, obviously poor parish. It is simply constructed and not very ornate, but it does have a very "Mexican Peasant" flavor, down to the dollar bills and rosaries that are "tucked" into the arms of the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

When I arrived, there were only a couple of people already there--an older guy (dressed for church!), and a young couple, who were there for confession. I know this because as I was looking around at the church to get the "feel" of it (it is, after all, my pilgrimage), I looked inside of an open door and there was the priest, listening to the young woman's sins! Oops! He had the door open because the only air conditioner is at the front of the church and the confessionals are at the back--not that any air conditioning would have cooled down the 106 degree weather at 6pm anyway! Not to worry about my eavesdropping, though, because it was all in Spanish. If she had said the words "enchilada" or "burrito" or something I understand, it would be a different story. Actually, I do understand quite a bit, but it has to be spoken veeeerrrrryyyyyy slowly.

Anyway, I went to a pew and said my rosary before Mass was to start. I had my eyes closed (it helps me concentrate if I'm not letting my eyes wander) and I guess I was so into it that I didn't hear the church filling up. When I came back to my senses and looked at the congregation, I chuckled softly and said to myself, "This must be what Custer felt like at Little Big Horn! One white guy in the middle of all those "Native Americans". I had a definite advantage over Custer, however--I was among fellow members of the Body of Christ.

The priest came out and held up a missalette and I understood the number of the entrance hymn he wanted us to sing. I didn't know the tune, but I could certainly read the words, even though I didn't understand what they meant. But isn't it the active participation that is important in these parts of the Mass? Who knows? I may actually learn something if I keep attending Masses in Spanish.

The readings were hard to understand, but fortunately I start each morning and end each day reading the day's readings so I knew what was being said. The homily in Spanish was about 15 minutes long--then the priest looked directly at me and asked, "How much Spanish do you know?" To which I replied, "Practically, none." He said, "Then I will give you the abbreviated version of what I just preached so you can have something to take with you." I told him I appreciated his concern and listened to a homily that obviously came from his heart--when he said it in Spanish, he was pretty animated--I got the watered down version, but the feeling was still there. I think it's terrific that he noticed my discomfort at having to strain to find words I understand and make something cohesive out of it and give me a "personal" homily.

Then he apologized and said the rest of the Mass would be in Spanish, but if I wanted to try and participate, I could, or I could just listen and participate in my heart. What he found out by watching me though is that because I go to Mass daily, I am able to know what to respond to the different parts of the Mass in English. You know, like when he says "The Lord be with you", the response is "And also with you!" and so forth. Anyway, that was my experience at Mass today. One more church down and about 50 to go in the central valley I haven't been to yet--but I'll get there!

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In Mom's blog yesterday, she wrote "wish I could have made you all millionaires or something but that's not all there is to life either!"

It reminded me of a story:
There was a very rich man who had everything he had ever wanted and was so proud of himself he went riding on his horse one morning out to the countryside to survey his lands and congratulate himself for being so rich.

He came upon an old man, Hans, who was known as a vagrant and prophet of God sitting under an old oak tree and eating his simple lunch of a piece of cheese and some stale water. "God bless you, sir!" the old man said to the rich man. "Harrumph!" , said the rich man with a snort, "It was by my own hard work and diligence that I am the richest man in this country. Your God had nothing to do with it!"

"Nevertheless", said Hans, "I had a dream last night that the richest man in the country is going to die tonight, so I will continue to pray for you." "Harrumph!", he replied again, saying under his breath "What a crazy old man!"

As the day wore on though, the rich man started to wonder if the old man could possibly be right so he sent for his doctor. After a thorough examination, he was given a clean bill of health and a chide from his doctor for believing in "fairy tales told by old men". He went to bed that night feeling as proud of himself as he always did.

The next morning, his neighbor visited and asked, "Did you hear the news? The old man, Hans, died last night!"

My point, Mom, is that by sharing your faith with us, you have made us millionaires. God bless you.