Today I sat in the Florida sun, in a parishioner's backyard, eating some kind of spicy West African barbecue and corn meal paste, listening to 6 happy Togolese banter loudly in a language I've never even heard, while children did cartwheels in the yard, loud and festive Haitian (?) music playing. It was incredible, one of the best moments of my ministry at St. Jude's. 

The couple who threw the party had their marriage convalidated today so that the woman will be eligible to receive the Sacraments of Initiation at the Easter Vigil. They are two of the loveliest people I've met. Her husband was received into the Church in Togo 15 years ago. She has been attending Mass with him for years now and has finally decided to be baptized. They have a daughter who is four and absolutely adorable. After RCIA class this morning, we had the wedding ceremony and a group of their friends from different parts of Florida were in attendance. They invited me to come for the celebration and, fortunately, I didn't have plans for lunch. 

The warmth of hospitality was almost unreal. I was greeted by both at the door and my cup and plate were kept full as long as I was sitting (despite my protests!). I'm still full.

This surprise of a moment gives me a little hope for our Church. These two are extremely faithful and will without a doubt be active in the parish. He is even talking about the diaconate. If these two can find a place for their hospitality at St. Jude's, then they will be contributing a great deal to the life of the parish. All I can do is my best to extend my hospitality to them now, put them in contact with the right people and pray. If that kind of party- simple and joyful and hospitable- could be present in our churches, then we would be a much happier, healthier worldwide Church.

Celebrating Mass

One of my earliest memories is Mass. I am no older than two. My Grandmother and Aunt and I sit near the back of a long nave, the muted cold grays and whites of the church in San Leandro amplifying the echo of the celebrant's voice. My attention, of course, is not focused on the organist, who begins to lead the congregation in a hymn. Aunt Norma beckons me to quietly sit down. Her pink and frilly dress contrasts sharply next to the dark wood of the pew.

Why should I sit?, I ask myself. I rush to the arm of the pew to get a better glimpse of the action. A guitar takes the place of the organ and a small group of people walk jubilantly down the long and wide center aisle. I am attracted to their bouncy gait, their smiles and, most of all, the baskets of food and drink in their arms. “Look!” I whisper loudly to my Grandmother, pulling her hand so she can see what I see. It is obvious to me what this is- food, music, families, a happy-looking man dressed in fancy clothes; we are at a party. 

“Anthony, you have to sit down and stop talking,” hisses my aunt. My frustration is unutterable at that moment. Not only am I disallowed to join that procession of joyful people and revel in the food they're bringing, but I seem to be the only one who understands what kind of event we're at. I want to dance, to jump and enjoy. Grandma and Aunt Norma could not be more serious, could not be less fun.

This first memory of church didn't seem significant or interesting to me until fairly recently. Now I suspect it is a grace-filled gift that reveals the deepest and strongest portion of myself and, perhaps, of all people. This memory never left me, always coloring my view of church and religion in a specific way: confusing, mysterious, joyful, exciting, festive, frustrating. As a toddler, I was able to react genuinely to the liturgy constructed for me to attend with my family. The movement from speaking to music, from distant preaching to wordless participation, the simple presence of food- these things stoked excitement in me. Almost like an illness, I unconsciously caught  the feeling of the Mass. As a two year-old, I had no concept of appropriate expression. I didn't know that my Aunt's gravity was her way of honoring the holy. All I knew then is that it stifled me and kept me from eating with the rest of the people.

It is obvious to even a two year-old that Mass is a celebration. But, how often do we find a spirit of celebration at our liturgies? In a world of noise, busyness, tasks and pain, silence is a respectful and healing response to the Holy. But it is the response of a wounded people, a people who find a humiliating chasm of sin when they approach God. Today, I find myself more comfortable in the silence of a chapel than in a noisy room. But, the two year-old Anthony wants nothing more than to turn the echoing silence into a feast, to dance and sing and jump and shout about how fun it all is. My experience of Christ, a God who becomes man to cross that chasm of sin, emboldens this desire. This desire is who I am, a creature made to rejoice and praise. It also reveals how much closer to my purpose I was 21 years ago. But, just as this memory never left me, neither has the deep sense of longing, restlessness, frustration, joy. And neither has it left anyone else, not completely.

Seeking Visitation

One of the benefits of my work in parish religious education is hearing scripture repeatedly. Seriously, coordinating the RCIA class has forced me to read and re-read and then read again every Sunday Gospel reading each week. . I read and make copies of the Gospel excerpt on Friday to prepare for class, go to Liturgy of the Word with the Catechumens on Sunday morning, lead them in a close reading of that excerpt for the first half hour of class, then attend Mass for myself later that day. All in all, I can count on four or five different encounters with the same Gospel reading each and every weekend. The wonderful thing about Scripture readings, though, and the Gospels in particular, is that they lend themselves to such repetition. The archaic and often awkward translations, the opaque parables and stories, Christ's dynamic and multi-layered sermons- each reading really requires the kind of attention that I am forced to give for work. That's attention that I definitely wouldn't give otherwise.

The day before I left Florida to visit family in Northern California, the Gospel was Luke's iconic account of the Visitation of Mary to her cousin Elizabeth. The beauty and mystery of this story had struck me many times before. But, it had never felt so personal to me as it did that day, around about the third encounter with the excerpt. For weeks I had been anticipating my first visit home in months, a long trek to celebrate the same birth Luke writes about. Mary and Elizabeth's joyful reunion was the same reunion I would have the very next day, 2008 years later. Certainly, Christ had grown in me since the last time I'd seen the people of my childhood. Certainly, I could try to bring them the great honor of the Incarnation just as Mary did for Elizabeth. I was excited and overjoyed for the affection, care and genuine love experienced in the Visitation. But something felt wrong about identifying so strongly with the Mother of God.

At Mass later that day, I was subject to one of the worst homilies I've ever heard. This gave me the opportunity to further reflect on my own discomfort with the prospect of bearing Christ to my family and friends during my two-week vacation. Was it impious to think of myself so highly? Surely, I am not Mary. I'm not her holy cousin either, faithful enough to bear the fore-runner of Christ in her old age. I am not the conduit of prophetic utterances as meaningful or faithful as the Magnificat. Was I being condescending? Here I am, the Masters in Theology student from Notre Dame come home to teach my family and friends a thing or two about love and Jesus and Christmas.

I am definitely condescending. In a bad way. The meeting of Mary and Elizabeth is the meeting of two equals, two individuals who admire each other and love to spend time in the presence of one another. In fact, if anything, it is the story of a desperate young girl going to her older cousin for help while she sorts out her apparently illegitimate pregnancy. Identifying with Mary is necessary for growth as a disciple, but her amazing virtue and power is reinforced by her frank humility- sometimes she needs help. I, too, weary and angry from a difficult time at work needed help from my friends and family. Sure, I wanted to help them grow in faith and love of Christ, but part of that would involve being honest and open and as weak as I am.

The Visitation is about mutual human love and support, for Mary will certainly be comforting to her older cousin. Reunion is a time to hear about another and to share my story, and I've found that my dearest friends are wildly successful in providing this mutuality. I am impious for hoping to be as virtuous as Mary? No. I'm impious for not challenging myself to be. My close friends, though I don't see most of them very often, make me think and help Christ to grow in me. I, too, bring my experience to them and lovingly help them to find the baptist within. This is not something that comes easily to a grumpy, cerebral and condescending grad student. But living the radical love of the Incarnation means trying to be as good at Mary is to Elizabeth, while being humble enough to ask help of those who are in need too.

Now, I'm getting ready to leave family and friends again. I don't feel like I've brought anything to my family, especially not the incarnational love I'd hoped to be able to. I've been difficult and grumpy at times. I've fallen into bad habits from my teens and flaked out on some visits. I think, though, that my visit and the lack of satisfaction I feel from it gives me a stronger commitment to make each encounter I have a Visitation.

St. Elizabeth, pray for us.

A New Endeavor

Lately, I have had a desire to write again. For years, I was regularly reflecting and writing for others to read, namely professors, sometimes classmates. Today, I'm reflecting plenty but writing little. I think I've grown apart from Livejournal and my college blogging site (which is closed to the public). In order to keep up with practice, I'm creating this space for myself. As I attempt to apply theological thought to the world around me, I hope others will comment with their own reflections and ideas. Or perhaps this will be an echo chamber.

To catch up, please see my last sustained attempt at a blog: dallaspaz.livejournal.com. It's mostly a filtered diary. I hope my posts on this blog will be generally more thoughtful.

Merry Christmas. St. Francis de Sales, patron saint of writers, pray for me.