Never Judge a Book By Its, Cover, or Maybe You Should
27 May 2012 3 Comments
in Bumps in the Road of Life, Catholicism, Marriage, Parish, Pentecost, Spiritual Growth, Worship Tags: Las Cruces, New Mexico, spiritual home
Today I went to St. Albert the Great. It serves the NMSU and the surrounding neighborhood. I expected, (hoped?) to find a younger, more tolerant crowd. That didn’t happen, but what did was not unpleasant or disagreeable either.
I arrived a bit early. The church is in the adobe style, modern, meaning post Vatican II. It was pleasant inside although the pews were without kneelers. For those who don’t know me much, I am, good or bad, rather impressed or depressed by the physicality of a church. Some leave me flat and spiritless, others inspire. I prefer the latter.
This did inspire, until I sat down. For the next 10-15 minutes I was hailed by a variety of aged men and women, who chattered so loudly that at times I thought I was in a sports arena filling for a title bout. The usual complaints and explanations of physical ailments, treatments and medications ensued. Hardly the place where one can quiet one’s mind turn toward God. You can make the usual arguments, I’m well aware that I’m being petty.
About three minutes before Mass, the place began to fill with the families and the college fare until it was fully bursting at the seams.
The music began, part in Spanish and part in English, which I find utterly delightful, and voices rose in harmony and vigor.
So far, my experiences in New Mexican Catholic churches suggest that most homilies are left to the deacon. This one was neither especially good or bad, average, which most are. Father was attentive and friendly.
I learned that the diocese is getting a new bishop and the parish a new priest. This suggests to me a great time to schedule an appointment and go in and talk to Father about my marriage issues, and get a feel for the reception I might receive there as a permanent member. It will be a bit of drive when we move to our new house (should we get it), but still it is only 20 minutes, and frankly the only one close to our new house has an awful mass time of 11 am which I dislike. And I’m not particularly fond of Saturday evening masses, though I will surely do it at least once to give it a chance.
All in all, my first impression was bad, but my the end of the Mass I found myself quite taken with it. It was much more warm it seemed to me than the Cathedral which is no cathedral at all, and cannot even maintain a piano player for the Sunday mass.
I find all this surprising, since New Mexico is overwhelmingly Catholic. I expected to find really old churches here, instead I find that most are modern and rather unappealing architecturally speaking. The one closest to our new home, looks from the outside to be a warehouse that has been converted. It’s long and low. Where are my spiraling and soaring vaults to heaven?
Again, I know, the place is not important. But frankly it is to me. This has always been the case and frankly I don’t think I’ll be changing now.
Anyway, it was a good Pentecost.
Amen.
Well, I’ll Be!
10 Oct 2010 6 Comments
in Catholic Tradition, Catholicism, Holy Spirit, Parish, Worship Tags: Catholic parish, God, Holy Spirit, old churches, ritual, stained glass, tradition, worship
There are four Catholic churches that I have designated as “possible” given my location. I went to the third on my list today.
I was expecting that it would be hands down my favorite. It is the oldest Roman Catholic church in Linn County, Iowa. The present building was built well before the 60′s.
It has the most beautiful old stained glass you can imagine. Gorgeous windows, some round, most in the traditional oval tops. They are pictures of various saints. I sat opposite St. Rose of Lima.
The pews are old, too short, so one is never quite comfortable. The altar was pulled off the original back wall and moved forward with lovely marble pillars arching behind and alongside it. The sanctuary actually is in the church, something that is rare these days.
There are actual statues gracing either side. It is thoroughly Marian, given its name, Church of the Immaculate Conception. It was dark.
It was in a word, just my cup of tea.
But.
I felt no welcoming when I entered. It seemed cold and withdraw as did its occupants. A rosary was being prayed, which was a plus, but I noted that many seemed to sit in sullen silence. The folks in front of me discarded phones and earphones on the seat to either side of them. Their teenage daughter stood with her foot perched upon the seat, looking as bored as any 14-year-old can be, being forced to be where she clearly did not want to be.
I was still hopeful of course, since I love this type of old church so much and usually feel my heart soaring to God upon my entrance. Yet this didn’t happen. I waited.
Things began, and I looked about and realized that this 9 am mass was the “white” mass. A mass at 12 noon was most certainly the Hispanic one – obvious since it was conducted in Spanish by the literature. Still, I expected more mixing and there was precious little.
Father is an exceptionally young man, looking at odds in such old surroundings. The parishioners are decidedly more elderly than young as well. This looks for all its worth as a parish that is in transition, the Anglos a dying out bunch, the Hispanics clearly in the ascendency.
All went as expected until the homily. Then I realized that this Church and I were probably not destined to know one another well. I suspected of course, given its Hispanic influence, that it would be fairly conservative. That has been my experience before in a Hispanic parish in Michigan.
There, at Our Lady of Guadalupe, I had been warmly welcomed, and had fallen in quickly. I was put to work serving coffee after Mass by the second visit, and I enjoyed a lively conversation with the priest there, who was native to Cuba. It was odd, him serving a largely Mexican heritage congregation. But all seemed happy there.
This conservatism was not of ritual however. That I expected. It had to do with what Father said. And it was that all of us fine church goers should be lively in our faith, and vote, calling our state to a Constitutional Convention, where we could enact a new amendment to “preserve traditional marriage.”
Quite a stretch in a homily devoted to how strangers turned out to be more faithful than the faithful.
No wine was served at communion, something I have never experienced before. There were no altar girls, but one woman served as a Eucharistic minister. A Catholic nun spoke for a few minutes encouraging everyone to support Birthright, an organization devoted to helping women with unwanted pregnancies, want them.
More than the usual number of folks received communion and kept on walking out the doors. Singing was lacklustre at best, and only one verse was sung of the exiting hymn.
It struck me mostly, as a lot of folks who have been going to mass for so many years that they frankly don’t think about it any more. They just do it. I felt no sense of awe, or Spirit within the building.
I, of course, don’t mean to speak for anyone there. What was going on in their hearts is between themselves and God.
I walked to my car with the strong conviction that I would not likely return, unless my “schedule” somehow made it easier to stop in there than elsewhere. They are the only church in town that holds a mass every day at noon. During Lent, they may have some choices of times that others don’t which might entice me there again. But it will be for convenience, and not because I feel “in God” while there.
I felt, decidedly as if I had missed a date with God today.
I found that odd.
Mostly I found it a shock. I guess ritual and building are a good deal less than I had thought.
At Last!
12 Sep 2010 Leave a Comment
in Catholicism, Parish Tags: church, church building, liturgy, Mass
Finally, after, well, some years, I returned to a Catholic church. Finally, at last, I came home.
All manner of natural disasters and man-made have kept me home bound for weeks now. During that time, I have spent much time in discernment about this decision.
The decision was to leave a wonderful Episcopal church and return to my church, Mother Church, my very flawed, but very beautiful tradition.
It is not important to name the church I chose. I’m not yet sure that it will be my chosen parish. Some things I liked, others, well, not so much.
It has always seemed weird to me that people like or dislike a church for very different reasons. Of course the quality of the clergy and liturgy are supreme. Also, for me liberality, as much as that can be openly expressed, is something that I value.
But I have my quirks, and one of them is the building itself. I’m quite partial to the look of things. That’s where things were definitely not my cup of tea. A 60′s building, it has all the splendor and awe of a pancake. There is no high rising ceiling, in fact the ceiling is uniformly low, and punctuated by recessed lights and ugly white plain lamps.
It is in an oval. The stained-glass, something I simply love, is simple rectangles of differing colors in narrow panels. The altar was nondescript. I mean that, seriously nondescript.
Yet the place was packed, hundreds were at the 10 am mass. They were literally, at the end, stuffing them in the pews. I liked that.
The priest was nice, but not particularly gifted.
I was wonderful to get back to holy water once again!
None of the things I disliked will keep me from going there, for in the end, the looks are, even I realize, not very important. I’m more interested to hear more homilies and see if I can be inspired.
I’m probably going to try another next week, and see the comparison, and perhaps another the week after, that I ran across. It’s a bit further away, but still seemed akin to my size desires.
Nothing much has changed. I didn’t expect it would. The same number of people scooting out the door after communion. Nothing had changed in the liturgy, though I’m advised that some big changes are coming. The Gloria is being “re-translated” and after so many years, that will be tough to re-learn.
But for the most part, it was a good experience. I felt “back” as one might say. I did not feel out-of-place, or lost, or frankly, anything other than, “yep, home is home.”
I wrote a piece on the gospel reading for today. The Prodigal son. You can read that if you wish at afeatheradrift dot.com. If I direct link it track backs there to here, and as I said, I’m not inclined to advertise my change in church quite yet.
I feel good, having started this process of re-assimilation. There are several steps, and I’m not sure about all of them quite yet. I simply try to follow as best I can, as I feel I am being led.
Don’t we all?
