(a short story)
By Bob Boldt
[Foreword: Last Sunday I attended the Catholic mass memorial service for a dear friend, Tony Barnicle. As readers know, I am no fan of any organized religion. I attended the mass out of the deep love and respect I had for my old friend. I must confess to being deeply moved by nearly all forms of worship. I feel the psychic force present in all such events, be they Santeria drummings, Baptist revivals, or the Catholic mass. This service was no exception for me. About the time the communion was being served, something released a memory from three years ago when I attended another distant mass with Tony and his wife, in the Sanctuary of Chimayó in New Mexico. I subsequently described the experience in a short story. The communion liturgy last Sunday somehow brought back all the sensual experiences of that other special mass, in Chimayó.]
Father Francis awoke to the dark of the desert morning. His feet found the cold stones of the rectory as reassuring as they were solid. Outside his window the stars still dominated the clear, cool air. His ancient joints resisted the impending duties he knew the day would bring. Pentecost Sunday had always been his favorite feast day of the year. He could remember it even as a child in Germany. Lately these earliest memories were the only companions he could count on not to desert him. That and his much-loved Latin, although of late, those beloved verses often became mixed up in his mind. He did remember that he had to hear the confession for Fathers Martinez and Romero this morning. Also, Father Hwang’s congregation of Vietnamese-Americans from Albuquerque would be arriving at 10 for this special celebration. Many arrangements would have to be attended to.
By the time the sun rose over the mountains, his most important duties had been performed. It was time for his meal.
“Good morning. Father Francis, I look forward to your homily this morning.” Father Hwang was a small man full of energy. He had come down the day before to help assist with the preparations for the service. The dining hall of the rectory had not yet filled so there was room to share a few private moments. Fr. Francis admired the old Vietnamese priest who had seen so much evil during the war and still seemed full of the spirit of joy and compassion.
The service was held in the open-air chapel just outside the main complex of buildings that composed El Santuario de Chimayó. Those attending the service sat on concrete benches in a semicircle around a huge rough-hewn cross planted in a pile of large boulders.
The procession to the altar had begun. Fr. Francis was preceded by Fr. Hwang, who bore an elegant Renaissance-style gold crucifix atop a smooth staff of cedar wood. Fr. Francis’s staff was surmounted with a brightly polychromed wooden Christ whose wounds created delicate rivulets circling the body carved by a humble Santero from Truchas. When everyone was in place, Sister Camellia began to read the scripture verse for the day:
And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them….Fr. Francis’s mind began to wander during the reading. His thoughts were in the trees overhead. The wind was blowing through them causing a great rushing sound not unlike that which might be produced by the descent of the Holy Ghost itself. His eyes scanned the congregation. In addition to the assembled Vietnamese parishioners seated in a group to the left of the altar, there were the usual collection of tourists, pilgrims, and those faithful who were there every Sunday. What could he possibly say that could move the hearts of everyone?
…And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance. And there were dwelling at Jerusalem Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven. Now when this was noised abroad, the multitude came together, and were confounded, because that every man heard them speak in his own language. [Acts 2:1-6]Sister Camellia closed the book and took her place amid the congregants. All sat in silence.
And yet there was not silence. There was the sound of the high desert wind moving the cottonwoods and the old willow trees surrounding the assembly. Beyond that was the more distant roar of the Rio Santa Cruz. The spring snow melt had turned its lazy flow into a roaring torrent.
Slowly Fr. Francis rose. “May the Blessed Mother sanctify the reading of The Word.”
For a moment he thought he saw a few tiny flames dancing over the head of a congregant or two, not unlike those depicted in the ancient pictures that illustrated the original event. Perhaps it is just the morning light playing off my glasses, he thought. He struggled to regain focus, to remember his homily.
Looking over the congregation, he saw people as varied and separate one from another as his thoughts this morning, perhaps more diverse even than the group attending the first Pentecost. “Isn’t it strange that all these people assembled on the day of Pentecost heard the voice of the Holy Spirit in their own language? The Book of Acts goes to great lengths to detail exactly how many different groups were there and how many different languages were spoken by those who had come to witness. And yet each heard the Holy Ghost enter his heart in the words of his own tongue.”
He paused, his mind again becoming lost somewhere among the branches in the windswept leaves overhead. The silence returned and lengthened. Some in the congregation looked away in embarrassment. Finally Fr. Francis’s voice returned as his thoughts again gathered focus – and again vanished.
“There was another point I was going to make. And now I have lost it.” He felt no embarrassment at this and was prepared to wait until the Lord chose to let him remember it.
| Copyright © 2015 by Bob Boldt |
I enjoyed this very much !
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