Mass & the Masses

It’s taken me a while to put these thoughts together. To best describe the experience of going to mass here, I needed to spend more time with this community. The church is not officially a parish; it’s technically a mission, and I thought immediately of El Paso. For years, Mission Catholique Latino-Américaine de Notre Dame de Guadalupe (makes me think of Sabado Gigante but French – “este segment patrocinado por Progressive Auto Insurance”) hop-scotched from parish to parish in Montreal, offering Spanish mass to the growing Spanish-speaking masses in basements. At the time, this little flock was led by a Spanish priest, known simply as Fr. Javier, who died about 5 years ago. About 10 years ago, the community found a new home in a closing French parish across from the Jacques Cartier Bridge.

A 15-minute walk from my apartment.

On the first Sunday, I walked in early to find a seat up front. Five hundred people stuffed the pews, dozens of accents reverberating on the walls; the noise level qualifying as a dull roar. Peruvian flutes started playing, order settled in, and the mass came to its feet as Fr. Fernando made his way through the crowds. The choir and musicians played guitars, flutes, an accordion, two violins, some bongo drums, and maracas. The dull roar escalated into an organized chant of “Bendito seas Señor” for the several minutes it took to get everyone settled into their seats.

The Peruvians bring music. Actually, they all bring music. The Mexicans are spoken of as being the most Catholic. The Caribbean crowd and any country with a strong African presence – the most charismatic. The Chileans and the Argentines bring modernity. Central America brings the orthodoxy. The Peruvians bring the liberation theology. The El Salvadorans bring scars of war and contempt for the CIA. The Venezuelans are suspicious of government. The Hondurans are extremely devoted to Mary. The Colombians are calm, laid back, easy to dialogue and great listeners.

We all speak Spanish. We all gather after mass in the basement “restaurant” which sells food to raise money for the mission’s ministries. They buy beds for newly arrived immigrants and refuge seekers. They provide counseling for those getting married. Scholarships for Catholic private schools. Food for the ecumenical food service. I eat Honduran tamales, pupusas, tacos, Chilean tamales, Peruvian tamales, Mexican enchiladas, and every Latin pastry known under God.

I didn’t expect this experience to be so foreign and familiar all at once.

The readings and the homily dealt with the sacrament of matrimony, and Fr. Fernando gave a homily to remember, speaking to the gathering in a familiar tone, with authority, pointing out some of the humorous stereotypes of Latino families, but always bringing us back to the reverence appropriate for mass, and always keeping us focused on the value of the sacrament at hand. A tall man from Honduras who loves to sing, Fr. Fernando asked me why I didn’t receive communion when I went up with my arms crossed and asked for a blessing. After my well-rehearsed 5-second answer, he smiled, gave me a blessing, and whispered in Spanish, “It will be a blessing for everyone in your life when you can share in this sacrament.”

That was almost two weeks ago, and I’ve been received into the mission community as a grandson, a son, a brother, and a fellow Catholic, despite my not being confirmed yet. For some of you reading this, I hope I don’t come across as some born-again King of the Hill character. It's much more than that. I’m helping build ministries here, met women who’ve dedicated 50-plus years to religious life with the Gray Sisters, participate in religious education courses with Fr. Yves, a Haitian priest who helps shelter Haitian refugees arriving here in Montreal. The mission is home to persons from every country in this hemisphere: Chile, Argentina, El Salvador (those people are everywhere), the U.S., the Caribbean. Many left families, many lost family and spouses to civil wars and army assaults on its own people. They left their homes and cultures thousands of miles away to escape death, famine, disease, unspeakable horrors they limit mostly to the confessional. Rapes at the hands of soldiers, relatives taken away in the middle of the night by the latest dictator, God only knows what else.

My news headline monsters were their real life terror. Pinochet, Armas, Batallion 316, El Mozote, the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero.

Why am I here? I’m here on vacation.

Fr. Percy Diaz, the associate pastor at the mission (the kids call him Padre Pepsi), is from Peru. Every year he takes a group to Lima to work in the slums, at a house for HIV positive children, at a home for abandoned elderly persons with terminal illnesses, at orphanages. He and Fr. Fernando belong to an order established by Saint Antonio Maria Claret, and they represent the founder’s legacy well. They work among the weakest, the most vulnerable, and as far as I’ve seen, they are joyful and full of love. I learn something new from them every day.

That’s how often I seek them and this community out – every day.