My Mass

I have so many things to write about and it just seems as if I have no time to sit down and to register, feel, and think about everything that I am experiencing. So I apologize for the long absence but I want to write these entries with thought and feeling so that you can understand and journey with me to Honduras. These entries refer to things over the past two weeks or so and are sorta of not in order at all.

The town of Talanga is centered around the Catholic Church of San Diego. It is a relatively large building—simplistically white on the outside with a large castle like door and three steps that lead to the entrance. The Church looks out onto the park as in most cities in Central America. Inside the Church, simple wooden pews stretch to the altar where a decorative crucifix flanked by life size robed angels stands. One large fluorescent bulb lights sanctuary and the tile floors are dusted with a light layer of the dirt from outside. It is always warm in the Church. The kneelers are simply a plank of wood. And this is my new Spiritual home.

I have struggled with this. In the United States, I gain strength and sustenance from mass. After I leave mass, I leave with something new to think about or something new to focus on for the week. But mass here has been very different. Not only do I not know any of the prayers or the songs, but I have absolutely no clue what the sermon or homily is about. Yes, I can pick up the occasional Jesus or Holy Spirit, but trying to understand the lesson is a lot harder. In the past couple of weeks, I have found myself drifting off into a land of day dreams during masses or just becoming so frustrated with my lack of understanding that I literally just turned off.

Well, about two weeks ago, after a long and tiresome and frustrating day, we found ourselves at 7 o’clock Sunday mass. To say that I was feeling empty would probably be accurate. I was lost as to why I was here and lost as to where I was supposed to find spiritual nourishment. Mass went on as it normally does, but as we stood to go receive communion, we had barely stepped into the main aisle when the power went out. Darkness fell on the Church and I could barely see Amy in front of me. Immediately, I waited for the shrieks or the giggles or the announcement that the lights would be turned on in a minute or so, but nothing. The mass continued in complete darkness with only one candle lit on the altar. The choir continued as if nothing had changed. And there it was...the beauty and purity of genuine reverence for the Eucharist and for a celebration of God. It did not matter that the sanctuary was not lit. I cannot explain how moving this was to me. Up until this point, I had really not cried, but after I received communion, I returned to my seat, kneeled, and felt tears stream down my face as I felt the presence of God in our mass. Its hard to describe—but in the stillness of the dark with the voices of the choir singing and the shuffling of feet to and from the altar, I was reminded once again that language is not always necessary. I did not need someone there to tell me at that point that I was in the presence of a beautiful and genuine moment; I did not need someone to tell me that this was special; I just knew. It was beautiful and even writing this two or three weeks later, I can vividly remember how I felt when the lights went out and I was safe in the darkness to cry and be humbled and awed by the closeness of my faith.

As mass ended, Padre Daniel stepped to the front to ask people to help those who have poor eye sight and then people began on their way home just like that. Nothing unusual had happened. And maybe for Talanga this is not unusual. The power goes out frequently and people just adapt. But nothing stood in their way or hindered their reverence and respect for the mass and maybe that it was I learned from this day. Yes, I cannot understand everything that is said, but since when does God only speak Spanish? Reverence and respect for the beauty of a celebration of faith is not about language—itis about feeling that safety to cry and be humbled in the presence of something much greater than you.