Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

REFLECTIONS ON A SPANISH MASS

by   Louise Dubrule

I’ve written a couple of times about the fact that the Catholic Church is universal, and that a Mass is pretty much the same all over the world. We’ve attended Mass where the liturgy was in English, French, German, or Spanish, and only the externals were different.

Most Holy Trinity is a Church we attended when we first returned from our tour in Germany. At the time, the pastor was Father Tom O’Mahoney, an Irish priest from the old country and the old ways. Later the parish came under the leadership of Monsignor Calles and it was about that time we found a new home in the military parish, though we continued to attend services at Most Holy Trinity when time and proximity were an issue. As recently as last month I was present alone when Moe was too ill to leave the house.

Last Sunday was day of torrential rain, and wisdom dictated that we attend a Mass closer to home rather than brave the longer drive into Ft. Bliss to our usual place of worship. Mind you, it’s not that we’re afraid of water on the road, but this is the Chihuahua Desert and the ‘locals’ didn’t grow up where such rain is a common event and the prevailing attitude seems to be “Let’s hurry and get to wherever we’re going before we have an accident.”

Our first clue that this was going to be a different experience came when we entered and were handed a sheet of hymn lyrics and Mass responses in Spanish. Was this going to be a bi-lingual occasion for a special celebration? We’ve been at many such affairs both in El Paso and in Albuquerque, and they are very enjoyable. The choir was rehearsing, and we didn’t recognize any of the music, nor did I spot a familiar face anywhere except for the celebrant who is a frequent visiting substitute.

Opening announcements were made and then we realized that for today, at least, we would be immersed in another culture. The choir started the entrance hymn, we found the words on the sheet and joined in, pronouncing the Spanish lyrics phonetically, which is not a very difficult task.

Now the Mass began and suddenly the words didn’t matter at all. We were there to celebrate the Lord’s Last Supper and His greatest gift, and without words we were free to concentrate on this. This was no litany of prayers we’d heard a thousand times.

We were swept along by the music with the stirring tempo. The choir consisted of six or seven women in black skirts and white tunics and there was a keyboard with the music programmed in. Two men played guitars and another had a tambourine. These hymns of praise were not descended from staid Protestant compositions. Rather, they were joyful and uplifting. One of the choir members seemed carried by the spirit and used broad gestures to carry the message, and the smile on her face was radiant. She made us want to feel the same spirit.

The person directly beside me was a tiny little bird of a woman. All during Mass, she was bent in prayer, pious and devout. She reminded me of my maternal grandmother, dressed in black: dress, stockings, shoes, shawl, and lace mantilla over her white hair. Her skin was the color of dried tobacco leaves, and like those leaves, her face was heavily creased from decades of squinting in the strong Texas sun…and from years of smiles and laughter. When we held hands during the Lord’s Prayer, I found her hands gnarled but warm and very soft. At the sign of peace, she gazed into my face with shoebutton eyes and smiled gently. I wanted to hug her closely and kiss her cheek.

I was actually sad when the hour was over, for we had been part of something very special. The celebrant and altar servers processed out and the choir sang several verses of the last song, and many people stayed to sing with them, eyes shut, concentrating on the words. At last, we walked out into the rain that was still falling steadily.

This coming Sunday our home parish is holding a field Mass outside, and Moe’s health issues won’t allow him to stand for that length of time. You can probably guess where we’ll be instead, and we’re hoping that we’ll find that Most Holy Trinity has made a permanent change to the vernacular for the 11 AM Mass. Change can be good.

 

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
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Created 1 Feb 2003