vestibule, where I paused, captivated. Then I entered. I crossed myself with holy water, its coolness dripping from the center of my forehead and peppering my jacket. I genuflected and sat in in a pew located in the center right, not too far but not too close, for this was not my church. Even in my own I still felt like a guest and here in a city new to me, I did even more so. The rhythm, the ritual, and the passive calm it brought to me, were familiar. It is sometimes those things which critics point to as symbols of routine in Catholic services. But more often than not, they are exactly what I am looking for.
The structure itself was large, old, and full of echoes, so unlike my circa 1970, carpeted, earth-toned, post-Vatican II comfort zone. It was reminiscent of my second-home church, St. Joseph's, where my grandparents attended and my parents were married. That, too, was large, old, and full of echoes and wooden, unpadded kneelers - the kind just right for doing penance. But the St. Louis Mass was different in one remarkable respect. The priest, during his sermon, spoke about the pending war in Iraq, and not in a favorable way. There he stood, high behind a lectern of wood and marble surrounded by meticulously pieced designs - a setting that could not have been more solid, stable, or conservative, I thought - jutting up and out as if positioned between us and heaven. I had heard countless sermons in my life, and very few had ever acknowledged anything occurring in present time and place. Providing background on the conflict, his comments were enlightening and I agreed very much with him that the direction the U.S. government had taken was dangerous on many levels. My memories turned to the student interested in voodoo who had heard sermons from his pastor which crassly mixed history with religion, and I wondered if there was much difference. Yes there was. What this priest was saying was true for me.
While we were in Haiti, the war was even more imminent. In the Department du Nord-Est we could not have felt further from a climate of hi-tech and oil-driven aggression. On our last evening there, we sat in the living room area, more of a parlor or drawing room, at the Fort Liberte bishop's house where we were staying. He had been a remarkable host, and it was intriguing to watch him interact with his peer, our bishop. It was January of 2003, and George Bush was on the television. Here, so far from home, with such limited contact with the outside world, it was surreal to see the U.S. President. The privileged lifestyle of the bishop allowed for relaxing accommodations, yet another feast of a meal, and now CNN. Those of us in the group had talked of politics along the way and though our perspectives differed on various points, there had been a common frustration with the President and the way he was carrying out foreign policy. We could not be sure of the true role he was playing, as it appeared clearly orchestrated by the people surrounding him. And at this point we were coming closer every day to an attack on Iraq.
Being outside the country when the U.S. government is behaving badly can be awkward to say the least. The behavior exhibited in early 2003 was nothing less than embarrassing and often infuriating. The bishop graciously served us after dinner liqueurs from a beautiful tray and we began to discuss world affairs. The incandescent light warmed the soft buttery yellow walls even more, reminding me of a gathering room at my grandmother's church when I was a young girl. Heavy dark brown woodwork and the scent of beeswax candles took me back. I was also reminded of the presidential speeches of my early youth. My parents never missed a broadcast of John F. Kennedy. We sat close to the television and through his words tried to make sense of the adult world. Listening to Bush made me realize just how jaded I had become. I did not believe what he was saying and wondered if even he believed it. I did not like where his
The structure itself was large, old, and full of echoes, so unlike my circa 1970, carpeted, earth-toned, post-Vatican II comfort zone. It was reminiscent of my second-home church, St. Joseph's, where my grandparents attended and my parents were married. That, too, was large, old, and full of echoes and wooden, unpadded kneelers - the kind just right for doing penance. But the St. Louis Mass was different in one remarkable respect. The priest, during his sermon, spoke about the pending war in Iraq, and not in a favorable way. There he stood, high behind a lectern of wood and marble surrounded by meticulously pieced designs - a setting that could not have been more solid, stable, or conservative, I thought - jutting up and out as if positioned between us and heaven. I had heard countless sermons in my life, and very few had ever acknowledged anything occurring in present time and place. Providing background on the conflict, his comments were enlightening and I agreed very much with him that the direction the U.S. government had taken was dangerous on many levels. My memories turned to the student interested in voodoo who had heard sermons from his pastor which crassly mixed history with religion, and I wondered if there was much difference. Yes there was. What this priest was saying was true for me.
While we were in Haiti, the war was even more imminent. In the Department du Nord-Est we could not have felt further from a climate of hi-tech and oil-driven aggression. On our last evening there, we sat in the living room area, more of a parlor or drawing room, at the Fort Liberte bishop's house where we were staying. He had been a remarkable host, and it was intriguing to watch him interact with his peer, our bishop. It was January of 2003, and George Bush was on the television. Here, so far from home, with such limited contact with the outside world, it was surreal to see the U.S. President. The privileged lifestyle of the bishop allowed for relaxing accommodations, yet another feast of a meal, and now CNN. Those of us in the group had talked of politics along the way and though our perspectives differed on various points, there had been a common frustration with the President and the way he was carrying out foreign policy. We could not be sure of the true role he was playing, as it appeared clearly orchestrated by the people surrounding him. And at this point we were coming closer every day to an attack on Iraq.
Being outside the country when the U.S. government is behaving badly can be awkward to say the least. The behavior exhibited in early 2003 was nothing less than embarrassing and often infuriating. The bishop graciously served us after dinner liqueurs from a beautiful tray and we began to discuss world affairs. The incandescent light warmed the soft buttery yellow walls even more, reminding me of a gathering room at my grandmother's church when I was a young girl. Heavy dark brown woodwork and the scent of beeswax candles took me back. I was also reminded of the presidential speeches of my early youth. My parents never missed a broadcast of John F. Kennedy. We sat close to the television and through his words tried to make sense of the adult world. Listening to Bush made me realize just how jaded I had become. I did not believe what he was saying and wondered if even he believed it. I did not like where his
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