On Thursday I was driven downtown, to where the fences are wavy sheet-metal painted in bright colours and the accents are thick and salty.
For example, at one point I was asked, "Heyme boa gah licka' oiya fadis?"
"Oh, you want a little oil for... the hinge you are fixing... well I don't know where any oil is." Fortunately, most people are smiley and friendly and usually don't mind repeating things.
I was assigned to St. Annie's (nobody calls it St. Anne's). It's a moderate-sized concrete building painted cream and powder-blue. The floor is scuffed and the pews are ancient but the place is well taken care of (though the pastor complains that the women keep draping white linens over every available surface.
There is a churchyard with some grass and an old, stone alcove from the original St. Annie's of 1894. Inside the alcove is a statue that looks like it could be Mary but is probably St. Anne.
Holy Thursday was a small, sparsely attended ceremony. But with a lot of heart. The people were pretty shy and unwilling to get their feet washed - perhaps a universal trait of Catholics. But we got it done. My three-day stay had begun.On Good Friday I realized too late that we'd technically violated the rubric of the mass. Because father was not confident in his singing voice, I was assigned the great honour of processing in the cross. I wore a white alb and carried a large, heavy cross into the church from the side. The Christ-figure was draped in purple cloth. I knelt down before this cross, then elevated it so that all could see. I sang a single phrase in the style of a Gregorian chant, "This is the wood of the cross, on which hung the saviour of the world." Then I proceeded to the central aisle of the church, all eyes upon me. The phrase was repeated, a semitone higher. Finally, before the Holy Altar I knelt and removed the purple clothe. My voice almost cracked as I went up another semi-tone, raising the cross high: "This is the wood of the cross! on which hung the saviour of the world!" My role completed, I handed the cross off to the altar-servers, and the whole church came up in turn, either kissing or kneeling and touching the feet of the Christ figure.
As it turns out, only a priest or deacon can perform that particular function according to the rules. Mea culpa. I am sure the mass was still valid and it gives me the teensiest foretaste of my future career. However, in my vocation I hope to me more knowledgeable about liturgy.
Saturday night saw me singing five psalms (responsorial canticles). One after each reading from the Old Testament. I lost my place a few times but I did not panic or get embarrassed. I wanted to sing well - but I wasn't really singing, I was trying to pray the psalms out loud. It all worked out. I completely forgot the tune for my final one, "You will draw water joyfully from the springs of salvation." So I tried to make up something that sounded happy. The organist was very patient with me and tried to follow along. Nobody really noticed me, bigger things are afoot at that vigil. A beautiful-voiced young girl sang the Exultet. She put her heart into it. Tears welled up in my eyes, as they often do. The Exultet is an articulation of what a Catholic tries to live everyday throughout the whole of the year and through the whole of life.A bright-eyed Jamaican teacher, mother, and Soprano, about my age, was charged with singing the Litany of Saints. I sat in the background during her practice and played the congregation, echoing the proper responses. She said, "why you hang back, get up here wit' me and help me out." So during the mass, we sang the litany as a duet; our voices trading places and merging as the church echoed us. We penciled in a few of my favourite saints to fill out the song. Usually the song is sung in a monotone, but we gave it some soul.
Twelve very joyful Jamaican men and women celebrated the adult rite of baptism. There is a pool for such occasions, out in the warm dark of the churchyard beneath the watchful gaze of the St. Anne statue. Neighbourhood children came to gather around and laugh and cheer as the grown-ups in their nice church clothes got all wet in the pool.
I was forever being crawled on by children. They have a near-uncontrollable yearning to play with my dangling, curly hair. They have never seen hair that grows out in locks. Even the grown-up Jamaicans laugh at it as a novelty.
There are a lot of children living in poverty. It breaks my heart. Every one of these children deserves better. It makes me want to stop what I'm doing, go get a job, move in with them, support them, tell them they are beloved and unique and have a contribution to make to the world. They deserve a father who will look out for them and help them grow in knowledge and wisdom. And they don't get one. They get dusty streets to play in. They get fast friends and quick enemies. They get yelled at when they are a bother and left to wander the rest of the time. They are never listened to and so do not learn the vital knack of listening. In spite of that, they grow - they become strong and fierce and brave and sad and happy and intense. They are little people remarkably full of life and vitality.
In watching the fathers perform their duties I have experienced a strong confirmation of my desire to be a servant of the church. I can say the words, I can mean them. I can be there for people when they want the sacraments. I can be someone who loves without condition. The people here treasure their faith like a sparkling gem. They pour their hearts into it and they take hope with them into their world. And they dance and sing. Very loudly. I was thrilled. Then quickly exhausted. Saturday night I hit the bed like a brick and woke up for Sunday to learn another psalm tune. I was grumpy and had to laugh at myself because Easter kept refusing to happen according to my particular habits. It is a living God we chain ourselves to - manifold in works. I am disappointed exactly to the extent that I am arrogant in wanting things my way. The extent to which I let God's will be done I am happy enough to laugh and smile. It was nice and easy and Sunday morning all worked out.
We ate the traditional Easter treat: spice-bun with raisins (called
Easter Bun) and cheese. Not cheese so much as cans of yellowy plastic that schlurp out and retain the consistency of a kraft single. I didn't like that - but once I got some easter bun, slathered it in good creamy butter and microwaved it, it was very delicious indeed. So that was my Triduum. I am back at the Jez rez uptown near the college preparing for my last month of teaching but enjoying a bit of a break. I miss my fellow novices and community, my family and friends, and the homeless folks back in Montreal. You should have seen my smile when someone came to our door begging for food - it was like receiving a visit from an old friend and I sat down and chatted with him over chicken and rice. Things are going amazingly well and I'm the grateful recipient of much kindness from God's people and much grace from God's great spirit. I keep all of you in my prayers.
Happy Easter!
