ARTICLES

Sheep and Goats

Non-Catholic Critiques Catholic Churches

By Abe Opincar

Editor: what follows are excerpts from "Sheep and Goats," a church review column in the San Diego Reader

OUR LADY OF THE ROSARY, LITTLE ITALY

....Our Lady of the Rosary is full of beautiful, interesting things to look at, not the least of which is an amazing mural high over the altar. The mural depicts the Passion of the Cross as described in the vivid Gospel of Matthew. Jesus illuminates the busy scenario like a magnesium torch. To the right of the Cross you have the Roman soldiers gambling for the Robe. To its left you have the centurion holding the Sour Wine-Soaked Sponge on a spear, and, in a far corner, you have an open grave from which sleepy saints emerge from their pre-Passion slumber. Front and center, before the Cross, amid the hubbub, you have the understandably distraught Three Marys -- Mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Mother of James.

Would it be wrong to describe this mural as Fellini-esque? Our Lady of the Rosary is, after all, an "Italian National Parish." The mural's Crucifixion is an absurd crowd scene filled with quirky individuals. As a Jew I have never been able to see Biblical, even New Testament, stories in anything other than vibrant, chaotic Mediterranean imagery. In the mural's Crucifixion, everything happens at once -- each of the event's costars and subplots jockey for special attention. And it is all played out against a backdrop of Sixth Hour Darkness torn by a single thunder bolt.

You could stare at the mural for hours and still miss much of its detail. But note that the mural isn't an ornament. It's trying to tell a very complicated story central to Christianity. Its beauty serves a purpose: it causes the eye to linger so that the mind might be engaged by its content. In another era, this would be called charm.

Our Lady of the Rosary is an old-fashioned, charming parish. It has character. The pastor's homily was sophisticated. Based on the Book of John's famous let-he-who-is-without-sin-cast-the-first-stone incident, it alluded to President Clinton's problems without being heavy-handed.

"Wasn't that an interesting sermon?" asked an attractive young woman who noticed me wandering around after the service, looking at the stained glass.

"The priest here is very good," she continued. "I mean, you knew what he was talking about, but he didn't just come out and say it in an obvious, clumsy way. That's why I come here. It's very European. Or it's more like the atmosphere you get in churches in Italy I've been to."

I noticed a rustling in her purse. I looked down and saw a long-haired Chihuahua crouched in the dark leather interior.

"His name's Gizmo," the young woman blushed. "He goes with me everywhere." I said that in Rome I'd seen Italians bring their dogs into church. "Well, Gizmo and I are leaving for Venice tomorrow. It should be beautiful, if a little cold. But there won't be a lot of tourists."

I said I was envious. "Well," she sighed, patting Gizmo's head. "That's what we work for, isn't it? To make money so that we can see and enjoy beauty? What's money for, anyway? It won't do you any good after you're dead."


ESPIRITU SANTO, TIJUANA

....We were on our way Ash Wednesday to Parroquia del Espiritu Santo in Chapultepec, one of Tijuana's wealthiest neighborhoods, where a $500,000 or $1 million home is somewhat more imposing than a similarly priced one in San Diego. These are enormous places surrounded by high walls and surveillance cameras. In front of some stand guard shacks with bullet-proof smoked-glass windows.

Given that middle-class Tijuana residents now hire bodyguards -- "Not just any bodyguard," my taxi driver cautioned. "It has to be someone you know. A friend of the family." -- it's perhaps not surprising that Espiritu Santo's bright white chapel was filled with penitent faithful at noon on a rainy Wednesday.

At Tijuana's downtown cathedral, people began lining up at 7:00 a.m. to receive Communion and have their foreheads daubed with ash. The cathedral's crucifix had been taken down from above the altar and placed on a large table in the middle of the sanctuary. People lined up to kiss Jesus' feet and face, or to stand awhile in prayer with a hand resting on Jesus' chest. Beggars with lavish ulcerations on their legs and feet loitered near the cathedral's entrance. Unlike Anglos who often wipe off their ashes as soon as they exit church, Roman Catholics in Tijuana leave them. By 11:00 p.m., people with smudged foreheads were common on Tijuana's streets. A number of businesses had hand-lettered "Closed for Ash Wednesday" signs in their windows.

Chapultepec's Espiritu Santo is spectacular -- tall and blinding white and modernist. Its entire entrance wall, some forty feet high, is stained glass. A series of graduated arches form the sanctuary's interior, growing slightly smaller as they approach the altar. Built into the wall directly behind the altar, a large rectangular Tabernacle made of beaten brass shines. The floor is gray and green marble. If you sneeze, the sound echoes and echoes.

The chapel is handsome. Blue and white tile floor. A simple altar. Light floods in from from windows lining the long northern wall. Father Antonio Moreno, elderly, crabby, wearing a quilted vest over his clerical garb, celebrated Ash Wednesday Mass.

"The purpose of Lent is penitence," he said, delivering his homily in low gruff voice. "People, say, 'Oh, Lent. I'm supposed to give up meat. How neat! I'll get to eat shrimp and lobster!' They think of Holy Week as nothing more than a vacation, an opportunity not to work, to relax, to take trips to resorts, go to the beach. That's not the point of Holy Week at all!"

Listening to Father Moreno were mostly well turned-out women in inky black wool, or dense tweed, or long dark cashmere wraps. While he talked, I studied the Missal, a polemical version published in Mexico that offered frequent lessons on the dangers posed by both wealth and Protestant missionaries. I would have liked to have spoken with Father Moreno about the Missal. After Mass, I introduced myself, told him where I was from, what I was interested in.

"I don't speak English," he said in Spanish. "Not a single word. You can't interview me."

"But we're speaking Spanish," I said. "Look," he said, in Spanish, waving my business card in my face. "I don't want to talk to you."

The well-turned out women who'd attended Mass smiled at me. Heavy rain fell. I wandered around. The church parking lot emptied. A man standing idly in the church office eyed me while I explained to the secretary that I wanted to speak with a priest. A little nervous, I used the word "pastor" instead of "priest." The idle man sneered at me.

"Sacerdote," he said. "Say sacerdote. Pastor is a Protestant word."

I chuckled. I apologized. We stood in silence. One of Espiritu Santo's five priests came into the room. He shook my hand, but, no, he couldn't answer any questions about the parish. There was a priest who could, but he was on vacation, and, no, no one was sure when he would be back.

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