I went to Spanish mass on Sunday, my awkward tongue struggling to form the unfamiliar words even as my body relaxed into the familiarity of a liturgy it has come to know in it's joints and sinews. Sit, stand, sign of the cross, sit, kneel, rise again. With a hundred human beings more brown and more weathered than I, I drew tiny crosses with my thumb on my forehead, lips, and chest.
May the word of God ever be in my mind, on my lips, and in my heart.
Never having had a Spanish lesson in my life, I found my thoughts wandering. My nose involuntarily wrinkled at the powdery, effeminate, almost life-sized Jesus hanging at the front of the church. I tried to wrap my brain around a circumstance in which I would ever look at its likeness, point my finger at it, and happily affirm, oh yes that one!, but someone did. It's an awful depiction of Christ if you ask me, but no one did.
In stark contrast is the ebony Jesus, nailed to a cross, that lead the processional at the beginning. I've been there several times yet I always forget the ebony Christ is coming, and it takes my breath away every time. I've never been to an English mass at this parish and I wondered if the jet black Savior ushers those in as well. I'd like to hope so.
My baby fussed and nursed and ripped up almsgiving envelopes while I futilely tried to keep them out of his hands. Behind us, a little girl and two women cooed at him with words I didn't know and yet understood fluently.
Fingering the English translation of the homily, as the priest addressed us in words I wished I knew, I tried to meditate in my own mind on Jesus' intentions that we be salt and light. Glancing at the man on my right and his permanently troubled face, and across the church at the family with the teenage girl in a wheelchair, I wondered how on earth the people around me internalized the responsibility of being salt in a society that is determining whether or not they are worthy to be here.
The Sunday before, the day after the executive order concerning refugees and immigrants was signed, the mass Gospel reading just happened to be the Beatitudes.
Blessed are the poor in spirit.
Those who mourn.
Those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
The pure in heart.
That Sunday my husband and I had taught the RCIA class on Catholic social justice. We talked about mercy, and about solidarity, and about what happens when we have one without the other. As Christians we are comfortable with the concept of mercy: it's relatively easy to verbally adhere to and the fact that our religion emphasizes it is something we take pride in. Solidarity, on the other hand, tends to be avoided like the plague. Solidarity is a lifestyle of resolved commitment to unity, beyond group boundaries of culture, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, religion, or ideology. Solidarity is the way of Christ, for it's exactly what He modeled for us: an embodied, incarnational way of experiencing the other. We align ourselves to become one with those who are different, because He became one with us.
Mercy without solidarity will always, always fall short of God's desire for us.
After mass ended, the little girl behind us came to our pew to visit Taavi. Her mother and I winked and laughed as her chubby hands squeezed his cheeks in delight. Without looking to me for permission, her dark lips puckered determinedly and my instinct was to tell her no. He was sick only days ago, what if she caught the virus? But in my split second hesitation she had already lunged in, already decided that this baby was as good as hers. I laughed, said a silent prayer for her health, and encouraged her. "Beso, mama."
Her mother and I made small talk and I don't know why I didn't linger on. It was why I was there, wasn't it? But I'm shy, shyer than I wish I was, and my sick husband was home with the other boys. We parted ways and I'm left thinking about her. Is she documented? Are her family members? Are they safe? Are they scared? Do they feel misunderstood and maligned in this political climate?
I went to the Spanish mass looking for every little way to express solidarity with those who are being 'othered', and I'll keep going back, more frequently than in the past. But solidarity is not exclusively for the benefit of the vulnerable, far from it. Solidarity is just as much for the privileged, for the powerful. It's for me to reap the wisdom and virtue of ones who have walked a different path than I. What great loss we suffer when we fail to enter in to the experience of the other.
If Jesus was serious about the Beatitudes- and it's safe to say He was- then it's time for me to sit at the feet of the Spanish speaking community. Their experience of mourning, of persecution, of poverty in spirit, is so much more akin to the roots of the Christian faith than anything I have lived through as a white, middle-class, American born woman. If the early church fathers and mothers are watching us from heaven, I wonder if they even recognize the manifested faith of mainstream Christianity? They surely have much more in common with the plight of Jose y Maria.
Maybe a little humility can go a long way.
We need solidarity, not to save our Mexican or Muslim sisters and brothers, but to save us.