Laughing With God
My closing days in Xi’an did not begin well. Expecting a contingent of visitors from Miami, I invited David and Sicko to ride with me to the airport, serve as translators and begin a week of travel with my guests. (Sicko? Yup. That’s the English name he chose for himself after hearing the phrase in an American movie.)
What I had hoped would be the trip of a lifetime for my guests began disastrously. While loading luggage into our van, Gene (allegedly) left a barely visible telltale two-inch scratch on another vehicle in the parking lot and the owner was so angry no amount of apologizing (but eventually a hundred-bucks bribe) could mollify her. The cops were called (another bribe) and my two Chinese students were so embarrassed and upset that their laoshi - “honored teacher” - had “lost face” before his friends that Sicko not once, but twice walked away in tears and vomit.
Having lost so much time in the airport imbroglio, by the time we arrived back in town all the best (and even my favorite neighborhood) restaurants had closed. We ended-up in a local version of Chuck E. Cheese – minus the games but with all the neon lights and noise. When we finally called it a very late night, I told Sicko and David “We are going to go to Mass at the cathedral in the morning” before realizing that neither of them would understand “Mass” or “cathedral.” “We are going to go to church in the morning and then we can meet you for lunch at The World-Famous Dumpling Restaurant.” (Yes, honest to God! It’s actually called The World- Famous Dumpling Restaurant.)
“Oh, no,” reacted Sicko. “We have never been to church. We will go with you.”
And they did.
Originally built in 1716 by Franciscan missionaries, the long, narrow naïve of the Tianshuijing Cathedral of St. Francis was shoulder-to-shoulder filled by the time we arrived and found “seating” on steps up to and the floor of one of side altar alcoves with a clear, angular view of the bishop and his concelebrants. I took my place on the first of three steps to the side altar; Sicko on my right, David immediately behind him. Leather-faced old Chinese women offered them missals and helped them find the readings and hymns. I followed the readings with my English lectionary and, at the appropriate times, extended my hands, joining the bishop and priests in the words of consecration. David and Sicko followed my every move – crossing themselves, extending their hands during the words of Consecration, folding hands in prayer, bowing when appropriate. If I did something, they did it. Eventually, as my American guests prepared to join the line for Communion, I directed David and Sicko, “Wait here. I’ll be right back” and joined the lines for Communion.
In typical Chinese fashion I made my way up the main aisle, stopped and bowed in front of the bishop – who had suffered too much and for too long under the regime, and extended my hands to receive the Sacred Species.
Wow! Was I naïve! I certainly didn’t – and still don’t – have eyes in the back of my head. So, I could not see David and Sicko follow me down the side and up the main aisles to receive Communion from the bishop and then return to my place – their places – perfectly imitating me again as I knelt in prayer.
After Mass, as we walked to lunch, I questioned my young friends. “Sicko, I’m worried. You were president of the Communist Party Youth Group in college, you’re a member of the directorate in medical school. Isn’t going to church with Americans and being seen going to Communion dangerous? Will you get in trouble?” “
“But, you are my friend and my laoshi.” ‘Nough said.
“David. You went to Communion?”
“My grandparents and my parents are Buddhist. In my home, they always eat after they pray.”
As I write this, a decade has passed and the memory still evokes a laugh.
I believe my God – our God – is big enough, good enough, generous enough that He could not help but laugh with me at the innocence, the goodness, the genuineness of these two young men.
Man plans.
And God laughs.
Skip Flynn (actually my real version is raunchier)
I’m pretty much convinced that God gets a little smile – maybe a smirk – on His face every time He or I think about my first Holy Saturday/Easter Vigil Mass in the Florida prison system.
I am not a liturgical/ritual purist – far from it!
But nothing makes my sense of solemnity and ritual boil more than a priest who “flicks a BIC” to kindle the “New Fire” on Holy Saturday.
The Lighting of the New Fire is the most solemn and symbolic moment of the year in the Church. By tradition, the ceremony begins in the dark outside or at the door of the darkened church. I have my own special technique: In an aluminum foil-lined wok, I mount a tee-pee frame-like structure of long and short wooden match sticks and toss in incense – for the smoke and aroma. (Here’s a secret: In churches we use a special kind of “charcoal” with incense. Carbon particles are pressed into small pads – two or three inches in diameter and about three-quarts of an inch thick. They’re easier to manipulate and they don’t burn nearly as long as the barbecue type. They get white hot very quickly and provide the heat needed to get incense smoking.)
Each year I’d light the charcoal about 15 minutes before the Lighting of the New Fire and hide it in an aluminum pocket on the lip of the wok.
At just the right moment, a quick tap. The charcoal falls into the wok and hits the matchheads.
Woooosh! The fire bursts forth. Ooooh! Ahhhh!
That was my plan for my first Vigil Mass at the prison. I was especially aware that it would be the first Vigil Mass ever in the history of Florida’s prisons
Everything was set. The wok sat atop a table at the side door of the darkened chapel. And I began the opening declaration – “Christ yesterday! Christ today! Christ the Alpha and the Omega!”
Tap the charcoal into the wok.
Woooosh! The fire burst forth! Oooo! Ahhhh!
And the fire alarm went off!
I had set the New Fire directly under the smoke detector.
And the fire alarm stayed on – for almost forty minutes because no one knew how to turn it off.
I won’t describe how the rest of the Mass went. Some liturgical purist might report me to Rome.
And God laughed.
