|FRIDAY, IN THE RAIN,|
AS THE ECHO PARK FARMER'S MARKET WAS CLOSING.
For years I went to Mass alone, looked around, and saw a bunch of Hispanics, Filipinos, what struck me as sort of dreary old people. I kept wondering: Where is my peer? Where are my people? Now I see they’re all my people--and I'm their person, too. This is it. This is his Church.
For most of my life, I would have thought: I don’t want to cast my lot with THESE nutcases! (or boring people, or people with different politics, taste in music, food, books, etc).
Now I know that worshiping--walking toward the light--with people we haven't hand-picked is a microcosm of the whole world, in which things almost never go our way; are almost never the way we want them to be.
It never occurs to us that someone looks at us and thinks: How unpromising. It never occurs to us that it costs someone to be kind to us, just as it costs us to be kind to them. I always think, Oh poor Jesus, with the doilies and the lame statues. Maybe he likes fussy tcothchkes.
More and more I ponder: “‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; this was the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes’" [Mt. 21:42].
We all think our taste is best. We come and we consent to taste that isn’t ours. We consent not to have things our way because we have found the pearl of great price. We've sold everything we have in exchange for something no-one else can see!