This is Mission.

Over the weekend, we went southwest to a place called Malinalco to do some mission work. It's only about 40 miles away from where I'm studying, but it takes about three hours to get there. Part of the reason it takes so long to go a short distance is that the roads are pretty horrible. Here, think of one-lane highways and pot-holes like those after a harsh St. Louis winter. It's a pretty rough go. Although, the views were spectacular.



We arrived in town of Malinalco on Friday night. It is surrounded by mountains and history, what with many of the churches there having originated from the 15- and 1600s. Many of the original church buildings are still in use.



Beyond the mountains and the history, Malinalco is a small town by Mexico City standards-- it has about 40,000 people (as opposed to 40 million) and not much of an industry of which to speak. There is a lot of mom-and-pop commerce, as well as a lot of farming. From what I gathered of the numerous farms and horse-riding men in the area, Malinalco seemed to be more of an agricultural town than anything. We slept there for the evening.




On Saturday, after prayers and breakfast, we traveled up into the mountains (even more than what we already were) and arrived at San Simón parish in, what I believe was Tenancingo or Tecomatian. Sadly, I cannot remember.

There, we visited the missionary parish-- which was, if I may say so, was brilliantly and beautifully well constructed. It was built about 15 years ago. There have been missions there on a fairly consistent basis during those 15 years, and here I was about to engage in that activity.

After prayers, we were divided into groups of five or so. I was with Nick Winker, Roberto (a missionary native to the area), and two of our host-family's children (age 9 and 14, I think). All but Nick and I could speak fluent Spanish; nevertheless, we were expected to do as much as we could in the native tongue. We grabbed our stash of rosaries, pamphets on the Catholic Church, and our courage, and were off!



Once again, I was struck by the poverty in the area. As our merry missionary band visited door-to-door, we encountered a people who lived in one or two-room homes. There may have been a line of electricity into the house, and there was no plumbing, from what I could tell. Some houses had dirt floors, others had cement. Some houses had thatch roofs, others had tile. Most homes had solid walls-- some had lean-to planks of wood. Stray dogs ran everywhere.

We would knock on doors or we would shout "buenos diaz" into the general area of a home as we tried to figure who was home or who was in the fields. On many occasions, someone would come out of the house and warmly greet us. I could see children playing in the home or an open fire on the floor. This bothered me at first (for who could live in such conditions?), but then it became commonplace-- which bothered me even more.



We would ask how the family was doing and if they were Catholic and if they wanted to pray with us. Jehovah's witnesses and many other sects have been problematic in the area, so we asked if they had visited their homes as well. Sometimes they had, sometimes they hadn't. Either way, we would give some literature so that the family could learn more about their faith, and usually a rosary too. Nearly all of the families said they were Catholic-- and we could tell that they meant it. Some of the seminarians returned from the mission telling about how they saw small altars dedicated to Christ or to Mary in those homes. Unfortunately, I didn't see any.



Here, I could tell many stories about particular people I met and things I did, but there are too many. I hope some of my seminarian brothers write about their experiences... Here, I give a simple story....


Later in the afternoon, as we were wrapping up our 4 or so hours of missionary work, I happened across an kind of arcade. It was a small hole in the wall of a building with old school video games-- five, I think. Each was occupied by 20-something men, and the room was pretty dark. I knew I was supposed to go in their and invite all of the men to Mass and to Reconciliation which were to be offered at the church that afternoon-- only, I couldn't. I didn't feel comfortable with my Spanish and, even more, I didn't feel comfortable disrupting them. I would be more of a nusance instead of an invitation.

So I thought: how can I get their attention?

A second later, I had my answer. The teenage girl in my group (who I shall call Mary) was right next to me, and so I asked her: "hey, Mary, there's a bunch of guys in there that we need to invite to Mass. Would you feel comfortable going in and announcing that Mass is about to start?"

"Certainly!" she responded.

I was floored by her courage. There wasn't a second thought about it. She was being invited, so she was going. Mary entered into the arcade, interrupted one of the guys, and loudly said to him-- as if he were hard of hearing-- that Mass was being offered soon.

Every single man in that room stopped what he was doing and turned their heads to see who belonged to this woman's voice. I think they were surprised.

Now, I wish I could say that they came to Mass and to Reconciliation, but I do not know if they did. There were a lot of people at Mass that afternoon and many people at Reconciliation. But, I know this much:

For a brief second, those men received an invitation to go to Mass. And they willingly listened to that invitation, if even just for a second. And if even just because it came from the voice of a woman. (After all, how many times has God brought men to the Church through the heart of a woman?)

After missionary work, we visited the Sisters of the Good Samaritan; an amazing order of sisters who are a kind of "first response" to the poor and sick in need in the missionary towns surrounding Malinalco. They are strong, holy women who seem to have no fear when it comes to loving the lowly and serving the helpless. I admire them. Please say a prayer for them!

We at wonderful lunch with them-- and I wondered where they got the food, and the money for the food that we ate. We all were exhausted, but it was a good exhausted-- the kind of tiredness that comes only after a good day of work. And food tastes so much better after such days.



After that, we returned back to our home for some much-needed rest. Some of us watched Braveheart in Spanish (which is quite an experience).

The next morning, we went to Mass and visited a couple churches in the area. But that is for another post.......