A tale of two churches

Fr Medlar totally owes me. Not because I flew out to LA--that I was glad to do. No, it's because he made me eat not one but two Catholic masses, which is twice as many as any of my other friends had ever asked. First there was the (two-hour) ordination mass on Saturday, then there was the (regular-length) mass of thanksgiving the next day--a real gyp because it was his first mass only on a technicality. He said only a token bit (two lines of the eucharistic prayer) and didn't preach, but I had to wait around to the very end for his two minutes of accepting the Oscar.

The longer mass was at St. Charles Borromeo--a known locale for star spotting in North Hollywood! Despite dating back only to 1956, it's a beautiful, ornate, Mission-revival church with everything you'd expect to find in a pre-Vatican II structure: Heavy carved wood reredos, choir loft with organ, Marian and Josephine altars, arched porticos, a baptismal font in an enclosed courtyard, stained glass for days. We saw its lovely steeple from blocks away and said, "That must be the church." The most surprising feature was an open, well-lit area to the left of the altar and separated from it by a portico. Sitting near the front of the groom's side of the church, I had a good look into it (at least until the apse became clogged with clergy). As we feared, there was no air conditioning, only the natural coolness of a shady stone structure.

By contrast, Sunday's house of worship was about as characterless as you can expect to find. Even the monks dismissively referred to it as "one of those round churches", the kind that began to mushroom in American suburbs starting in the 60s. Only later did I learn that this one didn't even date back earlier than the 21st century. Antelope Valley is apparently experiencing explosive growth as ever more people prefer an insane commute to living south of the San Gabriels. When I was told the first day that the mass would be in Lancaster, I pictured a quaint rural town; only the day of did I discover it was actually in an endless maze of brand-new subdivisions, where we counted a total of three pedestrians during our midday approach.

I didn't even realise I was looking at the church until we were nearly ready to turn into the parking lot. It was stuccoed the same dusty orange as the walls around all the subdivisions; at first, I thought it was something municipal. The interior is pleasant enough--thrusting wooden beams and good use of light, central AC, the biggest and nicest cry room I've seen--but as sterile as a shopping centre atrium. Outside of a jarringly traditional crucifix, there's not a single religious icon on display. When I stepped out for a bit during the communion procession, I realised I had no idea who it was dedicated to. I began searching for any clues--if not a statue, at least a sign--and didn't find anything, not in the vestibule, not on the front of the church, not anywhere around the parking lot. Only when I picked up a registration form for religious instruction inside the door did I see that I was at Blessed Junipero Serra Catholic Church. (I didn't find out the name of the town, Quartz Hill, until we were leaving it.)

The one unexpectedly humanising element in this wasteland was bagpipes. monshu had been exploring along one side of the church and called me over to listen to them float over the subdivision wall. At first we thought they might be a recording, but soon we heard enough stops, starts, and minor error to realise that someone must be practicing "Scotland the Brave" in their backyard.

On top of everything else, we learned that the pastor was a crotchety old priest who begrudged renting out the huge parish hall for weddings, baptisms, or celebrations of any kind. I'm not sure how the monks talked him into feeding us Chinese food in it and it's just as well that he didn't see all the Filipino and Samoan children have a grand old time chasing each other around it. (As far as I could tell, he wasn't present, only the assistant pastor.)

Sequestered

I suppose it should come as no surprise that I was basically on a vacation from the media during the time I was away. Last week, I made reference to catching some show being broadcast Friday night and monshu said, "Remember, we'll be at the monastery." "But that doesn't mean they won't have t.v.," I responded. "I don't about that," he said. "C'mon, even monasteries in Nepal have televisions!" "Yeah, but it's not like a hotel," he countered, "there won't be any in the rooms."

As it turns out, the only t.v. on the premises had no reception; it was reserved for retreat-related videotapes. Theoretically, there was access to the L.A. Times, but I never asked to see it. monshu's eBay addiction drove him to borrow the Abbot's computer (when I popped into his office to say goodbye, he said, "You must be wanting to check e-mail"), but I resisted its charms; at one point, I nearly logged on in the airport, but really there was nothing--not even LJ--I could imagine paying $15/hr. to read. I did bring YAKRAPE, but kept it turned off to conserve battery power, using it only to arrange a rendezvous with ladytiamat and to call my older brother on his birthday. (I wish could say I had the class not to mention that I was roaming, but, alas, I did not.)

So news of the last week's attacks--the failed bombings in London, the atrocity in Egypt--came to me as whispered rumours. Not until I was back at monshu's did I page through the BBC site to catch up on what had happened. Seeing the name "Sharm el-Sheikh" jogged my memory: My parents were in Egypt and this was one of the places they were scheduled to visit. I felt the briefest instance of panic, but then several things occurred to me: (1) Their chance of being among less than 100 people in a city of thousands unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast was really rather small; (2) the reports didn't mention any Americans killed, something they always do otherwise; (3) there were no agitated messages waiting for us at the GWO's.

I calmly decided to check their itinerary to see if there was any grounds for worry--frankly, I was concerned more about my stepmother's reaction than anything else--and found a flurry of emails from my siblings. The upshot: The blast occurred the day before they were to fly there, while they were en route to Cairo. It was ten miles away from their hotel. So they decided to go ahead and, at last report, were having a ball snorkling in the Red Sea.

Sorry, terrorists; looks like you lose again.