Day 138 24 Dec 2008

CHRISTMAS PAGEANT

We grab a taxi and arrive at Santicimo Sacramento (Most Holy Sacrament) church at 9:35 for the 10:00 mass where we’re supposed to meet Katia and Marco. There are probably 20 taxis and moto-taxis jamming the street and perhaps 50 people milling about on the sidewalk—this joint is jumping! It is a modern building with an open air atrium that has doors to several smaller rooms to the left, a large dining area straight ahead, and on the far right steps rise to an open set of four double-doors leading to the worship space. We find a bench in the atrium and watch people making their way into the church mostly in large groups; there seem to be many entire families from babies to grandma and grandpa. Teri walks over to peek at the worship space while I guard the tote bag with our regalos (gifts) and wine for dinner. “It has standing room only,” Teri says when she returns, “and it’s huge.”

At 9:45 we decide we better grab a spot or we won’t be able to even get in the doors. We have yet to see or hear from our friends; Teri sets her cell phone to vibrate so she won’t miss a call. We stand just inside the space with our backs against the folded-open flexible metal doors so we have something to lean against. We are tall enough (we’re gringos) to see over the heads of most standing people and can see the altar where four musicians, three violins and an electric keyboardist, are playing carols to loud applause after each one; the crowd is festive. The space is shaped like a flat amphitheater with three seating areas of about 200 seats each facing the altar and they are all full, with people standing three and four deep behind each one. I can see on the far left behind that seating area an open flexible partition to a large adjacent meeting room and it is also jammed; I tell Teri that I think there are more than a 1,000 people crammed into the space and she agrees.

The architecture is dramatic with one 36-inch deep 75-feet long exposed steel beam running from 50 feet above the altar to 30 feet above and behind the center of the middle seating area; there are also 24-inch deep 50-feet long beams from 40 feet above each corner opposite the altar running to 30 feet above and behind the left and right seating areas. Hanging from the ceiling above the altar is a slightly larger than life size crucifix that is unnerving in its realism—ghoulish. There is a continuous stream of people coming through the doors and squeezing by us; I don’t know where they are going, but they keep coming while I keep checking for our friends.

Shortly after 10:00 the musicians quit playing and a disembodied woman’s voice says to give them a big hand and there is thunderous applause. There’s a pause when the thunder passes, the lights dim, and then raucous amplified-music from what seems to be a rock band assaults our ears with a pounding-rhythm arrangement of jingle bells and the entire congregation claps in unison; it’s a rousing sound and reminds me of my time in the USMC when I would march with a company of men, our steps in unison, and I’d get goose bumps from the over powering sense of unity—you think military trainers know how to inculcate—how about religious leaders?

The rock band (we can’t see how many they are) keeps blasting out lively arrangements of Christmas carols one after another to enthusiastic clapping until during the fourth tune a few altar boys make their way down the left aisle marching, no dancing, to the beat. The lights come up to reveal behind the boys a tall light-haired man, over six feet, and dressed in white robes with a clerical collar; he’s strutting and clapping his hands above his head with a broad smile on his face as he looks over his flock. “That’s a gringo,” I say to Teri. “Yes, it is,” she says. Behind him are various female assistants, also fully-engaged in the infectious rhythm. The gringo makes his way to the altar, takes his place, and plays the part of a backup singer for two more complete songs, rock-stepping back and forth and side to side, clapping his hands below his waist and then above his head, smiling joyfully at adoring fans as he dances in front of each seating area in turn. Wow—what an entry—this is a Catholic Church in Latin America? When he finally speaks the timbre of his voice is high and strained like a person who’s been shouting too long and his accent gives away any pretense of being anything other than a gringo.

The Christmas pageant they enact is about as far from the worst one ever as it can be; it is complete with all the principals but also includes a live lamb wrapped around a poor shepherd’s shoulders. About the time the Three Kings show up, Teri’s cell phone vibrates and it is Katia saying that something came up and they can’t make it, but they will pick us up in a taxi after the service. During the grand finale, after a restrained Silent Night from the rock band, complete with bleating lamb and audience titters as they try to sing along, a live baby boy, brown-skinned and black-haired, a few weeks old perhaps, is delivered by the gringo and carried aloft around the altar to deafening applause.

When the congregants take communion we make our way out of the church following a whole bunch of other people who must not be hungry or thirsty for El Senor’s body and blood. We don’t see anyone we know and the street is nearly empty at 11:30. Teri remembers the directions to their house but doesn’t recall the street name or number; she still thinks we can grab a taxi and find it. I don’t like that idea at all and suggest we sit on a bench outside the main entrance and wait for them to find us—Teri reluctantly agrees. After most of the crowd is gone I see Katia carrying her little girl at about the same time she sees me. We get to their house, which is way out Av Sanchez Cerro and down a dirt road (we would’ve never found it), a few minutes before midnight. Marco pops champagne and we wish each other Feliz Navidad right on time