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Her mother woke her up with the usual question:
“Are we going to Mass of eight or eleven?” She continued without waiting for an answer, “Dress up, later the sun is too strong. Breakfast is ready.”
In other words, they went to Mass of eight, it was an order –she had wondered many times the reason for consulting her, even when it was already decided.
Every Sunday the same scene was repeated. It started at five past seven on the dot, not a minute more not a minute less. Her mother opened the door of the room, turned the light on, checked the closet looking for suitable clothes for the occasion, and informed her that breakfast was already on the table –routine not at all missed during her stay away from home while attending her first semester in college.
She was sleepless –she had gone out with her friends the previous night– and an incipient headache was beginning to show up, which is why she planned to stay in the comfort of her bed until the next morning, except to go to the bathroom or the kitchen. However, the “What I did wrong? Why doesn’t she want to go to Mass?” expression on her mother’s face when she informed her of what she intended, made her change her mind.
Upon entering the church, she noticed that, even though the enclosure had enough space for some five hundred parishioners, there were no more than fifty dispersed in the pews. Most were elderly and the few young people looked listless, reflecting a resignation shared by her.
They were received by the monochord voice of who was running the Rosary, coming from the sound system. The prayer was carried out by a group of older ladies sitting in the front, facing an effigy of the Virgin Mary. Their behavior was that of a well-oiled machine: they answered with one voice at the right time while passed the beads with their thumbs. When they finished the last mystery, they stood up at the same time, as driven by a spring, recited the Hail Mary, and sat down again, this time to wait for the priest. If it weren't for the obvious differences between them, people would have confused them with clones. They spent the next minutes looking at whoever arrived with a beauty pageant judges' expression.
Meanwhile, another group, also of older ladies, lined up next to the confessional. She had always been curious about what and how many sins they could accumulate in such a short time. They were the same every Sunday and, judging by their ages, she doubted they would work or do something productive –no doubt, they should be limited to the gossip of the week.
During Sunday School, they had instilled in her the need to cleanse the soul through confession to be one with God at the time of taking the communion. Therefore, on an occasion when she wanted to perform the rite, she set out to fulfill the important requirement and placed herself in line. With about fifteen minutes left to begin the Mass, one of the well-known ladies settled right in front of her, without uttering a word. To avoid a scandal in that sacred place and, knowing the type of person she would face, she decided to keep her mouth shut. However, the stratagem was of no use to the lady, since the priest –a cranky old man– left the confessional without paying her the slightest attention even when she began to follow him as he had to prepare himself to begin the service. In passing time, doubts about this particular act had begun to populate her mind. Who was that person to forgive sins? To assess the decisions, mistakes, screwed up of others? Who had given him that power? Who had said that conscience was cleansed by repeating ten Lord’s Prayers, twenty Hail Marys, and five Apostles Creeds? She was certain of something, most kept their secrets –a mixture of survival instinct and human nature prevented one hundred percent trust.
The entrance song at the beginning of the Mass reflected the joy of a funeral, a mood that the priest did not help change. He thanked God for the day, reading from a little book on the altar –by virtue of his years in the office, he surely knew it by heart. Then, he proceeded to offer Mass to a saint at the request of a lady with a bombastic surname. The young woman could not help but turning her eyes. "How much has she collaborated with?" she asked herself. Five years prior, after her grandmother's death, her mother asked the priest to offer a mass in her name; thinking that belonging to the Legion of Mary was enough to achieve her goal, she refrained from making a monetary collaboration, which is why the grandmother, who had not been very religious in life, was not included in the list of deceased.
From there, the ceremony was developed as a very well-rehearsed dance. People stood when they should, said the prayers, replied at the right time, sat down, again and again. A horde of zombies would have shown more spirit. As expected, just over five months would never be enough time to manifest some kind of change to a rite of almost two millennia.
The moment of the Liturgy of the Word was depressing. The priest's assistant requested volunteers discreetly. After an endless time, three of the older ladies stood up. While one was doing the First Reading, the other two muttered –given their body language, they discussed the distribution of the remaining ones. There was no way to understand the winner of the Responsorial Psalm because she did not accommodate the microphone to her height. Fortunately, the one in charge of the Second Reading did a decent job.
Since she could remember, the homily had seemed the most peculiar section of the Mass. It was supposed to be the moment to preach about the learnings extracted from the readings, important lessons for Christians. However, few parishioners really paid attention –in her case, the words entered through one ear and came out through the other–, most were whispering to each other or checking their cell phones. That day was no exception, being the peak moment when, at the end of the sermon, some hid a yawn.
According to the Opus Dei website “With the Sign of Peace, union and mutual love are expressed before approaching the Sacrament." However, in all her years attending church, that was not what she had witnessed; only the little ones did it from the heart, running to the altar to give the sign of peace to the priest. In her limited experience, it was a social activity during which half church was toured to greet fondly relatives or acquaintances. When it was the turn of those who surrounded them, if they were strangers, their faces wore a forced smile that did not reach the eyes and "peace" was whispered, just touching the other's hand, moving away quickly as if they had the black plague.
During the Breaking of the Bread, the priest spoke without looking away from the little book while performing the blessing. His words fell on deaf ears, as the parishioners dedicated themselves to look into their purses, for then entering a competition with their seatmates and seeing who gave a more substantial tithe.
However, the competition did not stop there. Those who considered themselves worthy to participate in the Communion, came out as possessed to stand in line, hoping to be the first. Once they had accomplished their task, they returned to their seats with a beatific expression on their faces and then knelt in the recliners.
After the time of reflection, the priest asked for donations for the seminarians. Tithes, collaborations, donations, it didn't matter, they were keywords to ask for money, although there it was done in a subtle way.
A couple of years back, she had gone on a pilgrimage to a sanctuary where it was said the Virgin had appeared. The place was beautiful, one was in contact with nature and at first, could come to believe the truth of the supposed miracle. Nonetheless, the effect was erased by the omnipresent monochord voice of who was running the Rosary. The sound system, located in a temple-like structure –columns held a gable roof, where devotees responded to the prayer–, overcame the song of the birds and the whisper of the wind in the trees. In front of the area that served as the altar was a confessional without doors and next to it, in very colorful characters, a sign that read "Donations by check in the name of the Archdiocese of X ..."
While the priest made more announcements, the people checked wallets and telephones, whispered to each other, or checked the closest exit route. When he finally gave the Blessing and the Dismissal, they were close to run, pushing around at the entrance, as if fleeing from a dire destiny.
For at least a year, a young man accompanied by a child placed themselves, before the end of the ceremony, in the main entrance of the church to ask for alms. That day, the last thing the young woman saw before leaving the premises was a man –less than ten minutes ago he had depicted the portrait of the beatitude after communion– pass by the young man, stared at him deep contempt, and yelled at him:
–Ask the government!