By The River Piedra I Sat Down & Wept

A man approached and stared at us.Then he turned to the center altar and reached for the two candelabra. He must have been the one responsible for guarding the church.

I remembered the watchman at the other chapel, the man who wouldn't allow us to enter. But this man said nothing.

'I have a meeting tonight,' he said when the man left.

'Please, go on with what you were saying. Don't change the subject.'

'I entered a monastery close to here. For four years, I studied everything I could. During that time, I made contact with the Clarifieds and the Charismatics, the sects that have been trying to open doors that have been closed for so long to certain spiritual experiences. I discovered that God was not the ogre that had frightened me as a child. There was a movement afoot for a return to the original innocence of Christianity.'

'You mean that after two thousand years, they finally understood that it was time to allow Jesus to become a part of the church?' I said with some sarcasm.

'You may think you're joking, but that was exactly it. I began to study with one of the superiors at the monastery. He taught me that we have to accept the fire of revelation, the Holy Spirit.'

The Virgin continued to smile, and the infant Jesus kept his joyful expression, but my heart stopped when he said that. I too had believed in that once—but time, age, and the feeling that I was a logical and practical person had distanced me from religion. I realized how much I wanted to recover my childhood faith, when 1 had believed in angels and miracles. But I couldn't possibly bring it back simply through an act of will.

'The superior told me that if I believed that I knew, then I would in fact eventually know,' he continued. 'I began to talk to myself when I was in my cell. I prayed that the Holy Spirit would manifest itself and teach me what I needed to know. Little by little, I discovered that as I talked to myself, a wiser voice was saying things for me.'

'That's happened to me, too,' I interrupted him. He waited for me to go on. But I couldnt say anything else.

'I'm listening,' he said.

Something had stopped my tongue. He was speaking so beautifully, and I couldn't express myself nearly as well.

'The Other wants to come back,' he said, as if he had guessed what I was thinking. 'The Other is always afraid of saying something that might sound silly.

'Yes,' I said, struggling to overcome my fear. 'OK, sometimes when I'm talking with someone and get excited about what I'm saying, I find myself saying things I've never said before. It seems almost as if I'm 'channeling' an intelligence that isn't mine—one that understands life much better than me. But this is rare. In most conversations I prefer to listen. I always feel as if I'm learning something new, even though I wind up forgetting it all.'

'We are our own greatest surprise,' he said. 'Faith as tiny as a grain of sand allows us to move mountains. That's what I've learned. And now, my own words sometimes surprise me.

'The apostles were fishermen, illiterate and ignorant. But they accepted the flame that fell from the heavens. They were not ashamed of their own ignorance; they had faith in the Holy Spirit. This gift is there for anyone who will accept it. One has only to believe, accept, and be willing to make mistakes.'

The Virgin smiled down on me. She had every reason to cry—but She was joyful.

'Go on.'

'That's all,' he answered. 'Accept the gift. And then the gift manifests itself.'

'It doesn't work that way.'

'Didn't you understand me?'

'I understand. But I'm like everyone else: I'm scared. It might work for you or for my neighbor, but never for me.'

'That will change someday—when you begin to see that we are really just like that child there.'

'But until then, we'll all go on thinking we've come close to the light, when actually we can't even light our own flame.'

He didn't answer.

'You didn't finish your story about the seminary,' I said.

'I'm still there.'

Before I could react, he stood up and walked to the center of the church.

I stayed where I was. My head was spinning. Still in the seminary?

Better not to think about it. Love had flooded my soul, and there was no way I could control it. There was only one recourse: the Other, with whom I had been harsh because I was weak, and cold because I was afraid—but I no longer wanted the Other. I could no longer look at life through its eyes.

A sharp, sustained sound like that of an immense flute interrupted my thoughts. My heart jumped.

The sound came again. And again. I looked behind me and saw a wooden staircase that led up to a crude platform, which didn't seem to fit with the frozen beauty of the church. On the platform was an ancient organ.

And there he was. I couldn't see his face because the lighting was badbut I knew he was up there.

I stood up, and he called to me.

'Pilar!' he said, his voice full of emotion. 'Stay where you are.'

I obeyed.

'May the Great Mother inspire me,' he said. 'May this music be my prayer for the day.'

And he began to play the Ave Maria. It must have been about six in the evening, time for the Angelus—a time when light and darkness merge. The sound of the organ echoed through the empty church, blending in my mind with the stones and the images laden with history and with faith. I closed my eyes and let the music flow through me, cleansing my soul of all fear and sin and reminding me that I am always better than I think and stronger than I believe.

For the first time since I had abandoned the path of faith, I felt a strong desire to pray. Although I was seated in a pew, my soul was kneeling at the feet of the Lady before me, the woman who had said,

'Yes,'

when She could have said 'no.' The angel would have sought out someone else, and there would have been no sin in the eyes of the Lord, because God knows His children's weakness.

But She had said,

'Thy will be done,'

even though She sensed that She was receiving, along with the words of the angel, all the pain and suffering of Her destiny; even though Her heart's eyes could see Her beloved son leaving the house, could see the people who would follow Him and then deny Him; but

'Thy will be done,'

even when, at the most sacred moment in a woman's life, She had to lie down with the animals in a stable to give birth, because that was what the Scriptures required;

'Thy will be done,'

even when, in agony, She looked through the streets for Her son and found Him at the temple. And He asked that She not interfere because He had other obligations and tasks to perform;

'Thy will be done,'

even when She knew that She would search for Him for the rest of Her days, Her heart filled with pain, fearing every moment for His life, knowing that He was being persecuted and threatened;

'Thy will he done,'

even when, finding Him in the crowd, She was unable to draw near Him;

'Thy will he done,'

even when She asked someone to tell Him that She was there and the son sent back the response, 'My mother and my brothers are those who are here with me';

'Thy will be done,'

even when at the end, after everyone had fled, only She, another woman, and one of them stood at the foot