Listening To A Trumper

 It’s rewarding work, turning up at the Mission, serving food to vulnerable adults who don’t mind listening to a few minutes of religion in exchange for a sausage roll, a bowl of soup, and some nice people to talk to for an hour or so.

 

I am full of existential guilt about it, because doing good makes me feel good, but I am reconciled to this since learning (EdX course ‘Science of Happiness’) that we are genetically programmed this way, and it helps species survival rates. So that’s OK then.

 

It was my turn to give the talk. It’s a tough gig. Most of the audience are appreciative, but I am very ambivalent about doing it. Anyway, I said I would, so I did.

 

Unfortunately, I spoke without notes, and close to the beginning of my ‘put your trust not in men’ homily, I accidentally called the President-Elect of the United States of America a narcissistic sociopath.

 

Michael got up and quietly informed me that if I was going to talk about Trump he was leaving. I kinda got the hint, and also the strong feeling that calling ANYONE a narcissistic sociopath wasn’t exactly Christlike, so I rowed back and galloped to the finish, sitting down absolutely determined never, ever, to do the talk again.

 

Michael hadn’t left, but I could see he was upset so I went over to him and let him tell me what a hypocrite I am ( I am, I am, it’s true.) and then to give me his reasons for supporting Trump. I listened and I listened good.

 

Trump offers hope to people like him. Michael feels his voice is finally being heard. After I sincerely apologised for upsetting him, we had a real conversation. At the end of it I was both enlightened and chastened.

 

Michael was given up for adoption at birth, but his mother changed her mind, and struggled on for two years before giving him up for good. A string of foster homes followed, then a boarding school. Then prison …

 

Michael, in his forties, is good-looking, and intelligent. As his story unfolded I offer up absolute respect for him: for having a completely shit life and not being totally crushed by it.

 

Yes, Michael gets that mysogyny and the racism don’t look good, but he believes that’s media hype, ” The media lies. He’s a good man with a family who wants to change the way the world is run … ”

 

Michael is sitting in a room with some very unhappy people with a food voucher in his hand looking for a job that’s being done by someone in China and he wants the world to change in a way that would give him a life more like mine.

 

I wouldn’t vote for Donald Trump in a million years, but after my conversation with Michael, I understand why people did.

 

I don’t think my little homilies ever achieve much, and I sweat blood over them, but today mine achieved something. I made a monumental error of judgement, but as a result, I made a real connection with a young man whose opinions I really needed to hear.

 

 

Understanding everything except the Language: Going To Mass

When I arrived fifteen minutes before La Misa began, a couple of dozen worshippers were already seated outside the church on the plaza. Things were not looking good for a ringside seat. 

This story begins last Sunday: I incomprehensibly turned up nine hours late for Mass. Duh! I know enough Spanish to read “Sabado 2100,” and know the service I was aiming for was the previous day, and I’m Catholic enough to realise a Vigil Mass is on a Saturday. But it was a beautiful walk and I put it down to experience and the sun. 

Fast forward six days. Kate is taking Darren and Frank on a boat trip in the morning, so I’m headed for theVigil Mass, at the appointed hour, quite excited  at this adventure. 

A few years back I attended Mass with my friend Ursula, in Klosters, of all places, reknowned in season for the skiing, and notable because every car is a Ferrari. No need, I assured her, to translate for me, I know what’s going on. I understood two words, “Gott” and “Kuchen”, which was offered with coffee after Mass, and lived up to expectations, as did God. 

It’s the same the world over you see, you know you’re being welcomed, making your confession, saying the Gloria listening to the Bible, and so on, until being sent out in peace to serve the Lord.,

There’s actually something rather spiritual in understanding everything but the words: my attention remained with Christ, in the priest and people in the Bible readings and the pinnacle of the experience, in the bread and wine. I looked forward to repeating the joy of it. 

And joy it was. I entered the church and was offered a foldaway seat between a monumentally gorgeous statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, and the electronic candle- thingy the name of which I know neither in English or Spanish. I was grateful for the seat. The singing was amazing, and spontaneous. No hymn sheets or overhead projections, everyone burst into song at the appropriate time, and once I grasped the tunes, I sang along in tongues, a feat I first performed in a pub in Dublin, but that is of course,  quite a different story. 

The church was rammed, and hot. Many women had the foresight to bring fans. Caught up in the moment, I waved my hat in front of my face until I realised it wasn’t achieving anything. 

I wished I’d brought my phone with the missal on it, because I found it rather difficult to remember the words of the prayers, when everyone around you is using different ones. 

My words yesterday were “Señor” Señora and “confiar”which I took to mean confess. 

Good enough to get me through. 

En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo amén