A street dweller prepares a meal in front of her hovel on the sidewalk outside of our residence in Calcutta.
Calcutta is sometimes called "The City of Joy," and I wonder why. When Mother Teresa began her work here in 1948 (the year George Orwell wrote his book "1984"), Calcutta had been flooded with refugees from the Indian War of Partition and the Bengali Famine, both consequences of the Second World War. Calcutta, like Port-au-Prince or Beruit today, had suffered an almost total collapse of its social order. And yet, something about its teeming streets made it the City of Joy, and not only in a darkly ironic sense. The people of the city had learned to live together, and really live on top of each other, without hating each other on a massive scale. I am amazed, even today, to walk the streets of Calcutta, still teeming with human bodies, dogs sprawled underfoot panting in the heat, skinny mechanics repreparing brake systems and carburators while you watch, greybeard artisans whittling away at wood carvings, and lovely saree-clad damsels sitting demurely behind grocery counters as men hustle past. I am amazed as I step gingerly around the sleeping figures of young women and children and old men (and oblivious dogs) that no one seems to get stepped on as hordes flow through the sidewalks (if you can call them sidewalks). It is the humanity of the city that makes it joyful, and God's image in every one of us that made Mother Teresa smile. It's an ironic smile, at times, but every time we do mange to smile, it is an act of faith in God Himself, "who makes His sun to shine on the just and the unjust alike." Mother's sisters still smile today, although no one's perfect.
To get to Calcutta from San Francisco you need to spend 15 hours in a plane to Singapore, and then another 4 hours on another plane. Last Monday I left my parish after morning Mass and arrived in Singapore the end of the next day, with no time to offer daily Mass except that one hour between flights. I was able to find a "prayer room" in Terminal 3 and made my way through a curtain to an inner chamber. There only burka-clad women met my confused gaze, and they hastily ushered me out. In the more public room were only men, some washing their feet at little running taps, and others facing Mecca. It was an "interdenominational" prayer room, but the only people interested in praying there, it seemed, were Muslims. So I sat behind the Mecca-facing men, along the back wall, and set up my Mass on a plastic stool for an altar. Just about that time the men all lined up shoulder to shoulder and one of them began wailing out praises to Allah. It was hard for me to concentrate on the Consecration, but somehow I made it through the Mass, on my knees, behind the wailers. No doubt they found it very odd that a white-haired American in white vestments was kneeling behind them lifting bread and wine to heaven, but no one bothered me.
At the end of the 20-minute Mass I packed up to go. A white-haired man older than myself had retired to the back wall himself, and as I stood up he smiled at me. We must give God thanks for small favors, but I think this smile was rather a great favor from God, of whom we are all brothers. If we brothers can keep from killing each other until the Day of the Lord comes, it will be a great favor.
To get to Calcutta from San Francisco you need to spend 15 hours in a plane to Singapore, and then another 4 hours on another plane. Last Monday I left my parish after morning Mass and arrived in Singapore the end of the next day, with no time to offer daily Mass except that one hour between flights. I was able to find a "prayer room" in Terminal 3 and made my way through a curtain to an inner chamber. There only burka-clad women met my confused gaze, and they hastily ushered me out. In the more public room were only men, some washing their feet at little running taps, and others facing Mecca. It was an "interdenominational" prayer room, but the only people interested in praying there, it seemed, were Muslims. So I sat behind the Mecca-facing men, along the back wall, and set up my Mass on a plastic stool for an altar. Just about that time the men all lined up shoulder to shoulder and one of them began wailing out praises to Allah. It was hard for me to concentrate on the Consecration, but somehow I made it through the Mass, on my knees, behind the wailers. No doubt they found it very odd that a white-haired American in white vestments was kneeling behind them lifting bread and wine to heaven, but no one bothered me.
At the end of the 20-minute Mass I packed up to go. A white-haired man older than myself had retired to the back wall himself, and as I stood up he smiled at me. We must give God thanks for small favors, but I think this smile was rather a great favor from God, of whom we are all brothers. If we brothers can keep from killing each other until the Day of the Lord comes, it will be a great favor.
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