In towns after town up the hills of far northern New Mexico or in the settlements somewhat hidden among the mountains east of Albuquerque, the Catholic churches stand, almost inevitably the tallest, most noticeable building to be seen. Some are nondescript, even upon occasion surprisingly flimsy: wood covered with shingles or brick put together without any real thought of beauty, even it seems, permanence; signs with the times of Mass announced hung loose or crooked; no effort at landscaping, hence muddy, rutted roads in winter, or dry, dusty ones in summer—and a lonely, stark quality which a few trees might have diminished. Other churches are quite different; they are of adobe or a mixture of adobe and cement, and are sturdy, well fitted into the town’s setting, which is often evocative of the center of Spanish cities: the narrow streets, the plaza, the protective walls, and again, the center of it all, His building, with the invariable announcement in Spanish (and sometimes, but not always, in English) that He will be worshipped at such-and-such times, and with the bell which doesn’t hesitate to call on His behalf, and is immediately heeded. These are the churches that are likely to have nicely cared-for grass—not to be taken for granted in semi-arid country. They are also often possessed of a small garden—a few cactus plants, some rocks arranged in a pleasing way. And there are usually trees, often quite massive, the best of the region’s cottonwoods, for instance—and one is likely to look at them, admire them, wonder whether they hadn’t been put there for just that purpose, to guard the church.

On Sundays in the mountain communities everyone goes to church, and there is no traffic jam as a result. The roads, so empty at times that they seem a pure indulgence on the state’s part, suddenly are full of men, women and children walking in the middle, never mind to the sides: what better use for asphalt than to help keep special clothes looking good before and after Mass? As for anyone who happens to be driving toward the church, let him dare use his horn or try to nudge people with his noisy, racing motor or his tires coming rudely close. For that matter, a distant plane can receive a look not meant to kill, merely register the pain, confusion and sorrow one world feels for another: how can it be that on a Sunday like this, which God has chosen to grace with His sun and with a cloudless sky, they are up there in that machine, rather than somewhere on this earth, praying?

Of course, such a question often goes unasked, merely kept in the back of the mind—a thought of sorts about the twentieth century, with its increasingly hard-to-fathom but inescapable contrasts. Time was when Santa Fe or Albuquerque were there all right, but of no particular consequence or immediacy in the lives of various villagers for whom thirty or fifty miles might well have been three or five hundred miles. Time was when all else outside a given town’s land was a limitless and not especially inviting beyond. Now there are planes, and increasingly noisy and aggressive automobile drivers, who won’t anymore, it seems, rest content with the usual tourist spots, but have to poke and pry their way into every corner of every county—even up dirt roads, so they can get what they call a “view.” What to do but pray for them on Sundays? One may not really feel so inclined, but that is the point of prayer, to ask the hard things of God, not simply to beg in a self-centered manner for any little possession the mind may have come up with as desirable. As the good priest says; as the father told us; as we heard in church—the phrases vary, but they all are meant to indicate how carefully a person has listened to, and made his own, ideas handed down by another: him who helps us, leads us, urges us on to Him. “I am an instrument of the Lord’s,” one priest says, but not boastfully. Not coyly either; he is being matter-of-fact. “I try to do what I hope is likely to serve God’s will best,” he elaborates. Not that he knows; one can only try, and one can only hope, and one can only make a judgment about a likelihood. Then he quite consciously skirts egotism: “I have no right to set myself apart from other priests. We all fail every day, certainly those who presume to speak on behalf of our Lord. But a long-time ago I think I did learn one lesson: be firm with people, stand fast for what is right, but take care not to confuse yourself with God. It is a sin even to suggest that a priest does that, but we are all tempted, and no one more than a priest, I am afraid. Some priests more than others, though; it is well to be blunt. Maybe I am the worst of us all—sitting here and making my comments about ‘them’ and about myself. Beware of the preacher, especially one as old and ingrained in his habits as I am.”

A nervous smile is followed by a serious, reflective look, then a broader, more relaxed stole. Hands hold on to a chair; one of them quickly moves toward the right thigh: some dust on the pants, caught by a sunbeam. Soon the hands are folded around the be!ly, and it possesses a certain prominence: a perfect resting place for the forearms as well as the fingers. A few remarks about one parishioner, then another, and as always, blessings on both of them: “May God offer them His grace; they are among the oldest who come here on Sundays, and I always seek them out after I talk to the people: make my announcements, deliver my sermon, offer my congratulations and give my warnings— a dangerous moment for a priest, I am convinced. For a long time I never gave a second thought to what my words meant to people; I was too busy preparing the speech and in my mind giving it. By the time I did give it, I had already decided whether it was one of the better ones, or one of the less useful ones. But I have been given enough time to look back and take stock—a mixed blessing, I assure you. Some of my former sermons, like ghosts, have come to haunt me. I preached charity with a complete lack of it; and mind you, I am no stranger here, but a man who ought to understand his own people.”

With that, silence; a hard silence to interrupt with a clever bit of nonsense or a face-saving compliment which would only make matters worse by suggesting that self-criticism requires reassurance or is a subtle, self-assertive maneuver aimed at obtaining praise9 The head bows, but not for any embarrassing length of time. A glance at the crucifix on the opposite wall, then a direct stare at the visitor, followed by an inquiry: shall some tea be brought in? Yes; so he is up and out of the room for a second. Soon an elderly lady brings in a tray. On it, besides the tea, are an assortment of cookies and some cake, too. He looks at them, casts a quick look at his belly, then smiles at himself indulgently and reaches for the tray—to serve, but also to eat heartily.

Just as the lady is leaving he refers to her—and she leaves hearing, not for the first time, one is sure, his comment: “I am a spoiled child, an old, old, one, but that is all the worse. And she is the one who does it!”

When the door is firmly closed he continues, hoping perhaps she can hear, anyway: “The two of us should stay away from such sweet things. I do not weigh myself because it is rather prideful to do so; but I know deep within my heart that I am playing a wicked game: my pride urges me to avoid facing the scale, and I call upon ‘the sin of pride’ as an excuse. It may be a devious move on my part, but I doubt the good Lord fails to see through my purpose. And all the time my lady-friend, so anxious to care for me, urges me on to greater excesses: not only cookies, but her tasty cake! She knows only too well how weak I am; and I can’t blame her, tempted though I am to do so. She offers, but I need not accept. Anyway, I have joined her in a conspiracy: I make sure she finishes what I don’t. As you can see, neither of us is lean and hungry. I fear there will be a lot of fat to burn in Hell all too soon—for we are both about to go there in the near future. I would think.”

Another pause, this time followed by a sigh not in the least stifled; then he shifts to a more philosophical vein: “There’s no point worrying about the future. That is one of the virtues of our Spanish heritage: we are not lazy; we work hard; but we trust in God, not our own dreams of glory. Anglos believe in themselves. I should not say it, but I will: even Anglos who are Catholic do not think as we do. I would go further and add Anglo priests to the list. Irish priests come here and the people submit to them—yes, they do—but they do not really follow them spiritually. It is difficult for me to talk like this; I find it hard to explain what I mean in English—or in Spanish either. Some might say I am getting old—over seventy, and so given to sentiment, exaggeration, melodrama. I will stand up for my beliefs, though. For almost a half century I have been a priest here in New Mexico, always with my own Spanish-speaking people, always in the small towns, where the culture and traditions and customs are most pure and least influenced by the Anglo-Americans. (They call us all those names; well I have always liked to call them Anglo-Americans, and I think of myself as a Spanish-American.) Now in all these years I have learned more than I have taught. I have come to know the people; after all, I hear their confessions and they come to me every day for advice. But I must never forget how much they have helped me to understand my own life—what my parents brought me up to believe, why I think the way I do about so many issues. 

“I suppose I would be considered by some Anglo priests strict, by others far too lenient. I have no use for many of the changes now taking place in the American Church. I am grateful for being up here, far removed from those changes. I am grateful for being old; I will soon go—well before the Catholic Church I love so much becomes before our very eyes conquered by the American evangelists: practical-minded businessmen; university agnostics; experts in technology; and I have to say it, the psychiatrists and Unitarians and—what do they call it—’ethical culture’ people, with their talk of ‘community.’ You see, the hippies have come near here, with their communes. I have talked with them. They give me things to read, while all the time denouncing books. So I keep up with the world! The children of hippies, I fear, are lost: they know too much, have seen too much. They have no knowledge how to control themselves, only give way to their own demands. How sad, to see seven- or eight-year-old children so sure of them selves, so cynical, so demanding and bossy with strangers. But I do not want to sound shrill and narrow about hippies. The truth is, I feel sorry for them. I pray for them. I know they don’t want my pity and my prayers. I know the danger of smugness. Still, I must pray.

“I read magazines; I have tried to keep my mind open—without success, no doubt many would say. I love the Latin Mass. So do our people here. They do not want English or Spanish; they want their Latin Mass—it truly is theirs. And they go to church to pray to God, not to man, not to the society. I did not become a priest in order to celebrate man; nor do my parishioners come here to stare in the mirror and exult at their ‘capacities.’ “I respect each generation’s right to see things a new way. But the Catholic Church is devoted to one Man, who turned out to be God Himself. If we fail to center our attention on Him and His teachings; or if we go against His teachings for the sake of keeping up with ‘modern times,’ then it is best we close all our churches and say there is no longer a Catholic Church, just a collection of buildings to which egoists and materialists take themselves on Sundays out of some nostalgia, or because they get bored, or because they have a ‘religious need,’ and are trying to give it ‘expression.’ “Oh, I have to tell you that I have no patience with all that. A few years ago, before I became hopelessly old-fashioned—and even bitter, I would have to admit—I would go to retreats, or to conferences; I would listen to lectures about the ‘new’ Church, and I would try hard to go along. But I know a Protestant when I see one—even up here they have made their inroads! And I know a truly agnostic or atheistic person. I don’t want to win such a person over. I respect them—that may well be one way I differ (in the more ‘free-thinking’ direction) from some other priests. I simply want to stand up for my own beliefs, and I do not want to fool myself or fool the families who come here by giving the name Catholic to a porridge of secular notions, any of which may be valuable and important, but none of which are meant to be worshipped in Christ’s name, in the name of our Lord and Savior.”

He stops, and seems to be going into a moment of intense self-absorption. He looks up at a picture of the Bleeding Heart of Jesus; it was given to him by one of the better-off families. The man and his wife had gone to Mexico, to South America, and while there had remembered him. They made sure he hung the picture where he would be able to look and look—and be somehow affected. He had once before told the story: how they were so proud to have the gift for him, how they chose a place for it, having been given carte blanche with his walls, how the señora personally hung the picture, having had it framed in Santa Fe. Now as he stared the Bleeding Heart seemed a refuge for him: let others make their “adjustments” to the twentieth century: let others be embarrassed by the ancient imagery and ritual of Catholicism; let others feel more comfortable with toned-down iconography or up-dated theology or scripture interpreted defensively in the face of convictions asserted by theoretical physicists, paleontologists, observers of African chimpanzees, Marxist historians, ever so knowing and self-conscious psychoanalysts, the last with their nervy interest in a dozen other “fields,” including his own. He would not wince at the representation of the Bleeding Heart, nor run in shame from it, nor give it a “re-interpretation,” nor fit it into someone’s “archetypal pattern.” He would simply look and meditate and gain strength. “The Lord’s agony has meant peace and wisdom for millions over ~he years,” he had said months earlier, after a similar moment spent with that picture; now a moment was becoming a minute, which can be a long time indeed when two people are alone and talking.

Then abruptly, words began to come—and forcefully: “I will surprise you. I acknowledge superstition within the Church. There was a time when I wanted to study philosophy and theology—not be a parish priest. And I did, by myself. There was a time, even decades ago, before the recent changes in the Church, when I had little use for those flaming fires, those blood-drenched Hearts. My father was well-to-do—a prosperous landowner, and a self-educated man. He never left the Church, but he did business with the Anglos—too much business. He made too much money, and their Protestant ideas went to his head. My mother prayed for him. Only in his last year did he really become part of the Church again. He taught me to distrust the excesses: the festivals and cards and pictures and what he called ‘the smell of ignorance and fear’ that hovered over the church and the parish house all week.

“My mother said: why not? She said: is it better to crave the newest automobile, or a machine that washes clothes? She loved her scrub-board. She had no use for servants. She loved her rosary beads. She hated gasoline fumes and she would stop by the side of the road and pick up trash left there. That was a long time before we ever heard of the word ‘ecology.’ She worried that the people of this town would soon be hanging pictures of cars on their walls, rather than the Bleeding Heart of Jesus. She worried that the President would come before Christ, the skyline of Albuquerque before the Church’s mission. She was educated by nuns, and no doubt they were hard on her. But she knew how hard used-car salesmen can be on their customers, and politicians can be on the voters, and the commercials on radio can be on a poor worker, trying to keep his self-respect and trying to live a decent, honorable life. Thank God she never lived to see television. I watch it and ask who is superstitious, who is ignorant, who is backward: an old lady coming to me holding on to her rosary or doing a novena or handing cards with Christ’s face or His heart to her children and grandchildren, or those people who write the commercials and speak them and act in them, or worse, listen to them, then jump to pay attention? 

“But I am ready to go back on my own ideas; to a degree I am. I know that I am old, and I have never done much, only take care of the souls God has entrusted to me. This world is full of injustice, and I haven’t done much to change things. I preach. I ask members of my flock to be kinder to one another. I ask them to look with care at me: am I mistaken in my ideas? They become uncomfortable when I talk like that. After the sermon they say: Father, you cannot mean what you say! Father, you must know you cannot be wrong! I reply: so, you think I am dishonest when I ask you to question me! That makes them stop and think! There is so far I have gone, though. I haven’t marched to the cities with words of protest. I haven’t tried to become a Chicano, a fighter in the world of politics and social activism. Christ fought the money-lenders. I know that. Christ was turned upon by the ‘powers and principalities.’ 

“I do not deny the Church’s responsibility: to be on the side of the poor, the hungry, the downtrodden. Here, of course, most people are barely able to get by, day after day. There are few rich people, and not many like my parents were—the middle class, they could be said to come from. No matter: our people are stubborn about their lives; what they have inherited they will keep, and what others want for them, they will look at with great suspicion. Am I the one to shout at them, call them fools, backward fools? Am I the one to demand that they stop being so grateful for so little, and instead, rise up, start marching, tear aside the curtains of self-doubt and hopelessness, begin forcing themselves and their reasonable and just demands upon today’s pharisees and money-lenders, upon today’s Pontius Pilates and the emperors who employ them? 

“Any curate worth his salt tries to arouse his people; but he is also bound to feel their presence and respond to their view of life—as opposed to his own wishes for them. I will tell you: in the 1930s, when it was much more desperate a time than now, I stormed about, I was ready to lead an army down from this hill. Don’t ask me where we would have gone. It never came to that. And it wasn’t rich people or a sheriff who turned anyone back. There was no one to turn back. Maybe some today would say I should have raised my voice even .louder, or if that failed to arouse people, march by myself. Maybe some would say I should have left here—told them all how ignorant and unimaginative they are, how little vision and little ambition they possess. I might have found willing supporters in Santa Fe, among the comfortable artists and writers, and those who hang onto them, look up to them as their priests. In more recent times I might have gone to Albuquerque, a noisier, less settled city, not so self-assured and full of itself, not so interesting to Easterners—and a place where a justifiably angry priest, anxious to link arms with his people’s forward-looking organizers and spokesmen, might be quite welcome. I am glad, very glad, there are priests who have done so—become leaders of the very broadest kind. If I get sullen and mean-spirited, if I try to protect myself, justify myself, by saying uncharitable, snide things against such priests, I can only pray that I learn better in another life. But today a man like me has little voice; his bad remarks, his rudeness toward others, matters little (except before God), because there is no one to hear. Everyone listens to the men of outrage and alarm. Few pay much attention to the millions of Catholics all over the world who are not unlike my own parishioners—or to priests like me, who are so quickly dismissed as out-of-date. “I may sound as if I am asking for pity or attention—or both! At my age, though, a man loses a bit of the vanity we are all heir to. It is dangerous, I know, for one like me to make such a judgment, but I will take the risk. I am simply asking that ‘the people’ be heard—a cry worthy of a reformer, even an agitator! I do not mean that we limit our vision to their vision. Those of us in a position to lead should try to lead; it is sad to see leaders justifying their own prejudices and inertia by pointing out the presence of both in ‘the people.’ But it is also sad to see leaders lose touch with their followers, or those supposed to be their followers. And some leaders are self-appointed, and speak for audiences or groups other than the ones they claim to be from, or working for.

“I have nothing more to say. I have been held back by the climate here—so cold in winter, so hot in summer—I occasionally say to myself in justification for my lethargy. At other times I feel that I have done my best. And then there are those moments when I have to confess to myself: I have been a coward, even as so many of my superiors in the Church have betrayed Christ. But I love being here, and have been privileged to earn a certain place here, a certain measure of affection and respect from people I have grown to care for and love, for all their failures and blindness. I am old, and I suppose it is the old Church I represent. I am Spanish, and so I have a streak of the mystical in me, and a streak of indifference—I should admit it—to all that is new and yeasty.I tend to fold my hands and say that this too will pass, and afterwards there will be the same problems: those with power and those with much less; those who live better than others; those who die young and the old, grouchy ones like myself who hold on to life for longer than seems fair, considering all the children who are doomed by fate. So it was Christ’s time; any time this side of Armageddon.

“But I am American, so if I am of the Spanish Church, I am also of the American Church: I may dislike a lot of changes I see these days (the television set my parishioners bought me!) but I am also glad that there is a lot of ferment in this country; and there are even times when I wish I could lose all this weight, and shed my wrinkles and gain back the energy I had, in order to go picket somewhere. Maybe more important to gain back than the energy would be anger: good, clean anger at the rich and powerful, the self-contented and the hypocritical. Americans are always looking for solutions, answers; they are—we are—so restless, and so taken up with ourselves. It is a bad trait—the danger of pride; it is a good trait—the courage to change, the strength to oppose what is wicked but entrenched. Don’t ask me to give percentages of how much bad, how much good. When one is old one tends to rest with the oars; when one is young, one has one’s eye on new goals. Perhaps the Spanish Church is old, the American young. As for me, I am half-and-half. What I know without question is that I have given up searching for consistency. My mother influenced me a lot, but one thing she taught me I no longer believe: consistency is not a virtue. Oh, I should say this: it is not a virtue I will ever possess.”

His eyes now look to his visitor, then through the window to some cattle moving down the road, followed by a young man on horseback. The cattle are wandering all over, and the man is trying to hold them together. Behind him are cars: one, two, three—a line of them. The man seems not to notice them, let alone show any signs of hurrying his herd. Finally, one driver loses his patience: the horn—which gives the other drivers courage to do likewise. Now the man angrily stops his horse: he will leave the cattle to their own devices; he will stay there all day if necessary; he will make his point. The priest is amused. It is not the first time he has witnessed such a confrontation, nor is it likely to be the last. Yet, each time he wonders what to think. Who is in the right? The man on horse is stubborn, maybe spiteful. Still, he was there first, and the cattle have to be moved to another pasture, and they, too, belong to the town. The drivers probably don’t; they are coming through to look, enjoy, feel a tinge of awe or envy—but soon enough to leave, glad to be on their way to some city, some other part of the country, where they can talk about “the beauty of New Mexico,” but live their more urbane, sophisticated, progressive lives.

A shrug of the priest’s shoulders, another sigh; the protagonists have moved up the road and out of sight. He must prepare for tomorrow. He has confessions to hear. He has homes to visit. He is heavy and gets short of breath, but he is a walker: the families within two or so miles are reached on foot. As for the rest, he asks for help from young people who have cars. He enjoys driving with them; they are so full of joy and enthusiasm; the noise of the motor, the speed, the quick stop that defies the worst expectations of older people. Sometimes he wishes he had learned to drive. Sometimes he has pictured himself at the wheel, going along at a fast rate, waving at his many friends. Younger priests do so many things he has not done, and it is good they do them, he knows.

Nevertheless, when he comes back from a drive he is not only refreshed but pleased to walk, or simply sit and doze, or read—or else do something else: “Occasionally I sneak into the church, when I know no one is there. I sit at the very back; and to be honest, my mind doesn’t do much. I’m not praying. I’m not thinking very hard. I just say a word or two to our Savior: it is up to You to make sense of all this; all we can do is try to be as upright as possible until we are summoned—and told how well we have done, or how badly. Then I am ready to go outside and pick up again: the next obligation.”