It was on my first attendance as a new parishoner when the cura pounded on the pulpit for someone more conservative than he. He said he was criticized by an informant for his rewording of the directive of offering peace to one’s fellowmen during a mass as a “kiss of Christ.” His intention was misunderstood to be malicious. With a violent voice, he condemned his unknown detractor, “I am not afraid of anymore complaints as I already talked to someone of authority in church.”
The next homily was not remarkable but the response of another churchgoer was.
“Buang ning pari-a!” [Translation: Crazy pr....!]
The next Sunday came and I found myself trying to pass through a gate to get in. The warden was old and slow in his movement as he tried to unlock it. Suddenly, I was pushed hard by someone who could not wait to get it. It came from heavy, rough and cruel hands. I did look back though there was no need for I already heard the voice of the owner of those hands. It was the cura. For me who eats, moves and walks fast, he seemed surprisingly impatient for a man who was to lead a community–patrons who went to this unattractive structure that was just recently declared as a pilgrim center.
It was not the abominable structure I supposed that led to the declaration, rather it was the miraculous BVM statue that continued to draw local pilgrims from across the islands. Here lay a statue surrounded by crooks who peddled.
“The guard will get you if you bring in white candles. It should be these maroon candles with a logo that I sell.”
While I paid for a set of maroon candles, the vendor took my white candles with her which I had bought from another vendor. I got in to area where the statue was kept; different colors of melting lighted candles were scattered in disarray. In between, was a huge pool of the melted wax. I was never cheated like this at other religious centers. This was not an isolated experience. I experienced another kind from these vendors stationed outside the same church.
Another Sunday came and I was glad to arrive early. The celebrant was a benevolent priest. An interpreter for the deaf stood by his side, making hand signs to deliver his homily. I was attending the regular schedule where hearing disabilities were mainstreamed. The singing went great.
I arrived 9:30 am the next Sunday, the cura was singing his own version of an operatic concierto of the liturgy. He sounded like a homosexual. It seemed to have dragged the length of the mass. I was glad to have missed the homily.
I was early again the next Sunday, the choir was coming from the sharp angelic voices of young students in school uniform conducted by their Music or Religion teacher I supposed. It was an inspiring mass to be in.
The next week came and I was at a church in another location. The homily from a priest that had a special relationship with God to the concluding rites went fine. I was thanking God for choosing the concelebrant who delivered his homily to be his servant.
This Sunday, the gospel was about two brothers invited to the vineyard. One said he would go but did not while the other said, he would go but did. The cura talked of the choir singing and the coming feast and Saint Lorenzo. It was irrelevant to the gospel of Matthew Chapter 21 at hand. He did not prepare.
I walked out of the church.
I resolved either coming early the next time to listen to another celebrant’s homily or to go to another church from the same the denomination where the mass is meaningful.

