Sunday Morning, St. Joseph's in Cerrillos

Do you want to know that the mountain, whose name I still do not know, is different again today. It is not a shadow and it is not warmed and illuminated by swaths of light. Today it is a cold, nearly black presence, formidable really, with tree-covered patches of what I know to be snow. My knowledge of snow tells me it is white. But in actuality it is a cold gray. The sky is colored with grey as well with the palest yellow in a texture that reminds me of a rutted, washboarded dirt road.

The village of Cerrillos lies south of Santa Fe on the road that continues to Madrid and then on to Albuquerque. It is called the Turquoise Trail, after the old turquoise mines that were predominant in this whole area at one time. There are people who know turquoise who can see a piece of it and say, "Yes, this comes from the Cerillos Mine." Or, "this one comes from Kingman." Each mine has a name. Each mine produces a distinct color and matrx combination. My father made two squash blossom necklaces for me. One with matching stones of robin's egg blue with a warm tan matrix. The other, a contemporary design with a deeper blue color with a silver colored matrix. My father loved turquoise. I do too.

The people who populate this area are the Native Americans, the Spanish and the Anglos. The Spanish culture here is about 500 years old. The Anglos have drifted in from here and there, pioneers, soldiers, hunters, Catholic Priests and Nuns. The Native Americans (who really knows how long) have been here, practically speaking, forever. In a region where resources are scarce, these different cultures have managed to work out a delicate balance of sharing. Sharing land and wood and space and grazing and especially, sharing water. Not that there haven't been problems, but they have managed. And the culture is the richer for it.

The church in Cerrillos is small and very old and well-loved. It is a perfect balance of simple and ornate. The priest is warm and the homily he gives is strong and good. He says, "Spend just a little time each day listening. Listen to God."

Half of the singing is in Spanish and the congregation is Spanish, Native American and Anglo, old and young and every age in between. And it just feels good to be in this space this morning. John, who is a Lutheran by birth, says this is the best church he has ever been in. I like it too. It sits with its straight tall bell-adorned steeple in the small turquoise mining town of Cerrillos. It is approached on dirt streets surrounded by sleepy adobe houses and old stores. A large white dog wanders out of the church courtyard, greeting the people as they leave the church after mass.

Back in our adobe house now, we have a simple lunch of eggs with a bit of tomato, onion and cheese, and tortillas and hot coffee. John gets a good fire burning in the kiva fireplace and I pull my table up next to the fire and watch the flames more than I write.

Does this constitute listening? Sometimes I wish God would talk louder. Like when Bill Cosby used to portray the conversation between Noah and God--a loud voice filling the sky. Unmistakable.

Today the reading was about when the angel came to Mary to tell her she would have a child and He would be holy. I believe God knew that with a message that nuts, he better do something really dramatic like sending Gabriel. Can you imagine this sort of thing being delivered in the small whispers that I strain to hear? I imagine that if that were the case, Mary might have just given her head a shake and gone about her day. "Whoa... maybe not enough sleep or too much coffee or even maybe the beginning of a migraine."

But what about me? What about someone with less important messages to receive? We don't get the Big Visit. We need to learn to listen. Learn through practice. Have a practice of listening. This afternoon I am listening to the fire.