Today's Marists 2024 Volume 8, Issue 2

One Hundred Mass Intentions.
Who is My Neighbor?
A Marist Priest Reflecting on Mission in Mexico
by Fr. Francois Chauvet, SM, Marist Community, Paris, France
I had just been appointed as vicar to the Marist parish in Mexico
City, Mexico where we felt we could do more. Luckily, a letter came
from Sister Diana (Misioneras Guadalupanas del Espíritu Santo),
inviting the Marists to lead the services during Holy Week among the
indigenous communities of Tepezintla and Tonalixco, where she had
been for several years. Sr. Diana and I met when she was a student
leading a youth group in Mexico City and discovered her vocation to
religious life.
A Marist deacon due to be ordained priest that year and I took the
long bus ride to Zacatlan and from there, two more hours to where Sr.
Diana was waiting. The next day we walked three hours to Tepezintla.
On the way we receive our first Nahuatl language lesson: “Kema -
yes, amo - no!”
That afternoon I celebrated Mass in Tepezintla and discovered a
world and an approach to God that were totally unbeknown to me.
Arriving at the sacristy, I saw a line of about twenty people waiting.
Apparently, word had spread that the padrecito (little father) had
arrived, and people had come to present their Mass intentions. Sr.
Diana instructed me to sit at the table and welcome each person.
They greeted me with a light bow and a gentle, imperceptible smile.
They looked tired as if they had walked quite far. The following day
I realized that most of the people do not live in the village, but in
houses scattered across the countryside, and walking is a way of life
here. They seem to have come straight from the fields, still carrying
tools. I noticed their used clothes, too long or too short, and sandals
that scarcely covered their bare feet, offering almost no defense
against the cold. Nothing like the jacket and boots that I brought! I
saw faces burned by the weather and calloused hands hard as metal.
I saw the fatigue, the weight of the day, the journey of the life they
have spent tilling the land or working in the city, and here they were,
to offer that life they carried on their backs like a cross, that life of
effort, work, of struggle, to “ask for their little Mass.”
An older lady approached and took from the folds of her clothes a
small plastic bag, from which she reverently removed a folded sheet
of paper that she handed to me. I read the large, scribbled words that
read something like:
“Santo Padrecito (literally, “holy little father”), very good afternoon,
I greet you with respect and I ask you to please celebrate the holy
Mass today for my animals, my chickens, my corn, the harvest,
for my husband who is in Mexico City, for my children who have
not returned, for the eternal rest of my mother Ofelia, for my sister
Anastasia, for Juan, for Isidoro (and twenty other names). I thank you
and God bless you.”
It was written in big round letters, like the ones we learned in grade
school. The lady smiled at me and walked away, and another person
approached. The short, solemn ceremony of handing over the sheet
of paper to me repeated twenty or thirty times.
“Each day we have to decide
whether to be Good Samaritans or
indifferent bystanders.” (Fratelli Tutti, 69)
Sr. Diana explained that I must take all the papers to Mass and put
them on the altar, where everyone can see them. During the prayers
of the faithful, I had to read all the names from those papers. Sr.
Diana said firmly, “it is not enough to mention some of them, you
must read ALL of them. They need to hear the names of their loved
ones at Mass.”
After Mass, to my surprise the people lined up to collect their papers.
To each one I asked; “what are the names of your difuntitos (your
departed loved ones)?” Sr. Diana also explained that I was to “give a
piece of good advice” and bless them. Each person handed me a fivepeso
coin (that is the equivalent of a day’s salary!), picked up one’s
paper, carefully refolded it, and put it back into his/her pocket with
infinite respect and care, as a treasure of great value. This begged the
question: Why do they keep that piece of paper so carefully? Why do
they always carry it with them? Why is it so important? It took a while
for me to understand: Many of our indigenous brothers and sisters,
do not know how to read or write. Women in general do not speak
Spanish. They are unable to read what exactly is on their paper.
I learned that one day prior to my coming to say Mass, some kind
person helped them. A teacher, someone “who knew how to read
and write,” a “person of reason,” wrote down their Mass intentions,
the names of the people they loved. So yes, the paper was a treasure
they carried close to their hearts. Someone GAVE them an infinitely
valuable treasure which bears their loved one’s names. On that
paper are their animals, their harvest, their pains, their absences, the
emptiness that centuries-old poverty and deprivation has etched into
the deepest part of their being ... and so many other things that they
could not write down.
No one knows when a padrecito will come again. No one knows
when Mass will be celebrated again - a Mass they may not
understand much about, but a Mass where someone who “knows”
talks about them to God, someone who puts their names on the
altar; their little animals, their harvest, their hope for a better future
that most likely may never come. However, this day they are happy
because “the little father said my little Mass.”
To me this ritual before Mass is already Mass. It is a Mass that
precedes the Mass. It is a prayer, an offering, the sacrifice of hours of
walking from a hamlet or village. It is the sacrifice offered for others,
for those no longer here, but who are not completely gone, those who
are no longer “out there” but are still alive “in here.”
It is also, and this is no small thing, the sacrifice of a whole day’s
salary. That money is not free, it did not fall from the sky. It is the
continued on page 11
Volume 8 | Issue 2 9