Don Bosco's Relics Tour, Take Three: St. Patrick's Cathedral

A portion of the crowd last night at St. Pat's (photo by Joe Gast)

Without getting too caught up in the small details of all that went wrong with the trip, like the buses getting to the Parish 45 minutes late, and the bus driver not knowing how to get out of Elizabeth nor the proper geographical coordinates of the Island of Manhattan in relation to New Jersey, I'll just say I was sweating a bit.  The natives were getting a bit restless, and I was fearing a confrontation once the drivers showed up.  But there was no such thing, and peace and love ruled the day as we piled on the cheese buses and off we went. 

Once they figured out where the Turnpike was and that New York is north, the real fun began.  The traffic getting to the Lincoln Tunnel was just a disaster.  I didn't bother looking at my cell phone, because checking the time would have just frustrated me more than I already was.  The time flew, in that way you don't want it to. 

Well, we got into Manhattan, dodged some pedestrians, almost  hit a traffic scooter and rolled up to the north side of the Cathedral and in, just in time to see the prosession stroll by in all it's glory.  So I found a seat and enjoyed.  Providence allowed me to say Mass in the morning with the school children, so I didn't miss saying Mass, just I didn't participate in this one, which was a bit heartbreaking enough.

As I looked around, and the cathedral was filled, I was reminded of the article I linked to when I wrote about the Pope.  The author described the crowd at Hyde Park, and how it was so diverse that it left no doubt to why it's called the "Catholic" Church. It was the same way here, people of every race, language age social status and ethnic group gathered in union with Christ and brought here by Don Bosco.  There were men in suits, women in dresses along side a man with the Miraculous Medal  tattooed  to the back of his shaved head.  There were nuns in full habit and kids in jeans, high church seminarians in starched cuffs and collars processing to charismatically tinged music that made you clap your hands (courtesy of the Holy Rosary Choir, Port Chester). 

This is the Body of Christ; not always neat and clean, not always what you'd expect, not always what would be accepted in polite society.  It's where the real drama of life is, where the story of Salvation is lived out everyday in the lives of men and women, young and old, trying to find meaning in a world that more and more is telling them that there is none.  So they come to venerate the relics of Don Bosco, not because they have any magic, but because they remind us that God takes the poor and the marginalized and puts them at the center.  This is what He did with Don Bosco, the son of a tenant farmer from the sticks.  We can be close to that, to touch that and gain inspiration from it.  Oh yeah, and since the Saints are alive, not dead, in that great Communion we are all a part of, ask their help on our dramatic journey toward heaven.  

The Archbishop was again outstanding, hitting on and expanding the themes from the day before.  We were challenged to dream, to reach out as the Church to the poor, the unborn, the immigrant, all the marginalized.  Then he reiterated the three great devotions of Don Bosco: devotion to the Eucharist, to Mary, and loyalty to the Pope. 

As Mass was ending I went to the back to meet up with the procession and a couple from Argentina asked me what was going on, since they couldn't speak English.  I told them about the relic and the tour, and the woman was amazed at the singing and clapping and the applause from the crowd at the words of the Archbishop.  "We would never do this when I was a child.  The Masses back home are solemn.  Knowing people from Argentina I found that hard to believe, but I went with it.  All I could say was, "We're Salesians, we celebrate."  She wasn't disapproving, by any means, just taken aback. 

As the procession went by I greeted my confreres in line.  As with Stony Point the day before, I ran into people I knew (one always does at things like this)  So another Latin American tourist standing nearby turned, and in all seriousness said, "you are famous? all these priests, and the others know you." I said "No, I'm just late."

Like I wrote, I would have much rather concelebrated the Mass, but maybe there was a reason for being late. These are the first raw reflections.  I'll offer something a little more "cleaned up" this week.