A church in ashes, but a community is still standing | National Catholic register

After the Corpus of Christ Church in Pacific Palisades, California, was lost by fire, a long -time parishion of a parishion reflects, which really makes a community.

On January 7th, the Corpus of Christ Church was destroyed in the terrible palisade fire in the Pacific Palisades, California. At that time I was not in the city and no matter how many photos I saw from the devastation, nothing could prepare for the sight personally. Corpus Christi has been my community for 45 years. Here my three children made their first communions and my oldest was confirmed.

The church had already burned in the early 1960s and was rebuilt to be “fireproof” – a parabola made of brick, steel and glass. Nevertheless, it succumbed to the apocalyptic fire, just a few meters from Palisades Fire Station 69. When I started to process everything that has been lost, I find this loss most difficult to accept. It made me think about what a community is and what it really means for those who belong.

What is a community? What does it define? Is it just a building? Or is it the people – the priests, the masses, the collective memory of parishioners and employees? Is it the ascetic precision of Monsignor John Mihan, our former pastor, or the Irish joy and the compassionate sincerity of our current leader Monsignor Liam kidney? Is it the shy smile of Cindy Reece when she completes another successful first communion class, or the calm satisfaction of Jane Richardson when the confirmation students remember their catechism?

Or maybe it is the always current emails from Lorraine Hartman who share the news of people across the country about the news of the destruction of the church-and the miraculous news that the abbey, holy oils and all 14 colored glass stations of the cross have survived Fire?

As a 45-year-old member of Corpus Christi, I deposited countless worries and prayers in the seventh bank right in front of the first pillar. If someone else seemed to be entitled to this place, I thought: “Well, I have worn out this place with my kneeling needs – maybe he needs it more than me now.”

The real question is: “How much is my sense of the saint that are bound with the physical space of my community church?” A fire is a fire is a good opportunity to find out. Which ashes is more important when we move forward – those who are being followed on our forehead on Wednesday, or those who are now scattered in the remaining broken glass and broken church benches?

I often had the feeling that my car drove to Corpus Christi, led by my “holy longing”. The continuity of the mass, the idea that people have been experiencing the redeem of the mass for more than 2,000 years is something that I always felt connected to. I know that the urge to visit the church is not just about a building – it's about combining yourself with something larger than I do.

I think a community is a place where we familiarize ourselves with the idea of ​​death – especially with our own. I always felt in peace and knew that I would bury from there. I was even comforted.

I was also comforted by the way Corpus Christi marked the day of all souls. An entire bank was put aside for photos of beloved people last year, and their names were reminded of two banners in the church. During the fair we sang every name loudly, followed by the choir “We are reminiscent” and did just the right balance between awe and familiarity. “All holy men and women, we remember”, we sang and I felt blessed that my name would one day belong to these voices that were lifted in prayer.

I was thrilled when Father Kidney came to our community – I remembered him from St. Martin of Tours in Brentwood, which I visited with my beloved uncle. Father kidney is an excellent pastor. He even manages to perform one of the least committed tasks of a priest – the annual appointment – effortlessly.

When my mother -in -law died, he appeared in a way that meant everything to our family. Her long -time priest and dear friend of 50 years had already passed, and the other priest she knew was in a care facility. (She was 93 to be fair.) Father kidney arranged a private family fair and helped her to rest with his characteristic sympathy and loyalty and to raise the load from our shoulders.

During Covid I missed it deeply to visit the fair and miss my parish. The awkwardness of a zoommasse did little to facilitate isolation. When we were finally able to gather for an open-air fair, the terrace sitting carefully on the terrace-it seems like the sky. We could actually see each other again.

I was always looking forward to Thanksgiving Day Mass – it just seemed to be the perfect day to express our gratitude in the church. I can't count how often I brought my bread and wine with me to be blessed, only to see later when I was sitting in the car that I had left her in the church.

There were so many taxes in the entrance and on the front of the church meals for the St. Joseph's Center, clothing and bed linen for the homeless home-but my favorite was always the Christmas toy run. I was particularly looking forward to seeing Carol Sanborn's warm smile when I drove to unload my prey.

So we return to my original question: What is a community? What is a community?

At some point after the fire, I had a fleeting, practical idea: “Now I should cancel my automatic payments to Faith Direct.” But then I met another realization: “Who am I joking? We now need donations more than ever to rebuild. “

That's it there – the use of the collective pronoun We. I thought WeAnd that is exactly what every member of Corpus has to do Christ if we ever want to consider ourselves as We again.

A little word with two letters: We. This is the true meaning of a community.

Justine Bloomingdale writes from California.