Post by skybright on Mar 20, 2006 18:21:28 GMT -5
Sunday Mass at Our Lady of Refuge was a spectacle – there was quite simply no other word for it. As the center of a parish that was nearly seventy percent mutant, Our Lady was bound to have a Sunday-morning crowd that was out of the ordinary. Mutants who could “pass” – not to mention a handful of humans from the parish’s other 30% –
sat shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow-worshippers who ran the gamut of unusual mutant appearances. The diversity didn’t stop at a mix of mutants and humans; Our Lady of Refuge’s parish was also a hodgepodge of different ethnic groups. The parishioners covered the full spectrum from Irish to Haitian to Puerto Rican; on any given Sunday the rosary might be prayed in languages ranging from High Church Latin to heavily accented German. And added to all this, naturally, was the ordinary boisterous atmosphere of a neighborhood church in a close-knit community. Kids ducked under and over pews as their parents swapped pleasantries in the aisles; once in a while a mother would sharply admonish her toddler against trying to climb the coats on the coat rack in the foyer.
Regina Dawson shooed away one such intrepid toddler – a three-year-old with mint-green skin, silver hair, and a mischievous streak that was famous for blocks around –as she hung up her trenchcoat and placed her fedora on top of the coat rack. A few friends and acquaintances called out greetings; one or two asked politely after the business and her general welfare.
As she stepped into the sanctuary, Daws collided suddenly with a blur of pale pink and gold; the blur latched its arms around her waist in a fierce hug.
“Miss Dawson!” The blur by now had resolved itself into an eight-year-old girl with blonde pigtails, who grinned adoringly at the detective. “You’re here!”
Daws chuckled and tugged on one of the girl’s pigtails. “Yes, Lydia, I’m here.”
“Great!” The eight-year-old chirped; then she stepped back and announced proudly “Lookit what I can do!” She closed her eyes, apparently in furious concentration; and her ears began to move rapidly up and down. She popped her eyes open and grinned. “Padre taught me!”
“I’m impressed.” Daws grinned and patted the girl’s shoulder. “You better get downstairs, kiddo, you’ll be late for Sunday School.”
The eight-year-old bolted obediently for the stairs to the basement; other children did the same, some of them being led under protest to their classes. The adults, meanwhile, shuffled themselves into pews and turned their attention to the opening hymn.
***
The liturgy followed the ages-old progression of prayers and readings, responses and scriptures. The entire congregation – mutant or human, visible or “passer” – focused their attention on Father Rick as he led the Mass. When the time came for the homily, the bald priest took a long moment to regard the worshippers gravely before he spoke.
“Today’s reading from Luke’s gospel is one of the most well-know stories Christ ever told -- the parable of the Good Samaritan. But I want, once again, to look at this tale; for this is a tale about helping those who are not like us – of loving and accepting those who are different. When we as mutants read this story we often picture ourselves as the nameless victim; but this is inaccurate. If we are to correctly apply this parable to our lives, we must see the victim as a nameless human – and ourselves as the Samaritan.”
Gee, Daws smiled wryly, I can’t imagine where he’s goin’ with this.
Padre went on, elaborating the parable’s application to the tenuous balance between mutants and humans. Then the priest paused in his homily, looked around the sanctuary, and finished gravely “It is worth noting that there are individuals in this very city who wish to be seen as good Samaritans. Rich and powerful individuals who at first glance seem like selfless benefactors.
“But we would be wise, in the course of our daily life, to examine the true motivations of these men. For the fact is that some who seem to be Good Samaritans for the mutants of this city are actually bent on serving their own means. And those means include a rejection of our brotherhood with the mundane humans of this world. These men who set themselves up as Good Samaritans are nothing more than priests and levites. And woe betides those who walk alongside such men – and who, in so doing, ignore their brothers’ pain.”
Daws stifled a grin, If that doesn’t drop the hint, nothing’s gonna.
As the Mass ended and parishioners began shuffling for the exit or heading downstairs to collect their children, Daws ducked towards the back of the church and knocked quietly on the door of the vestry. “Padre?”
“Come in, Daws.” The priest’s voice responded.
Daws slipped into the small room, where Father Rick was just hanging up his cassock and straightening his white collar. The eyes in the back of his head blinked at her with amusement. “Well, what did you think of the homily?”
Daws grinned and leaned up against the doorpost. “I think you’d need flannelgraph illustrations to make the point any clearer.” She scratched her ear and added “Think it’ll work?”
“Oh, I’d bet on it.” Padre turned to face her and grinned broadly. “I’m forseeing a lot of interesting confessions this week.”
“I hope so.” Daws shifted. “Look, can you tell anyone who comes to you about Tiernan to meet in the basement here . . . say, next Saturday night? I’ve already checked with the Doc and the others; I’ll let them know the time, and they’ll be here, too. It just . . . I think it’ll help persuade the neighborhood folks to come, if we meet on familiar ground this first time.”
Padre nodded. “I’ll do that. And I’ll ask them to bring any friends who are of like mind.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll give Mister Nicholas Tiernan a whole crowd of Samaritans to deal with.”
Daws nodded and grinned. “Thanks, Padre.”
The priest nodded and watched as the felinoid woman slipped out of the door. Within a moment, however, another knock came at the door.
“Come in.” Father Rick recognized the man who stuck his head into the vestry – a local business owner who almost certainly paid some form of protection to Nicholas Tiernan. Padre nodded at the man, who swallowed nervously.
“Father?” The parishioner slid into the vestry and studied the carpet. “There’s . . . there’s something I need to discuss with you . . . .”
sat shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow-worshippers who ran the gamut of unusual mutant appearances. The diversity didn’t stop at a mix of mutants and humans; Our Lady of Refuge’s parish was also a hodgepodge of different ethnic groups. The parishioners covered the full spectrum from Irish to Haitian to Puerto Rican; on any given Sunday the rosary might be prayed in languages ranging from High Church Latin to heavily accented German. And added to all this, naturally, was the ordinary boisterous atmosphere of a neighborhood church in a close-knit community. Kids ducked under and over pews as their parents swapped pleasantries in the aisles; once in a while a mother would sharply admonish her toddler against trying to climb the coats on the coat rack in the foyer.
Regina Dawson shooed away one such intrepid toddler – a three-year-old with mint-green skin, silver hair, and a mischievous streak that was famous for blocks around –as she hung up her trenchcoat and placed her fedora on top of the coat rack. A few friends and acquaintances called out greetings; one or two asked politely after the business and her general welfare.
As she stepped into the sanctuary, Daws collided suddenly with a blur of pale pink and gold; the blur latched its arms around her waist in a fierce hug.
“Miss Dawson!” The blur by now had resolved itself into an eight-year-old girl with blonde pigtails, who grinned adoringly at the detective. “You’re here!”
Daws chuckled and tugged on one of the girl’s pigtails. “Yes, Lydia, I’m here.”
“Great!” The eight-year-old chirped; then she stepped back and announced proudly “Lookit what I can do!” She closed her eyes, apparently in furious concentration; and her ears began to move rapidly up and down. She popped her eyes open and grinned. “Padre taught me!”
“I’m impressed.” Daws grinned and patted the girl’s shoulder. “You better get downstairs, kiddo, you’ll be late for Sunday School.”
The eight-year-old bolted obediently for the stairs to the basement; other children did the same, some of them being led under protest to their classes. The adults, meanwhile, shuffled themselves into pews and turned their attention to the opening hymn.
***
The liturgy followed the ages-old progression of prayers and readings, responses and scriptures. The entire congregation – mutant or human, visible or “passer” – focused their attention on Father Rick as he led the Mass. When the time came for the homily, the bald priest took a long moment to regard the worshippers gravely before he spoke.
“Today’s reading from Luke’s gospel is one of the most well-know stories Christ ever told -- the parable of the Good Samaritan. But I want, once again, to look at this tale; for this is a tale about helping those who are not like us – of loving and accepting those who are different. When we as mutants read this story we often picture ourselves as the nameless victim; but this is inaccurate. If we are to correctly apply this parable to our lives, we must see the victim as a nameless human – and ourselves as the Samaritan.”
Gee, Daws smiled wryly, I can’t imagine where he’s goin’ with this.
Padre went on, elaborating the parable’s application to the tenuous balance between mutants and humans. Then the priest paused in his homily, looked around the sanctuary, and finished gravely “It is worth noting that there are individuals in this very city who wish to be seen as good Samaritans. Rich and powerful individuals who at first glance seem like selfless benefactors.
“But we would be wise, in the course of our daily life, to examine the true motivations of these men. For the fact is that some who seem to be Good Samaritans for the mutants of this city are actually bent on serving their own means. And those means include a rejection of our brotherhood with the mundane humans of this world. These men who set themselves up as Good Samaritans are nothing more than priests and levites. And woe betides those who walk alongside such men – and who, in so doing, ignore their brothers’ pain.”
Daws stifled a grin, If that doesn’t drop the hint, nothing’s gonna.
As the Mass ended and parishioners began shuffling for the exit or heading downstairs to collect their children, Daws ducked towards the back of the church and knocked quietly on the door of the vestry. “Padre?”
“Come in, Daws.” The priest’s voice responded.
Daws slipped into the small room, where Father Rick was just hanging up his cassock and straightening his white collar. The eyes in the back of his head blinked at her with amusement. “Well, what did you think of the homily?”
Daws grinned and leaned up against the doorpost. “I think you’d need flannelgraph illustrations to make the point any clearer.” She scratched her ear and added “Think it’ll work?”
“Oh, I’d bet on it.” Padre turned to face her and grinned broadly. “I’m forseeing a lot of interesting confessions this week.”
“I hope so.” Daws shifted. “Look, can you tell anyone who comes to you about Tiernan to meet in the basement here . . . say, next Saturday night? I’ve already checked with the Doc and the others; I’ll let them know the time, and they’ll be here, too. It just . . . I think it’ll help persuade the neighborhood folks to come, if we meet on familiar ground this first time.”
Padre nodded. “I’ll do that. And I’ll ask them to bring any friends who are of like mind.” He rubbed his hands together. “We’ll give Mister Nicholas Tiernan a whole crowd of Samaritans to deal with.”
Daws nodded and grinned. “Thanks, Padre.”
The priest nodded and watched as the felinoid woman slipped out of the door. Within a moment, however, another knock came at the door.
“Come in.” Father Rick recognized the man who stuck his head into the vestry – a local business owner who almost certainly paid some form of protection to Nicholas Tiernan. Padre nodded at the man, who swallowed nervously.
“Father?” The parishioner slid into the vestry and studied the carpet. “There’s . . . there’s something I need to discuss with you . . . .”