Chapter 3: The Tour

I guide Dorothy around the grounds, mentioning a few facts about the Mission in my chipper, tour guide voice.

“The Mission of St. Sebastian, originally called the California Mission, has been designated a Minor Basilica by the Holy See due to its cultural, historic, architectural, and religious significance. The main chapel has been rebuilt three times, due to floods, earthquakes and general disrepair. After the last major earthquake, the most recent remodeling and expansion of the Mission grounds began in 1927 by Father Sebastian, a devout Spanish Priest and architect. It took over 20 years of labor on his part to finally complete reconstruction in 1950. The Mission was officially named after him in 1953 upon his death. His body is interred in a holy crypt under the chapel floor in his honor. Candles are constantly lit on an altar and burn there in his memory. As we walk around the base of the outer structure, you can still see some of the original stonework and masonry that survived the last major earthquake, laid in by the Native American Indians of the area. These cornerstones have been preserved on the grounds of the Mission. If you look up at the campanile in the front of the cathedral, you’ll see the five flawless bronze bells.”

“I love those bells,” she says.

“Yes, they are quite a popular attraction. It is one of the most photographed spots in Southern California. Father Sebastian had them forged in Spain, and then painstakingly brought by boat to America and hung on the original façade. This is what gives our Mission its unique picturesque visage. A familiar sight to pilgrims all over the world, the five bronze bells still call the faithful to worship to this day…”

Through I’ve given the speech many times in the past, today the memorized words sound hallow and pretentious in my ear. Minor Basilica? Why would the Mission of St. Sebastian be any more or less holy than any other place? Then a powerful and life-changing revelation occurs to me. The religious beliefs I claimed to profess were merely an assortment of words I’d memorized and parroted back from my religious teachings, just like the speech I had just given to Dorothy. I had not one original thought in my entire brain. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, I was overwhelmed. Suddenly, I felt dizzy and slightly nauseous.

“Joseph?”

I hear her sweet voice, but can’t respond. Now everything I thought I knew or had been taught about God had to be questioned. What was it that I actually believed in, if anything? I lean my hand against the stone wall of the Mission for support.

“Joseph?” she says, touching my arm. “Are you OK?”

“Oh, yes,” I say, composing myself. “Let’s continue the tour, shall we, but I’ll stop the silly speech, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling. “But it wasn’t silly at all. I found it quite interesting.”

We stroll around the numerous buildings, going inside each one and looking around. It’s as if we’re on a first date inside a mall, passing yogurt shops and clothing boutiques, rather than faded murals depicting the Stations of the Cross. I become slightly annoyed by the ostentatious statues of religious figures holding bibles, dispensing wisdom with pious smiles permanently etched into their faces. I had given the tour of the chapel and grounds of the Mission several times and the statues had never bothered me before. Why now? I thought about the Native American Indians slaughtered in the name of God when the Mission was originally built, their bones scattered under the same ground as our Founder. They had their own beliefs and customs. Did we have a right to build this Mission of their land? Does anyone come to light a candle in honor of their memory? I decide to put these questions out of my mind and just enjoy my time with Dorothy, however long it lasts.

We walk aimlessly together, our bodies close but not touching, and chat idly, about nothing in particular, her favorite foods, where she lived, what schools she went to. Other than telling her about the basic stages of becoming a nun, from candidacy, to novitiate, to final vows, we don’t discuss religion or spirituality at all. I jealously keep her away from the nuns who see us on our walk, who want to reach out with their old trembling hands and take her away into the abbey. I just point out the cloister area and abbey from a distance and continue the tour. I didn’t want our time together to end. We stroll over to the Kristoff Food Pantry and Soup Kitchen attached to the Mission.

“Who is Kristoff?” she asks.

“No one talks about him or mentions his name,” I say. “I assume he’s the donor they named the building after.”

After passing through the gardens we reenter through the main doors of the Mission. Every time we pass a priest or nun they give Dorothy a disdainful, sideways glance. It annoys me further that everyone seems to act so morally superior to her. Dorothy seems oblivious to their nasty looks, but I’m certainly aware of them. I guide her into the shadows of the main chapel where none of the faithful can cast their judgmental eyes upon her. We sit quietly in the back pew for a moment to appreciate the beauty of the chapel. I notice her glance over her shoulder at the confession booths directly behind us. Then she looks at me and whispers her request.

“Would you like to hear my confession now?”

“Uh… well, like I said, I’m not a priest yet,” I say. “It’s kind of against the rules.”

“Come on, Joseph. It will be good practice for you when you do become a priest,” she says. “Besides, it’ll be fun…”