El Gringoqueño

Published Friday, May 6th, 2005 in Faith and Wisdom, Favorites

I wrote this after one of my Confirmation classes. I think it’s about the best contemplation on the Eucharist that I’ve ever heard, that is, I like it and it sums it up for me. I always try to look at the rituals of Catholism through the eyes of an outsider. Are they silly? Where did they come from? Why do we do them? What does it mean to believe? And what is belief? They may be silly, but there is a wisdom that can be grokked if you know how to get in there, separate yourself from your preconceptions, supersititions, magic, and just see and know a thing for what it is. Life isn’t any deeper than what we are. That is, it’s plenty deep enough, thank you. You just have to look and listen and ponder. It’s all there, the spirits, the magic, the flavor – all there right in front of you. It’s not weeping concrete stains in the shape of the Virgin Mary. It’s not miracle medical cures.

It may not even be eternal life in heaven.

And with that I begin my meandering through the true nature of the Holy Eucharist.

The next week we talked about spirits. First we talked about the spirit of a tomato? They all looked at me quizzically. Eh? Tomato? I explained where the tomato comes from, where it is grown, how it is cared for, who picks it, how it arrives at the supermarket etc. The tomato becomes more than what it would first appear. The tomato, the more you know about it, its journey, the more it becomes a symbol of something deeper, and the deeper you go, the more it becomes an icon – it actually becomes that thing it represents.

Take the beef cow for example. “Ew!” they all chorused. “We don’t want to know about our food being alive at some point.” They all shuddered, thinking about the slaughterhouse, the death of the cow as it arrives at their plate, all ground up and cooked. How can knowing the path of the cow make our enjoyment of the burger any better?

Ah, I said, but you miss out on a great opportunity to imbibe more than just a burger. Take, for example, my experience in the Basque Country of Spain. We lived near a rural community called Oiartzun in the north of Spain. In the town, the country folk each raised and slaughtered their own cow. They would raise the cow for a year or so, and then they would kill it. They fed their cow the best of things, alfalfa, cabbage, beets, turnips, the best of things. They would grow and cultivate an entire plot of land just for the cow.

We were visiting the Aristizabals house one Sunday afternoon. The family wanted to show off their prize cow. The mother, Maria de los Angeles, took us to the stall where the healthy looking young cow stood munching on some nice fresh greens. The cow raised her head and glanced our way, half-curious as to who were these intruders to her space. She couldn’t be bothered to turn around and give us her attention, head down munching on her lunch. Maria de los Angeles, anxious to show off her cow, grabbed a pitch fork and poked the cow, yelling, “Yeha yeha.” The cow did not budge an inch. She poked harder but the cow did not move.

Mikel, the father and cabinet maker, gently clucked to the cow and patted it on the rump. She turned as easily as if on a trivet. Beautiful she was, healthy strong, and big. Everyone in the family beamed with pride for their cow.

Some time later, we heard that Beltza had been slaughtered, the meat packed into two large freezers in the family’s farm house. Ekiñe, the youngest daughter, excitedly told us they had bought a new young calf. She laughed as she told us they had named it Beltza.

Later, during the Christmas season, Laura and I were invited over for a holiday season dinner, on the menu, Beltza. I knew her, I thought.

We shared with the Aristizabals the finest cut of meat from Beltza, a cut from which there was only enough for one meal. I remember that meal, the communion, the shared experience, the newness, the realness, the depth of experience, appreciation for the life that we had taken as well as the life that we were living, the sacrifice, the brotherhood, and community. Beef had never been more alive to me, on my taste buds, but more importantly in my heart.

I had used that story to illustrate to my class how knowing more about reality around you leads you to deeper satisfaction. Sometimes it’s not pleasant. Sometimes there is pain, even death, but by closing yourself off to it, you close yourself off to the richness of life, the beauty of living. Without awareness, consciousness, life becomes unseasoned and bland.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 6th, 2005 at 7:34 PM and is filed under Faith and Wisdom, Favorites. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.