“Stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour." This parable of the bridesmaids is the last of Jesus’ warnings that we should be vigilant. He will come to us when we least expect it. In the middle of the night, perhaps—or when we’re tired or grumpy or stressed out or annoyed. The Bridegroom will come, he says, but not necessarily when we expect him. And not necessarily in a form we will recognize.
I spent three weeks of my summer in Long Beach, California helping out at Holy Innocents Parish. It is in an area that is, as one of its parishioners explained to me, “as ghetto as it gets.” Long Beach is hard core inner city. Snoop Dog is from Long Beach. And it’s also where I met my first cholo.
You see, fireworks are illegal in Los Angeles, which means the street gangs, who clearly have nothing against illegal activities, put on the fireworks displays. Since Covid, I am told, it has evolved into something of a competition—each inner city neighborhood looking to outdo the others—Compton vs. Long Beach vs. Inglewood vs. Watts—to the effect that, from dusk till dawn, the sky is saturated in every direction with the most incredible displays of pyrotechnics I’ve ever witnessed in my life—rockets, roman candles, multi-shots, fire-fountains, small arms fire, hand grenades, cherry bombs. (I’m not joking. This is a recording I made.)
I drove out to a friend’s house to see it. But at two o’clock in the morning, it was still in full swing—and I had to go to bed. Problem was, the gangs had most of the streets blocked off—for, you know, safety reasons—so I had to drive past a couple of informal, gang-sponsored road blocks.
Anyhow, I get in my car, and I’m working my way toward Holy Innocents Parish on Copeland and 20th Street, and to get there, I have to drive straight through an enormous flock of cholos.
Now, for those of you who, like me, have not grown up with cholos, the Oxford English dictionary defines the term as a descriptive of “a young man belonging to a Mexican American urban subculture associated with street gangs and a fashion style characterized by its distinctive blend of baggy pants, plaid flannel shirts, bandanas, oversized jackets, classic sneakers, and face tattoos.”
Well, the cholos stopped my car and requested that I exit the vehicle. Mind you, I am dressed in the full monk habit, so when I get out of the car, one of these young Hispanic gentlemen looks me up and down and says to me, “Hey, what ARE you, Homes?”
To which I responded, “I’m a priest.”
Now the guy I’m talking with has a tattoo of a teardrop under his left eye, and a smiley face on his neck with the words “Smile now. Cry later.” Around it. And I’m trying figure out what that means for me, when one of his buddies shouts over, “No he ain’t.”
So I say, “Uh…Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filio, et…”
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” shouts the cholo with the teardrop tattoo, “Let me get my kids.”
“Yeah, me too,” says another.
And pretty soon, I’m blessing grandmothers, girlfriends, rosaries, holy medals…one guy says to me, “Man, I don’t have anything to give you.” As if he hadn’t already given me one of the greatest experiences of my life.
About an hour later, after I had a beer with them, we all took selfies, and they packed me a grocery bag full of tamales. Then they cleared the street, and I drove on home, thinking “The earth is full of goodness.”
Now, the reason I’m telling you this story is because I didn’t get the feeling these were church-going individuals. I don’t think anyone would call them “wise” in any worldly sense. But “the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength” and when they saw a stranger in their midst, they saw the face of Christ. They saw Jesus in me when I couldn’t see Jesus in them. The Bridegroom came to them in the middle of the night…and like the wise bridesmaids, they were ready. Mind you, this wasn’t about me. They never even asked my name. But they were prepared to reverence Christ in me.
“Stay awake, Homes” I can imagine them telling me, “for you know neither the day nor the hour." And it’s true. I didn’t expect to see Jesus that night on the street in Long Beach California. But I did—and he had a tattoo on his neck and a teardrop tattoo.
