The Little Church That Could

           Almost everyone has memories of their childhood which embrace books and those who once read them to us.  Oft times I still think of my father, seated with me at the kitchen table in the early evening, reading from one of a collection of "Oz" books.  Doubtless, there were things he could have engaged in after a hard days work that would have been a more pleasurable diversion for him.  Yet for the better part of an hour, and for several times each week, he chose to read to me, as I followed along, the exploits of Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tick-Tock, and Ozma.  We must have waded through at least a dozen of L. Frank Baum's works before it was mutually agreed to move on, and leave those sessions as a marker of the life we shared.

              Precious as those memories still are, it wasn't the Oz books that occupy the top wrung on the best-ever list.  That very lofty spot belongs to "The Little Engine That Could"; a story originally published in 1930 by Arnold Munk, who for some weird reason, adopted the pen name of "Watty Piper". Such a really big deal it was that the three '78 rpm record album of that story was parked under the family Christmas tree for your scribe in one of his more tender years. (Please bear in mind that one side of a ten-inch '78 could only hold about four minutes-worth of recording) Whether or not it was the first book anyone ever read for themselves is unimportant.  What does matter is the impact it has had on the way three generations of its young readers tend look at life.
               In a nutshell, here is the storyline:
                         ~A long train must be pulled over a high mountain.  Larger engines are asked to pull the train; for various reasons they refuse.  The biggest locomotive in the roundhouse declines, allowing that it would be too much of a haul for him. The request is sent to a small, blue, yard-switcher, who agrees to give it a try.  The engine succeeds in pulling the train over the mountain while repeating its mantra, to the same cadence heard  with a load-pulling steam locomotive, "I-think-I-Can-I-think-I-Can".  Little Blue ultimately triumphs over the impossible.~
                      There is a real-life counterpart to Pratt's tale, found in Oregon's Clackamas County hinterlands.  Once upon a time it was called just plain "Holy Cross Church". While it was still a fledgling parish and renting space every Sunday from the local Adventists, it was given the gift of land; deeded by its wealthiest benefactor.   The area surrounding the plot was and is rural,  and very agricultural in character.  The state highway which once fronted the property was relocated long before the church came into being.  There are neither housing developments nor shopping centers, either east or west, for a good five miles.   This is exactly the kind of place that would prompt anybody with even a novice's understanding of demographics to offer the following advice: "Don't go there!"

                       Yet go there, they did.  While standing in their own field of dreams, the faithful decided to "build it, and they will come".  So it was done, with only the bare minimum of professional contracting expertise, and a whole lot of volunteer labor that was long on willingness, but short on skill.  To the casual observer, the church design looks like nothing so much as a double-wide manufactured home.  For practical purposes, that's what it is, but with a few essential and strategic refinements.
                     "They" did come for awhile, but sadly priests have a way of coming and going.  Each seems to reel in many upon arriving, and pull  away some upon leaving.  Still, everything was in a way, comfortably constant, until one certain Sunday.  Then, during his Penetcost homily the good father admonished the congregation, "The choice is yours.  Do you wish to retain a country club image; have a cup of coffee with friends after mass, and go home for another week........ or, do you wish to get involved in this community, and do the work of a mission?"  Since he was fluent in Spanish, "Father Tom" had his own notion of Plan B. 

            Every other Episcopal church in the area considered a combined liturgy too heavy a load to pull.  Undaunted, the plan was implimented.  It meant "bringing in the sheaves" of migrant laborers from the neighboring nurseries and fields. To go out to meet them at their level, their workplaces. To roll out the Spanish-speaking carpet, listen to their needs, and give them a spiritual place to call their own.  The effort yielded what our priest had hoped for.  Holy Cross became Holy Cross/Santa Cruz.  The changeover seemed like a divine stroke of genius.  Initially, every Sunday saw a packed house.
                      Sadly, a bi-lingual service is a liturgical cup of tea that has very limited appeal in the traditional anglo-Episcopal scheme of things.  The hands which once raised the building and turned on the lights dwindled to a precious few.  English-only visitors treated the church entrance like a revolving door.  Some thirty-five years later, the flock at Holy Cross/Santa Cruz is made up of scores of young Latino bucks, does,  and a few old goats.  It is largely a parish of vagabonds; those who not only must live from one paycheck to the next, but many must also keep a wary eye on the rear-view mirror for that flashing blue light....a light which could signal a rapid, one-way trip back across the border.  Without doubt, when it comes to involvement in the parish, they are committed to the "can-do" and "want to", but the "time to" is a whole different ball game. 
                          Every Sunday produces a slightly different cast of characters lining the pews; each harboring a different set of issues and  pressing needs for the following six days.  Yet they love their spiritual home because it provides a place to have their "Primera Comunions" (first communions for their young children), "Quinceaneras" (a rite of passage for fifteen-year old girls), "Bodas" (weddings), and of course "bautismos" (baptisms). 
Most importantly, it is a place where they are comfortable in the certainty they will be treated as brothers and sisters in every aspect of corporate and social life. 
             As of the last treasurer's report, there aren't all that many pledging pistons to drive the HC/SC locomotive,  making the grade all the more difficult to climb.  Only five of the faithful have the capacity to write a check, and cover expenses each month.  The rest drop in a loose bill or two whenever possible.  But everyone stands shoulder-to-shoulder in fueling the argument for survival.  They are not about to concede defeat while the wheels are still turning, no matter the steepness of the roadbed.

               Will this church be around after the next critical analysis, when pencils of diocesan officers are sharpened, and grim projections of future  realities are detailed?  Only You-Know-Who has the answer, at present.  However, if there are those inclined to wager, don't bet against the Little Church That Could!