[I wanted to get this up before going to bed–if you read this note, there’s a good chance that I will add pictures and links on Easter Sunday or on Monday.]

I lost my wallet this week. Yesterday, Jana dropped me off at the DMV in Costa Mesa to get a replacement license. I was expecting to get in a lot of reading for classes, so was vaguely disappointed when I was called to a window within 15 minutes.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it,” said the lady behind the counter.

I began my journey in the rain and on foot over to the Schwin and Sea bicycle shop on 17th St. to pick up Jana’s new tricycle. The plan was for me to ride it around the perimeter of the Newport Bay and back to our apartment, since we couldn’t fit it in the car. Since I had plenty of extra time, I spent a few minutes in Borders, picked up a half-order of fish and chips with malt vinegar, and stepped into the local Catholic church. It was Good Friday, after all.

The building was an uninspiring stucco and brick edifice with little stained glass. A handful of parishioners were scattered throughout the hall, young and old, mestizo and white, couples and small families and individuals. All were intent on the cross, and I was intent on them. Some were sitting but most knelt in the pews. One blonde in a t-shirt had a military crew cut and seemed to be very absorbed in his prayer. Occasionally someone stood up and made their way to a human-sized cross laid out on the floor at the foot of the altar. They knelt down, kissed the foot of the cross, and crossing themselves made their way out of the church.

After some time watching and contemplating, I left the chapel and walked the rest of the way to the bike shop, picked up the tricycle, and began the long trek home. I had to unlearn my bicycle balancing instincts to maneuver it, and I got stares from passers-by the whole way home. It was worth it though to see Jana riding like the wind. Today she accompanied me on one of my runs for the first time in our almost 14 years of marriage.

You‚Äôre probably wondering when I‚Äôll get to the Los Angeles cathedral visit. It’s been difficult for me to write about it.

I had mixed feelings about the structure itself—I loved its brightness and open space, especially compared to the dark forests within many European cathedrals. But it’s a bit too monochrome, too washed-out. And I didn’t like the broken lines on the exterior walls.

I could write about my impressions of the labyrinthine mausoleum of white marble punctuated by gorgeous stained glass; the detailed tapestries depicting the communion of the saints, positioned so that those attending stood in their midst; little side chapels to Mary, to Pope John Paul II, for victims of sexual abuse by clergy, and for the struggling immigrants to the U.S. I was certainly impressed by all of these things and other symbolic, artistic and architectural marvels.

My wanderings took me through all of these—leading me through the crypt, around the side chapels, and finally into the nave of the cathedral. I walked in between the pews and the communing saints towards the sanctuary, until finally I stood at the feet of the bronze crucifix. This crucifix is life-sized, and Jesus’ feet were at the level of my knees, if I remember right. I stood there for some time, thinking my own thoughts.

Suddenly a whirring sound interrupted my reverie. I turned and watched an elderly African American man speeding down the length of the nave towards me, gripping the handles of his motorized wheelchair. He slowed down as he approached the cross, and I stepped to the side. He had some difficulty managing the chair and rammed the base of the cross. Straining, he reached over and put a hand on the Savior’s pierced foot and prayed. Then with great effort, he leaned over and kissed Jesus’ feet.

While he whirred away, I looked behind me and noticed a tiny, bent-over Latina woman (abuelita comes to mind) hovering on the edges of the sanctuary. As soon as I backed away, she moved forward to take her place at the feet of the cross.

I was deeply impressed by their obvious feeling and faith. I wonder if my religion isn’t lived vicariously through such as these—perhaps I worship the worshippers. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is a deep beauty in these sincere acts of veneration. I witnessed these on my pilgrimage to Los Angeles in a great cathedral as well as in an ancient little mission chapel. But I also found the same in an otherwise unimpressive parish church within biking distance. For all the magnificence of the Cathedral and its artworks, I feel that the true treasure of the Catholic Church is found in the sincere devotions of its humble followers.