A Note on Religion, About Which I Know...Very Little

When I first began planning out my summer, I was pretty sure I knew where I'd be spending it. India. Naturally; definitely India so I could volunteer or at least visit my grandparents and virtually every other living relative I have.

More than six months after I did all that planning, I find myself spending my early mornings at a Presbyterian church in Tucson. Different than India? Oh my, yes. Unwanted? An unequivocal no.

As an aside, I didn't know what Presbyterian actually meant before I got here. And I'm about as religious as Bill Maher, so what was I supposed to do at a church, I wondered before coming here. Would I have to attend services and be expected to know what was going on? Would I have to cite passages from the Bible? Oh no, what if they made me lead prayers?

By now I've realized two things: one, I was being as ignorant and ridiculous as my personal image of a televangelist and two, I was thinking way too much about myself. Me, me, me, I, I, I. Even though I'm not very in tune with religion, I am devoted to the belief in humanity and helping people. I have those basic beliefs, and that's enough. The fact that this church has reached out to those in need on so many occasions, whether they be homeless or in need of work, bowls me over.

In my last post, I discussed the environment Mexican children grow up in, where news of drug cartel violence and addiction are a daily dose of life. I neglected to mention, though, that one anchor that seemed to keep these kids grounded to the good in the world was religion. Whether it was through songs of Jesus or interactions with the Casa's pastor and his wife, Catholicism is an everyday part of life, and I felt grateful for that.

When people cross the desert, they often carry a figure or charm of the Virgin of Guadalupe with them. When we were in Altar and met a man who'd tried to cross several times. He was in his fifties and had an infectious smile permanently affixed to his face. He ended many of his sentences with "Gracias a Dios" and confided that he enjoys reading his little Bible often.

Back to the present: Several things initially drew me to the church here, though, and part of it was certainly personal. That is, a need to work on a more intimate level with day laborers. Call it a bad version of white man's guilt, but I'll bet few of the modern buildings we've ever stood in, whether we're from NC or TX, would be there if not for the presence of immigrants and their families. Such is also the case with, as we saw in NC, the produce we consume. The labor center here gave me the opportunity to put a face to the construction work, the dry wall, the painting, the basic aspects of life we take for granted. And it's funny but probably good that when we talk to the guys, the tasks they carry out for the community, aren't on our minds. We're not thinking, "Oh, this is Carlos, the painter." We're thinking "Oh, it's Carlos, the guy from southern Mexico, the one who wants to get his GED, the one with two little daughters he sends money to, but rarely sees."

I asked one man what he does if he can't find work for the day--there is little work to be had for the 20+ men we see each day; only about five of them end up getting work.

Read, he said, all kinds of things. "I read the Bible a lot," he said and it was a novel feeling, but it just made me glad.