Samba!

The syncopated rhythm of the samba is ubiquitous as we move around Sao Jose dos Campos. With African and Caribbean influences, it has a jazzy quality, but it is more visceral, sensual, romantic. It contains none of the overt bawdiness of salsa music, or the eroticism of the tango. With its heavy emphasis on percussion, however, it does appeal to a primal instinct to dance to its rhythms - to sway, to twist, to move, and to do so in concert with another. 

Sleeping late into the morning I expected to miss breakfast and proceed quickly to the party. I was wrong. I ate heartily and discussed Brazilian Catholic celebrities at some length before engaging in the finer points of "Call of Duty" on the XBox with the thirteen year old son living in this home. Around two we made our way to a nearby house for a Brazilian barbecue. 

This city is large and industrial. As a result, most people live in towering apartment complexes. Few have houses with lawns and such. It was thus a privilege to be entertained at a real house today. The party was well underway when we arrived. Beef, chicken, and sausages were cooked over wood coals in an outdoor oven. Rice, bread, and a variety of fresh vegetables shared the table with them. I took a modest plate of food, and was roundly chastised for failing to take enough. I ate more. Then dessert began. Before we had finished, the other Americans and I had been subjected to at least six different desserts. God rest her soul, my grandmother used to insist that one should eat at least a little of every dish one is offered. I am not of a delicate constitution, but by the time the seventh and eighth desserts arrived, I could eat no more. I asked for a cup of coffee and was given something the color of the Mississippi River and the consistency of mud. To the horror of those present, I drank it without sugar. 

As I sipped my coffee, several men rehearsed music for Mass this evening, and Andrea, our translator from two nights ago, tried to force the girls to sing translations of the songs. One must practice, I suppose, but I quickly grew bored. Christian music so often feels forced and inorganic. It is almost as though the composers feel guilty about liking something other than Gregorian Chant, so they try to make restitution by singing about Jesus. As they finished a song, I asked them to sing something typically Brazilian. The men, with guitar and drum happily obliged, and played several sambas. Immediately a dance floor was cleared. The women danced. Men created makeshift percussion instruments - a glass bottle tapped with the blade of a knife, a beer can with rice inside, hands on the table. It was incredible, beautiful, full of life, good, wholesome, holy, and altogether Brazilian.

As I watched, I thought, "I wish my dad were here."  In my formative years on the ranch, this was how our community gathered as well. Women cooked and gossiped. The children played games with rules only they understood, and the men made music to accompany all of it. Food was plentiful, drink abundant, and neighborliness the air we breathed. This common life, this sharing of self, gave shape and definition to an otherwise nebulous concept of "community." 

In the same way, even though I am with people half a world away from my family, my parish, and my home, in moments such as these, I am reminded that I am a part of something bigger than myself. I am a member of a Church, and of Christ's body.  For this reason, I can be certain that when I rejoice, God's Holy People rejoice with me. When I mourn, they likewise mourn. No man, not even an introvert like me, is an island, no Catholic is ever alone. 

The community that is the Church finds her origin in our shared reception of the Holy Eucharist, which we will do later tonight. This unity, however, finds expression in a multitude of ways - a visit to a sick friend, a kind word to a stranger, a meal for a beggar, or a party for a pilgrim American.  In these we are much more than South Dakotan, or American, or Brazilian. In these things, we are Catholic.