Newman Center gets past the mirage of a
two-level desert world
By Arthur Jones
NCR Staff Palm Desert, Calif.
Deserts have a unique phenomenon:
the mirage. Sometimes what you see is not what you get. In the resort town of
Palm Desert, which abuts swanky Palm Springs, what you see on the corner of San
Pablo and Fred Waring Drive is an Old World-looking Mexican adobe parish
complex -- the Christ of the Desert Newman Center, where Holy Cross Fr. Ned
Reidy is chaplain.
The area exudes wealth. Everythings named after movie stars:
Bob Hope Performing Arts Center, Dinah Shore Bridge. Motor down Country Club
Drive and its mile after mile of country clubs -- golf course, houses,
club house, hotel; golf course, houses, clubhouse, hotel.
Happyland. Skies are blue, grass is sprinkler green, houses of
white stucco and roof of red tile.
Step through the mirage and it is a world like all others, of some
people in pain, of some searching for love or relief, for solid values in the
midst of materialism, or tranquillity, or God -- or all of the above.
Christ of the Deserts people are from all over. Reidys
a Chicagoan. Minnesotan Kathy McCarthy, a Glenmary sister in the 1960s, settled
here in the 80s with her two children to be near family after her
husband, John, died.
The Capitanellis -- mom, pop and the six children -- who spent
years on the road as a singing group and still do concerts, are from New
Jersey. The Caps and others who gathered in a barn for home
liturgies in the early years were Reidys spiritual guinea pigs at the
early Pathfinders Weekend Retreats.
In Palm Desert the mirage splits into a two-level world.
Theres an awful lot of big-time money here, says Bronx- born
handyman Vince Starace. Us poor guys, the support guys, were
waiting on these people. So were the ones with the kids.
Though his two sons are grown and hes a granddad, Starace,
an ex-New York policeman and former highly successful New York restaurateur, is
Christ of the Deserts youth minister, focused on junior high age
youth.
Its a real vulnerable age, he said. Some
of them only want to talk about what they have, how many big screen TVs, their
brand name clothes, the $200 sneakers. I wont let them. Its not to
be tolerated. But thats their level of values. And you can see the pain
in some of the other kids faces when they start.
What does he say to them?
Im not a psychologist, not a preacher, said
Starace. I tell them my own story. Nineteen years of sobriety. I tell
them I keep myself in good shape, that Ive been in the back of the limo,
had the thousand-dollar suits with all the jewelry in the world. And been alone
and broke.
Where does God fit into junior high lives?
In most cases, he said, the kids families
make them come to church. It takes a while to trust, to start talking to me, to
start asking those honest questions. The why questions. Most girls are usually
a step beyond that, starting to develop their own spirituality, take their own
path. And once they get into high school they disappear.
Guys 12 to 17 -- theyre really at risk at that
age, said Starace, who owned the New York restaurant with his late wife,
a chef.
Not everyones from somewhere else. Soon-to-graduate nursing
student Matthew Ruiz and his extended, extensive family have lived in the
valley for generations.
I need church, I need religion, I need spirituality,
said Ruiz, whose next goal is to become a nurse anesthetist. At other
churches I went to, you never got to speak to the person next to you, rarely to
the priest. No attempts were made at welcome.
The Newman Center is hugs, and everyone knows
everyone, he said. Youre part of it. No one is on the outside
looking in. Its a privilege to be there.
Christ of the Desert, he said, has enabled him to be more open
with prayer. And in nursing, he feels called to lay on hands and offer to pray
with patients. His practicum is in an Adventist hospital, he said, where
religion is wide open, and its not uncommon to see a doctor praying
with the patient. Even classes start with a prayer.
More than 600 people attend the centers four weekend
liturgies, including Jim Leupold and his wife, Anissa. Though chaplain Reidy is
a Level 2 tennis pro, that isnt why real-life tennis pro Leupold
attends.
Its the community, the welcome, the
inclusiveness, Leupold said. Reidy and Leupold have never faced off
across the net -- though Reidy plays religiously and ferociously each
afternoon, even when the summer thermometers at 120 degrees.
Like much else here, even the adobe parish plant is a mirage.
Its actually a nicely but modestly converted warehouse with an attractive
walled garden (complete with fountain) that otherwise would be a parking
lot.
Theres the chapel, a bookstore, a couple of small meeting
rooms occupied from morning to night. The pastor has a minuscule pad/office,
and theres an equally modest equivalent next door for the spiritual
director, Holy Cross Br. Carl Sternberg.
The parishioners did the work of converting the warehouse with a
little professional help.
The first evening Reidy held services at the unremodeled
warehouse-church was Ash Wednesday. Two cops raided it. Seeing a steady stream
of cars heading for the warehouse, they thought there was gambling underway.
Reidy made them stay for Mass -- and the ashes.
He never did get them to come back for a Pathfinder weekend.
National Catholic Reporter, April 30,
1999
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