A moving ceremony even if the young participants didn’t fully appreciate its meaning

First Communion is one of the holiest and most important initiation rites in the life of a Roman Catholic, as the bread and wine consecrated during the Mass represent the continuing presence of Jesus on earth. Yet I’d bet pesos to doughnuts few if any of the adorable seven- and eight-year-olds receiving their First Communion at a nearby church on Saturday—the communicants—including Félix’s daughter Jessica, quite grasped the theological gravitas of it all. A few fell asleep during the long-winded ceremony while their relatives in the standing room in back of the church shuffled impatiently. No matter.

Such irreverent qualms aside, I couldn’t help be moved by the spectacle of 24 girls and 11 boys, all dressed in white and clutching bundles of gifts, wrapped in cellophane and gold ribbons, as they marched into the church like a choir of angels, accompanied by their padrinos or madrinas, to the music of a small but enthusiastic choir in the loft.

The difference in their numbers was but one difference between the girls and the boys. The girls wore hoop skirts that they daintily lifted off the ground as they walked, and sported veils and intricate hairdos some topped with tiaras. A few had hints of their first flirtation with makeup. Godmothers were similarly elegant, some in long gowns. Sequins and other glitter abounded.

Not so much with the boys, though, many of whom came with ill-fitting suits and ties askew, while some of the godfathers wore baseball caps or sombreros, work boots and other signs they’d taken time off work to attend this ceremony.

A Mexican-American friend who is a priest at a small Catholic church in Texas, near the border, told me the boy-girl discrepancy was to be expected. For centuries women have filled most of the church pews and given the most donations, particularly in a male-dominated countries like Mexico. Women sing in the choirs and take care of other routine church duties.

I once asked Félix about the degree of his religious fervor and he admitted that, perhaps typically, it was “más o menos,” even though his three children have received First Communion.

Presiding over the ceremonies was Padre Gerardo, whom I’ve seen leading this church for the past few years. He’s fifty-something, dark complexioned and bearded, with longish, slicked-back hair. Often he seems a bit haggard. Indeed, because of the critical shortage of priests in Mexico, the few remaining are left in charge of as many as nine or ten parishes, performing a marriage here, a funeral there or a First Communion down the road. Before the ceremony Saturday, I spotted Padre Gerardo hearing a young girl’s confession at a nook outside the church.

A couple of years ago, Stew and I saw him pulling up to the church in a tired-looking SUV, and announce his arrival with a couple of blasts from an ooga horn. It was time to get the Mass going.

The Padre’s homily was like a flyover of the New Testament, with stops at the Sea of Galilee; Jesus’s Baptism; the Last Supper and the Resurrection, not necessarily in that order.

“¡No se me duerman!—”Don’t doze off on me!”—the Padre admonished a couple of times, looking primarily at the boys.

After he consecrated the bread and wine, and distributed communion, first to the young guests of honor, and then to the rest of the attendees, it was time for the communicants to bring their offerings, or ofrendas, and deposit them at the foot of the altar.

Through the cellophane I could make out a disparate selection of items, from dishwashing liquid, instant mashed potatoes to toilet paper and candles, a bottle of wine and various brands of breakfast cereals.

Piled up at the front of the church the ofrendas seemed enough to keep a bomb shelter stocked for two or three months. I asked who got to keep all the ofrendas but didn’t get a definitive answer: Seminarians? Padre Gerardo? orphans? poor people? No one knew for sure.

Halfway through the Padre’s parting blessing a volley of fireworks went off nearby that resonated throughout the church like gunfire. Then the godparents and their trustees lined up at the front to have their picture taken with the priest.

I asked Félix if he and his wife wanted me to take their photo, but he was in a rush to get home to a waiting banquet of two grilled cabritos he had ordered, chicken with a delicious red mole, beef consommé, chips, tortillas, hot sauce and cake Stew and I brought for the occasion. And plenty of beer.

The following Monday Félix apologized for being seemingly short with me. I asked what he thought of Padre Gerardo’s homily but couldn’t remember any particular passage except it was too long-winded and his feet were killing him. Plus it was past his comida time and he was really hungry.

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