On a brisk fall evening in October of 1980 I did something I had never done before and would never do again: I went racoon hunting! For seven hours that night, I went walking hills and hollers in Magoffin County in Eastern Kentucky.
Some background might be helpful. I was in year two of my first mission assignment in Eastern Kentucky after ordination. The “parish” that pastor Father Tom McElhinney and I were serving consisted of six counties—a larger area than the state of Delaware! The main church was in Morehead (Rowan County) while two smaller chapels in West Liberty (Morgan County) and Owingsville (Bath County) served the surrounding counties.
At the top of the hill in West Liberty sat one of our mission churches: Prince of Peace Chapel—-a converted double-wide trailer.
Sunday Mass attendance at Prince of Peace varied from 35 to 50 people depending on the weather. Even a small amount of snow or a heavy rain rendered the chapel inaccessible.
One family in particular were “every others”—that is, they would attend Mass every other Sunday or so no matter what the weather. They lived just outside of Salyersville, in Magoffin County. One particular Sunday as people were congregating outside after Mass, I overheard some of the men talking about going raccoon hunting the upcoming week. I did not have a clue of what I was getting myself into, but I wanted to get to know them better than simply a fleeting conversation. I asked if it would be ok if I tagged along. They smiled and one said with a devilish grin, “Of course!”
And so on the following Thursday I drove to a designated spot, met the small group at 10 pm, and then watched as they unloaded their dogs. For the next seven hours we walked up and down the hills, stopping only briefly in the middle of the night to build a fire and warm ourselves.
It was a night I will never forget!
One experience, however, stands out and captures the whole night. About an hour into the hunt with the dogs barking in the distance—the sound echoing throughout the hills—one of the men turned to me and said, “Have you ever heard a prettier thing in your life?”
That October walk through the hills and hollers was instructive on many levels but most important was: a missioner must be cross-cultural. In a metaphorical sense we as missioners walk with those in our missions and simply to listen to who they are and learn what they value.
Some of our congregations reflect the multicultural and universal nature of our Catholic Church: families are from the United States, Mexico, Philippines, Italy, Peru, El Salvador, Vietnam, and India. For example, Holy Trinity Church in eastern North Carolina is small by most Catholic standards—70 families. But each of those cultures is there.
Let me conclude with another story. I spent nine years as a mission pastor in southeast Arkansas. One of my ministries was being part of a group that started the Oasis Homeless
Shelter in Warren, Arkansas. For five years I chaired its board of directors.
On a cold, gray December day I conducted a funeral service for a local man who had recently been a resident at the Oasis shelter. He was not Catholic, nor were any of the handful of people who gathered for the graveside service. As I looked around the group I thought to myself—different cultures, all ages, various stories—this is exactly what it means to be a missioner!
