Our parish is very large, around the size of a mid-size Italian city. The territory is not that spread out but there are still many schools, even Catholics ones; there is a hospital and a clinic for neurological rehabilitation, a dozen or so nursing homes, many daycares (sides the 13 that belong directly to our parish). And finally the churches: 13 plus 4 minor chapels. Given the dimensions of the place, we divided the territory, even from a logistical point of view: I have a church where I regularly celebrate the Mass and two schools assigned to me where I go to visit and to teach a simple catechism lesson to the kids. A great parish, but in the end, even though it makes up a large part of the city of Bonn the effect is that of a larger town; it’s enough to go to the supermarket to see a neighbor or someone you know.
Some time ago, I was walking along saying the rosary while heading to celebrate Mass in a church that is quite close to our house. At the corner of the street, at the stoplight, two little kids who are returning from school walk by and greet me saying “Salam alaikum.” In the moment, I was flabbergasted but then I understood that, in their mind, a man dressed in black who is praying while walking must certainly be Muslim. In their neighborhood, but generally in all of Bad Godesberg, there are many Muslims.
Despite my limitations, what I try to bring, does arrive to them!
The thing sincerely left a bitter taste in my mouth and became a profound question for me: how is it possible that in our dear old Europe, a child who sees an adult pray must automatically think that he is Muslim? Here around our house there are different mosques, some large, some small and in some elementary schools, the Muslims arrive at over 80 percent of the children. But it was another fact, which happened immediately after, that made me lift up my head and leave behind the dark thoughts about the future of Europe.
Next to the church where I go to celebrate Mass is one of the parish daycares that I visit regularly. The children were outside and playing. When they saw me walk by, they immediately greeted me: “Hallo, Pater Nìcola!” My name is atypical in these latitudes, so they often mispronounce it by calling me Pater Nicolaus or Nicolai, depending on the variants.
Their greeting confronted me with another beautiful truth: the children in these schools, later in life, will have a chance to remember that there was a bald priest who visited them and told them stories about Jesus!
But that’s not all. The next day something happened that left even more of a mark on me. When I went to visit the other daycare, the one right by our house, a child, seeing me, greeted me by saying, “Hallo, Jesus!” Beyond the funny thing itself (the boy had just barely exaggerated), it struck me that the message had somehow gotten through to him: despite my limitations with language and children, what I try to bring, does arrive to them!
