What did it mean?

God has a purpose for everything. What was He up to this time?

We Catholics believe in miracles. Legendary miracles, like the Immaculate Conception, the Resurrection, the Assumption of Mary, and the Shroud of Turin. Everyday miracles, like the transubstantiation of the Eucharist, inexplicable recoveries from mortal illness, the last-minute change of plans that saves a life. All manner of miracles, and usually, it's not hard to understand the reason behind those miracles.

Sometimes it is. A long time ago, while discussing the misadventures of the San Diego Padres, Bill James opined:

”I mean, I’ve found that a lot of times it is just damned difficult to figure out what The Old Booger is up to; I don’t know too much about it, but I was raised to believe in God, and there are a number of areas which I was led to believe were His assignment to which it seems He don’t pay as much attention as He might. He is, however, quite alert to punishing arrogance and re-instructing us in humility. In fact, I think this is the only one of His deific duties that He really enjoys, and I’ve found that He can be tremendously creative in accomplishing this task swiftly.”

I am having that problem with a miracle that I was blessed with. I can't figure out what God was trying to tell me on that Sunday afternoon in Washington D.C. at the National Shrine. I was attending Latin Mass there at the behest of my mother, and my then wife was with me. It must have been the Novus Ordo mass and not the traditional High Mass, because it only lasted about an hour, but while it was going on, the strangest thing happened. I began to understand what the priest was saying.

Any linguist worth a damn will tell you that you've finally, really learned the language when you get to the point where you can think in it. By that point in my life, I was a qualified Russian and German linguist, having learned the former at DLI and the latter on the streets of West Germany. I could think in both languages. Latin, however...no. I hadn't even mastered Spanish yet; despite having a Latina mom (who didn't speak Spanish around the house) I did poorly in the high school Spanish classes I took and eventually switched to Air Force Junior ROTC. I had tried to learn enough Latin in third grade to become an altar boy, but couldn't do it.

Somehow, though, I knew what the priest was saying, even though it was Latin. It was an ecstatic experience, and after the Mass I told my mother. She didn't seem surprised, but she couldn't think of any rational explanation. My wife brushed it off, told me I was imagining things.

Eventually I learned Spanish - enough to qualify as an Army linguist and make myself understood to my Mom and various waitresses, anyway - but not enough to comprehend the Mass in Spanish. I've been to other Latin Masses, and not had the same experience; it was all I could do to follow along in the missal. I've talked to different priests over the years, and none of them could tell me what the experience meant. It must mean something, though. I'm hoping before I shuffle off this mortal coil that God will let me know what He had in mind, because clearly, I'm too retarded and sinful to figure it out myself.