Las Vegas priest’s journey spans 2 states, 3 languages — VIDEO
Sunlight is just starting to filter through the palms east of St. Joseph's Catholic Church in downtown Las Vegas when The Rev. Courtney Edward Krier begins his day.
At 7 a.m., the priest's floor-length black cassock sweeps along the courtyard of the church on the corner of Ninth Street and Ogden Avenue as he pours out old holy water in preparation for his first Mass of a long day. Back inside, he fills the large, silver pot with water from the kitchen tap and carries it down a narrow hallway and into the elaborate church, where it is placed by the door and blessed for use by congregants in ritual purification as they enter the church.
This as all Sundays will be busy for the middle-aged priest, who has led the mostly low-income, largely Hispanic and Filipino congregants of Saint Joseph's for 23 years. It's a day that includes four Catholic Masses in three languages in two states, the hearing of confessions and serving food to the hungry even as his own stomach remains empty. A long day of spirituality and ritual dedicated to God, punctuated by the workaday mechanics of serving man.
Latin Mass
The day's work is unrelenting in part because Krier is one of the few priests in the Las Vegas area willing to celebrate Latin Mass, which many Catholics moved away from after the Second Vatican Council of the 1960s.
Saint Joseph's is one of seven churches in the Las Vegas area that identify as "Catholic," but are not recognized officially by the Roman Catholic Diocese of Las Vegas or by Rome.
"We are what you once were. We believe what you once believed. We worship as you once worshiped," a church flier reads, explaining its departure from the modern church.
That means that other than Bible readings in English or in Spanish, all masses are said in Latin.
The congregation describes itself as traditional Catholic. Casual dress is considered inappropriate, woman are expected to cover their heads and communion is received exclusively by the priest.
Krier's rare, conservative service calls him to serve multiple, scattered communities. He doesn't mind.
"I'm here for the faith, right?" he proclaims.
"What does he (God) want of you?" he remembered asking himself as a child. At 14 years old, Krier left his home in Ohio for a seminary in Germany. He returned to the U.S. to take over Saint Joseph's in 1993, when the priest who founded the church in 1982 was diagnosed with leukemia.
"Ever since then, I've been trying to take care of the people here," he said. Once you recognize your calling, "you know what you have to do," he said before entering the confessional ahead of the 8 a.m. Mass. A man follows, opening the inconspicuous white door. A red light flashes on.
Church volunteer Robert Taylor takes over, leading the congregation in a prayer.
"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee," Taylor repeats from the front row, his head bowed.
As people enter the church, usher Michael Jungers greets them with a smile.
A boy, about 3 years old, comes in with his mother and two younger children. He takes a fistful of the recently blessed water and pats his forehead four times, mimicking his mother's sign of the cross.
"He doesn't let the grass grow under his feet," Jungers said of Krier's demanding schedule, before taking his seat in the back row, his rosary tangled in his fingers.
"He's usually very punctual at 8 o'clock" for low Mass.
This morning is no different.
'Here for good'
At 8 a.m. sharp, two altar boys enter through the adjoining kitchen door and light two foot-long candles on either side of a large crucifix.
"Ding! Ding! Ding!" A bell rings, and Krier emerges in a bright green vestment. A gold embroidered cross stretches from the nape of his neck to his ankles as he kneels to pray before the candlelit altar.
"It symbolizes hope," he said later, explaining the symbolism of the color green.
He tells his congregation of about 40 to sit. The wooden pews, worn dark from long use, creak as they do.
"We are here for truth. We are here for good," he starts.
Midway through the ceremony, attendees line up for communion, on their knees facing the altar.
The 57-year-old priest walks along the line, placing communion hosts on waiting tongues.
At 9 a.m., the service concludes, and Krier darts through the kitchen to go around the church and greet worshippers as they leave through the Ogden Avenue entrance.
"I try to reach as many people as I can," he says with a grin.
Still wearing his vestment, he takes a moment in the shadows of downtown Las Vegas' casinos and hotels to pick up discarded cups and bottles left by the homeless against the walls of his chapel.
A member of the congregation stops to kiss his trash-filled hand.
"The most wonderful person I know," said a woman on the street. "When you feel bad, he makes you feel good."
Most mornings there's only a half-hour break for coffee before the priest must return to work, hearing confessions before the second service.
On this morning, a visibly disturbed young woman interrupts him as he chats by the church's back door, asking for a cup of coffee.
It's the only day the church does not serve breakfast, but Krier insists on feeding the woman. He hands her a sandwich and a white Styrofoam cup filled with coffee.
The church begins to fill for the 10 a.m. high Mass. Some people arrive with folding chairs in hand, expecting a packed house.
Music, ornate clothing and rows of glowing, white candles make for a more elaborate service. Ushers direct a few women unfamiliar with the church to a sign bearing a passage from 1 Corinthians 11:13. "Judge for yourselves: is it proper for a wife to pray to God with her head uncovered?"
Through the sea of black and white lace, Krier reappears, this time in a dark-green vestment with a gold baroque design. He sings in Latin along with the choir and the congregation.
Incense permeates the small crowd of about 25 churchgoers. Disappointed at the low attendance, he later blames street closures and weather.
When not celebrating Mass in Latin, the priest repeats the same announcements and Bible readings from the morning service in English.
After a short break, the priest, who is fluent in English, Spanish and German, celebrates a better-attended Spanish-language Mass. Then parents gather in the kitchen for pastries and coffee while their children take an hour of catechism class.
On the road
At half-past 2 p.m., lunchtime has come and gone for others but not a bite for the busy priest. Krier and Taylor rush from the church and climb into a sedan.
They have 90 minutes to make it 110 miles to Needles, Calif.
Let's just say the Lord was with Taylor that day. No speeding tickets are written. In fact, in eight years only one traffic cop has interrupted their journey. He issued only a warning on condition the priest would pray for him.
They make it to a converted garage on the outskirts of Needles with time to spare. At 4 p.m., approximately 10 people gather for Mass.
Gail Cohenno, a church regular, donated her side yard for the tiny place of worship.
"She offered the land, and we built the church," Krier said.
Turnout is about average for a Sunday, and that's a concern. Most of the Needles congregants are elderly, and the future of the remote outpost of the Latin Mass is uncertain. If the group drops below five, Krier can no longer justify the trip.
At 5:02 p.m., after five wardrobe changes and 10 hours of work, the priest is ready for his only meal of the day. In the gathering darkness he walks to Cohenno's modest home, following the scent of chili in the wind.
"Every Sunday we have dinner for Father," she explained.
With a bite of Cohenno's homemade salad, the priest's fast comes to an end. An hour of conversation over dinner ranges from topics such as water rights and hometowns before the priest and his driver, with Monday lunch in brown bags, return to the highway for the long ride home.
They'll do it again next week. And the week after. And the week after that.
"We keep on going, because it's our life," Krier said.
Contact Kimberly De La Cruz at kdelacruz@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0381. Find her on Twitter: @KimberlyinLV
