A church is reborn

The church groups also put in a new lighting system and a sound system that eliminated the echo. In 2001, they installed church bells.

By 2003, most Masses were full.

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Mata, meanwhile, had found a church where "people know me and accept me as I am."

He marveled at how Zanotto used the Bible to deepen parishioners' understanding of family or social problems -- unlike priests in Oaxaca.

He devoted more time to St. Cecilia's. He and the priest became friends -- a new experience for Mata. He had learned to trust his abilities and to be a decision-maker. Now at St. Cecilia's, he has orchestrated cleanups, supervised the landscaping, helped organize the fair and planned repairs with other lay leaders.

So although the Masses that Mata helped organize looked traditionally Oaxacan, they were more a reflection of the person he had become in the U.S.

"This is the land of opportunities," he said. "People grow here."

Other lay leaders, such as Esther Ascencio, also found their faith deepening.

Ascencio, 34, had grown up in a village in El Salvador that was a 40-minute bus ride from the nearest church. She never considered taking an active role. At Mass, the poor sat in back, the wealthy up front.

Ascencio arrived in the United States 18 years ago, joining St. Cecilia's in the mid-1990s. She took a catechism class from Zanotto, who preached that priests were human beings who made mistakes and sometimes got discouraged.

"Here, we don't say I'm going to church," she said. "I am the church."

But 2003 also turned out to be the year that Zanotto was sent to New Jersey to run a Comboni nonprofit organization.

With Zanotto gone, the church's new pastor decided to do away with the monthly Masses in honor of each saint. But parishioners resisted. They met with the priest to oppose the change. He left after eight months. Another pastor who has allowed the groups the wide latitude they enjoyed under Zanotto took his place.

That "never would have been possible back home," Ascencio said.

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The Mass honoring the Virgin of Soledad ended with the rowdy strains of the Oaxacan Echo youth band.

"It's like having part of Oaxaca here," Mata shouted over the music.

As the last Oaxacan parishioners filed out of the church, Nigerian Igbos began arriving for their service.

Men in iboris down to their feet and women in flowing abada dresses and colorful head wraps made their way past Mexican fruit and corn vendors outside.

Zanotto, who still serves in New Jersey, recently returned to visit the church that gave expression to the ideas he formed in the Oaxacan mountains years ago.

St. Cecilia's showed "how the church could be, must be," Zanotto said. "Surely this is a school for how to live in the United States."

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sam.quinones@latimes.com