A HIGHER CALLING: PROMOTION FOR PRIEST CREATES SOUL-SEARCHING.

Byline: Beth Barrett Daily News Staff Writer

The Rev. Tom Rush had a score to settle.

His weapon of choice was a red cone filled with confetti, concealed in a side pocket. His target: Elizabeth Ramirez, 10.

Earlier, in front of the churros stand at the annual Mary Immaculate fiesta, Ramirez had ambushed with confetti the only pastor she has ever known, the one she begged to give her first Communion, the one she beats at thumb wrestling, the one who ``makes me happy.''

Nevermind that Rush was responsible for the fiesta's 30,000 revelers, for 8,500 congregants, for the Northeast Valley's social justice movement. Forget that he was soon to head for Rome on an important ecclesiastical mission.

He had a child to love.

A child he won't be able to watch as she grows up.

Rush is leaving his parish - his beloved stewardship of Masses, Communions, baptisms, weddings, last rites, confessions, prayers and fiesta fund-raisers.

``It's a kind of death. It's deeper than sentimental,'' Rush said.

But Rush is leaving, albeit reluctantly and with heavy heart, because his order has found another calling for him.

A lot of priests would be flattered by a promotion to a leadership post in the international order of Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate.

Rush agonizes over it.

In 1970, Rush took his perpetual vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. So he will leave the Remick Avenue church July 19 for what's anticipated to be an administrative job overseeing the order's regional business.

Rush's sense of loss is shared by his parishioners, many of whom talk of his departure as if it were a death in the family.

``But, why must you go?'' asked Eduardo Garcia last week as Rush prepared to serve Communion to the stroke victim at his home. ``We're going to miss you so much. So many people are!''

``Yes, that's the hard thing,'' Rush gently told the 63-year-old parishioner. ``It's one of those things.''

Mission of comfort, hope

Rush will be leaving the crowds that have gathered nearly 2,000 times at Mary Immaculate Masses to draw strength from his words, comfort from his touch, hope from his example.

On April 5, he told the congregation, looking out at thousands of lives, years of memories.

It was then that Rush was struck by what he was leaving: last rites at midnight, long talks with gang members, the struggle to pay for the renovation of an earthquake-damaged church.

He will no longer be there for the line of anxious men and women outside the pastor's door on Monday mornings.

``I love these people,'' he sighed.

The Rev. David Ullrich, his superior in the western province, said he asked Rush to consider the post partly because he believes the pastor has the vision the order needs to serve more people throughout the country and partly because he believes Rush, like all priests, needs change.

``Father Rush was worn out.''

Even Rush acknowledges the shift represents a break from the rigors of parish life, a relief from the intense pressure that comes with embodying the spiritual center of a community in need.

While Rush can rationalize the decision, he has trouble convincing his heart.

``I told them I really could see staying on here another two or three years,'' said Rush, who, at 52, has a white head of hair and beard.

``There is no priest without a community. The two parts have to go together. Here they exist in a special way.''

The parish

Mary Immaculate draws most of its members from poor Latino neighborhoods of the Northeast Valley. Many are immigrants from Mexico or from Central and South America seeking new ties.

Marlon Orozco and his aunt fled the instability of war-ravaged Nicaragua about two decades ago. His mother had died, his father had disappeared. He was 10 when he met Rush, then at Santa Rosa Parish in San Fernando.

``He sacrificed a lot of times for me,'' said Orozco, 27, who lives near the church with his wife and daughter.

``I lived in Granada Hills, and he'd take me home almost every night. He'd say, let's go get something to eat, even though he wasn't hungry, because he knew I was from a poor family. He trusted me. I didn't want to lose that trust.''

When Orozco was confirmed, Rush agreed to become the boy's godfather as he has done for other parish children.

``I'll miss him,'' Orozco said.

For David Van Hart, it's Rush's Masses that are special. There are times when it seems Rush is speaking directly to him.

Cecelia Barragan can't count the number of times she's walked through Rush's open office door. The visits have transformed her into both a church and community leader.

``He believes in the very core of who I think I am or want to be.''

The Irish-American has the ``guts and soul'' of a Latino, allowing him to connect with his parish, Barragan said.

``He captures the essence of the culture. He can feel with the people.''

What Rush always sees ``is the tremendous amount of good there is in people. It's almost as though we can't run away from goodness no matter how hard we try.''

A stranger in the parish

Rush was the outsider when he came to the parish in 1992, uneasy in a new place. His years in San Fernando with its close civic structure hadn't prepared him for Pacoima, a community far removed from its civic center and a place that had seeped into Rush's mind as a haven for mayhem after dark.

``This area had such a bad reputation. You hear all the stories, you're not sure.''

In neighborhoods where nearly three-quarters of the adults don't have high school diplomas, his double undergraduate degree in philosophy and theology from the University of St. Thomas and the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome didn't seem to matter much.

The natural entree into such a community was through the catecheses, prayer and Bible study sessions, in homes. But there were only four when he arrived.

Mass was distant and formal. To make matters worse, the sanctuary was such that a large portion of the crowd had to sit apart.

A missionary priest is supposed to be adaptable, to be all things to all people. He searched his past for clues that might help.

He grew up in a tiny town in the eastern shadow of the Cascade Mountains in Washington, where he'd picked grapes and worked in the sugar beet fields. He had gone to Rome for his education. From there, he moved to a parish in Mexicali, a desperately poor Mexican border town. He'd been humbled by the peasants, including an old woman who made sure he always had a cup of coffee - even if it meant borrowing one from a neighbor.

``I thought I knew what everyone needed. The people listened, then said, that's very nice. Now can we do it our way? I began to see the other side.''

As he did in Mexicali, Rush asked his parishioners to teach him.

``The needs in the parish are legion,'' said Sister Carmel Somers, chairwoman of Mary Immaculate's school board.

Those needs strengthened Rush, many parishioners said.

Within two years, the number of home meetings had more than doubled, the congregation grew, and the community got involved in projects from gang prevention to abandoned car removal.

Fighting for the community

The Northridge Earthquake on Jan. 17, 1994, could not have come at a worse time, or done more damage. The school was practically demolished, the sanctuary unfit for services.

Tarps were tacked together for the first Sunday Mass. The congregation was anxious. Many had been sleeping in the open air, rather than endure the aftershocks in apartment buildings or old, stucco homes.

People were angry because some shopkeepers had begun charging up to five times the normal price for milk, water, charcoal, gas and other necessities. They looked to their priest.

Since 1988, Rush has been a force in Valley Organized in Community Efforts, a group of area pastors, rabbis and community leaders who use a nonviolent but confrontational approach to challenge existing power structures.

``I have a resistance to fighting, but you have to try to be true to people and to yourself.''

Rush led 30 people on two weekend protests to the stores, bringing along witnesses. Ultimately, the owners agreed to stop overcharging.

When voters were about to approve Proposition 187 to deny most public services to illegal immigrants in 1994, affecting many in the Pacoima area, Rush carried a small American flag as he marched in front of 1,000 people down Van Nuys Boulevard in protest.

``If it had just been me, I think the fear would have won out,'' he said.

The following year he and 150 others confronted U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service district director Richard Rogers, demanding quicker citizenship processing and winning a promise to try.

Masses, held under a circus tent during the renovation, grew larger after the new sanctuary opened in December. More families began to hold weekly catecheses until more than 600 people were squeezing into 40 homes each week. A few were started in English.

Where the old church held 650, the new has room for 1,200.

On Easter Sunday, about 12,000 people attended 10 Masses.

The priest's future

Rush's biggest fear is that his new post will have him sitting at a desk somewhere, talking to other priests about clerical tasks - far away from people.

``My sadness is filled with all these uncertainties.''

No one expects that scenario to come true. Ullrich knows Rush would never stand for it.

And while Rush describes his likely future job as working with a a few Oblates on the West Coast from an office in Arleta, other priests and nuns see him stretching his arms across the priestly and secular community.

The Oblates, like most orders, are dwindling. The community, not unlike Pacoima, needs encouragement and inspiration.

Rush was able to lift up many in Pacoima. Perhaps he can help raise the order, too.

``The more talented men are being placed in important roles for the survival of the Oblates in the U.S.,'' said the Rev. Andrew Sensenig, who has worked since his ordination a year ago with Rush and will be moving to Santa Rosa Parish in San Fernando.

The Rev. Paul Ouellette will replace Rush, moving from St. Ferdinand's Parish, also in San Fernando.

Within the order, Rush has an international reputation.

``He is an Oblate held in high regard, partly because he was trained in Rome,'' Sensenig said. ``He knows who is who, and what is what all around the world.''

Rush doesn't have much zest for church politics per se.

``I'm radical in my belief that institutions have to serve people.''

Yet Rush has been selected as part of a 10-person delegation to the Vatican this fall to elect the order's new superior general, replacing Marcello Zago, an Italian elevated to archbishop.

``It is a very big honor for Tom,'' Sensenig said.

Priests believe they are called by God to undertake tasks and journeys, to change the course of their lives, to sacrifice their personal visions.

There is a hermitage in the desolation of central Texas called Levshomea, or ``the listening heart.'' Priests can go there to try to discern God's will.

Rush is considering such a pilgrimage.

``It's like you are a plant, and the roots go down to a point where your reality touches a different reality. You're connecting with something much greater.''

There, the sorrow of losing the place the people of Pacoima gave him may be eased. It cannot be erased.

Rush knows that a missionary is supposed to move on once his work is done.

``Still, it tears something in you.''

CAPTION(S):

5 Photos

PHOTO (1 -- color) The Rev. Tom Rush offers birthday greetings to parishioners.

(2 -- color) Eduardo Garcia receives Communion from the Rev. Tom Rush at his home after a stroke left him paralyzed and unable to attend Mary Immaculate Catholic Church in Pacoima.

(3 -- 4 -- color) Above, the Rev. Tom Rush chats with 10-year-old Elizabeth Ramirez during the annual Mary Immaculate fiesta. At right, Rush receives hugs from parishioners after celebrating Mass at the Pacoima church.

(5 -- color) The Rev. Tom Rush

Gus Ruelas/Daily News