Two hundred forty years ago, on the first Wednesday in August, some two dozen Spanish soldiers clad in leather jackets dismounted their horses in the parking lot of La Playita Seafood Restaurant, just east of the Golden State Freeway, at the southern rim of Lincoln Heights; and "about eight heathen from a good village," which spanned the freeway's eight lanes, crossed North Broadway Boulevard to greet them. These Tongva brought offerings of coil baskets, pinole and shell necklaces, which they exchanged for Spanish gifts of glass beads and tobacco; then, taking notice of the Spaniards' three dozen Guaycuran and Cochimí servants, the natives retreated to their "delightful place among the trees on this river" in neighboring Cypress Park. All along the Spaniards' journey north from Baja their spiritual guide and chief diarist, Father Juan Crespí, had baptized virtually every significant piece of geography with the names of God's elect.

The previous day, August 1st, had been a day of rest and reflection, to commemorate St. Francis of Assisi's holy chapel, Nuestra Señora de los Angeles ("Our Lady of the Angels"), and the hovel where Francis lived and died, la Porciúncula ("the Little Portion").

Gazing now into the south-coursing river, nourishing the stand of cottonwood and alder which sheltered the welcoming Tongva, the Franciscan priest's thoughts flowed back to his Order's founder, and with the prayerful hope that something of the humble and impoverished saint's essence would befall his namesake site, he dedicated the land to the chapel and the river to the hovel: thus were christened El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles and la Porciúncula River.

As it happened, the Tongva were soon herded from their "good village" into forced labor under the successors to Father Crespí and his leather-clad soldiers; the cottonwood and alder became firewood and lumber for the imminent Spanish-Mexican settlers; the surrounding land was transformed, first into agricultural plots and grazing fields, then into industrial yards and humble housing; and the unwieldy river was cemented and tamed. This transformation, from a "delightful place among the trees," into the grimy gas stations, freight yards, freeways, and auto salvage yards which today rim the Los Angeles River, suggests that Father Crespí's invocation of St. Francis' vow of poverty and humility had, at best, certain unforeseen consequences.

Through succeeding generations, other saints have also found their way onto the Southern California topography, called forth to lend an air of legitimacy and grandeur to the continued supplanting of the natural balance.

As El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles has grown - and as its name has shrunk, to Los Angeles - the Anglo real estate developers directing that growth have continually sought a patina of history with which to cloak their newly-minted streets, christening them with the (generally Spanish) names of saints, thus to imply association with romanticized notions of our amber-cast Mission and Rancho past, or with the more venerable and elegant cities of Europe.

While the aims of these real estate developers certainly seem less lofty (and more lucrative) than those of Fray Crespí, nonetheless they similarly sought association with women and men whose stories many of us may not know, yet whose saintly stories endure because they possess the power to speak to our lives and our time with resonance. The singular ubiquity of saints' names on dozens of street signs in this City of Angels affords us the opportunity to reflect on the paths which brought us to this place in our history, and to consider the best course towards finally becoming a Community - what might truly then be called a Community of Saints. ™