I went to church, and a budget meeting broke out.
The last time I genuflected in a Catholic church was at my Mom’s funeral mass three years ago. Father—what’s-his-name—met me and my two brothers in a sloppy office, his rectory next door to Saint Mary's, where my Mother prayed all her life. She was just past 80 when she died. She was a regular in that church—her church— and often relied on the kindness of others to ferry her there each Sunday as her days thinned from rib-sticking stew to translucent broth, a lifespan reducing in broad daylight.
Her parish priest did not know my Mother.
As she lay in state under a domed ceiling, encroaching stained glass and crosses everywhere, I fidgeted in the hard wooden pew, one of many repeating brown slabs on an enduring stone floor. I thumb the pages of the bible and do not create an inferno, which is good. Are there angels here, hovering? I surely hope so—it would be the best vantage point to witness the solemn geometry below. His vestments, hanging, rippling in the slanted light, the priest said his peace, my Mom asleep under a wooden canopy and fresh blossoms, primarily yellow, her favorite color:
Anita was a kind woman.
Her sons, here today, are a testament to her.
As are all of you.
She loved her God and her church.
Praise be the Lord.
Amen.
Ahem, I beg your pardon, Father Anonymous. My Mom merited—earned—a better send-off than that meager effort. I don't recall exactly what we paid for that service, but I do remember that we were owed a partial refund. Thankfully my eldest brother gave a stirring accounting of her life, a fitting tribute to a modest woman who stepped gingerly on the pages of time—her legacy that she left better than she inherited. We should all be so ordinary and magnificent in both the present and past tense.
Old gods are on the run. And so is this prodigal Son.
This past Sunday, I visited a new parish. I am on a personal journey, spiritual at its root, and my trail led me to the Church of the Assumption, a thick, brick building on a block-wide campus in a leafy neighborhood, just down the street from the best donut shop in town. I live now in a place of towering pines. Assumption’s steeple competes with this imposing horizon.
I meet a familiar face in the parking lot. It is reassuring, though I would have preferred to be unseen. Judge lest ye be judged—that sort of thing. I witness many genial greetings and handshakes, and some people hug bursting bags of groceries for the food drive. That is nice, I thought. My pantry is chock full of rigatoni and black beans. Next time…
Upon entering, as is the custom, I dip my fingertips in the holy water encased in an oversized acrylic tank, the water circulating clockwise. I double-check for guppies and minnows, and there are none—it is that big. So instead, I reminisce about a modest porcelain Virgin Mary in a cool, dark vestibule, her hands cupped and a small damp sponge. I am knee-high to leisure suited adults, and many of those faces have now been erased. Today, I am not a fish out of the water, but my tiny fish brain is a bit overloaded as I swim upstream amid memories, hoping to spawn a possible new beginning.
I sit in the back of the church—choosing to be seen and unseen. I watch the faithful file and sit. The pews are still uncomfortable, and I fidget and am small under the towering dome, held upright by large arcing beams. But, again, this must be the point. I kneel and acknowledge the power of geometry, symmetry, and serenity. I am centered on my knees.
I wrote a letter to Father Moore before visiting Assumption. In it, I wanted to know his stance on the recent demonization of Catholics and Christians in general. What was his style in the pulpit? Did he hurl fire and brimstone or checkboxes on a turn-the-other-cheek checklist? Was he a lion or a bookkeeper—iron or elastic? There is a heavy breeze storming as mass begins. A promising sign, perhaps?
I am told that Father Moore is “young, energetic" and that I would like him. I like many things: football, fried onions, thick socks, and speakeasy jazz, to name a few. But if need be, I can do without them all. What I am looking for here, now, is love, something irreplicable and vital. A few of the older parishioners grouse that Father Moore takes too long getting to the point, much like a baseball pitcher with unnecessary motion in his windup. I understand. What the old know and what the young don't is it's best to skip the foreplay and get to the fucking; delayed gratification—romancing time as opposed to acknowledging the depletion of time is a luxury only enjoyed by juvenile minds. Is that too crass a metaphor, especially when discussing Father Moore? My friend always reminds me that it's best to finish strong, as a Catholic or otherwise.
An hourglass is slow death for the old; they are sand.
I do not take communion. I don’t think I am permitted. I seem to remember a need for confession to qualify. I have not been to confession in decades, though I confess in the mirror as I shave each day. Shaving cream can only obscure so much truth. Sometimes I draw blood.
I watch a girl and her Mom as they walk to the communion plate. The pony-tailed girl in her red coat is no older than three. She mimics her Mother’s steps—one small, one large, one small—and her white patent leather shoes gleam. They giggle a bit playfully, and this ballet, this excursion, is pure, another metaphor in plain sight for all to witness. For me, I am nearly brought to tears.
And then Father Moore speaks:
“The kickoff to the Annual Catholic Appeal has begun! This year’s theme is "Together We Can be Christ to Others." The Appeal allows the Archdiocese to do together what one parish cannot do alone. Archbishop Etienne's letter to all parishioners addresses the church’s mission and how the Appeal supports him in that mission. Assumption’s parish goal is to raise $90,914. Any money received beyond that goal comes back to us as a rebate. Envelopes are available in the Gathering Space. Please take one home and consider giving to the 2022 Annual Catholic Appeal. Contributions may also be made online through the Archdiocese's different giving options or view videos from the Archbishop and other ministries supported by the Appeal. Faithful stewardship goes beyond our weekly commitment to our parish. What one parish cannot do alone; we can do together.
Thank you.
The Lord be with you.
~ And with your spirit.
May almighty God bless you,
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
~ Amen.
Go in peace.
And I do go, somewhat at peace and still restless. Coffee and donuts are being served in the gym. I defer. I don’t tolerate sugar as easily now. I follow two elderly women as they shuffle arm-in-arm into the rain, into their day, the sidewalk narrow and slick. I worry they may fall, slip, and break a hip. Maybe there is some hope for me, still. But, of course, a meandering heretic wouldn’t think like this, though impatiently, I sidestep them, making sure not to clip their canes and not to appear perturbed. After all, my pace, not theirs, interrupts my sleep.
I am forever restless, alone, and together, I conclude.
I’ll try the Presbyterians next week.