Altared States

“O my Jesus, have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell. Take all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy. Amen.”

I didn’t arrive in time to say The Rosary, but I assuaged my guilt by mouthing the words silently along with the parishioners kneeling in the pews in front of me. The Holy Water fonts were as I remembered them, full and cool; delicately, I touched my fingers to the water’s surface and felt the tingle. “Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.” Placed first on my forehead, then my heart and my left and right shoulders, my fingers retraced the paths of my youth; memories streamed into my mind, a kaleidoscopic frenzy. “To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.” The carpet appeared new. I don’t know why this surprised me; things change over the course of the thirty-five years that elapsed since I’d last come here. However, luxury wasn’t a quality that immediately came to mind as I recalled the St. Bartholomew’s of my boyhood. The Dominicans who looked after the parish saw to it that frugality became the virtue by which we were judged. I hadn’t stepped inside the vestibule since—well, since Tommy’s funeral.

Today, I would sit somewhere other than the front tier of pews, somewhere in the back and on the outside aisle. Momma could no longer decide where I might choose to rest. “Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us and after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” Genuflecting in obedience and respect to the Altar, again I made The Sign of The Cross and sat down near the end of the bench. Earlier than the majority of the worshipers yet to arrive, I pulled the kneeler down and winced as my knees yipped at the sudden weight. Recollections of VA physical therapists danced through my mind, images of faceless white tunics forcing my knee to bend. Well, one thing hasn’t changed... the kneelers are still as hard as ever.

“O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.” I folded my hands over the pew in front of me, elbows resting on top. The cantor left the dais and pews throughout the church creaked as worshipers sat down on the wooden seats. Mothers scolded noisy children and families slowly filled the rows. Muted conversations confused my efforts at prayer. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto…then what? It’s no good, I don’t remember my Latin any more… Glory Be to the Father, and… how’s it go? Damn… forgive us our sins as we forgive our… no, that’s not right, either.

The organ softly played a background hymn that I remembered from my childhood, although none of the words would come. An unexplainable chill passed through me; suddenly I envisioned Tom Pryor’s casket. Tom was my best friend in high school/door-gunner in HMS-163, killed in a firefight while loading body bags in Quang Tri Province, RVN. We’d enlisted together; ‘The Buddy System’ they called it. Yea… the buddy system… sign up now and we’ll do everything humanly possible to see that you and your buddy get a free pine box, courtesy of the U.S. government. The organ music alone caused the funeral scenes to replay every time I heard it, so I quit going to church shortly thereafter. All the mumbo-jumbo and hocus-pocus in the world couldn't bring Tommy back to life, or me back to church. Yet here I sit. Why am I here, God? This is a mistake, I shouldn't have come. I don't know a soul here. You’ve let me wander for thirty-five years, why am I here now?

Silently, I moved my weight a little to accommodate my now howling left knee, the one with the plastic kneecap. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. A young mother sat down in the pew in front of me, dressed elegantly in a blue two-piece skirt and jacket combination with a white silk blouse underneath. Her daughter toddled along beside her, a cute little blonde girl whom I assessed to be about three years old. The kid stared contemptuously at me as she sat down. Precocious. The intimacy of kneeling behind another person’s seat left little room for establishing a buffer zone. Relax, sweetie, I won’t hurt you. Mom sat down, smiling at me as she sat the bundle of blankets she’d been carrying on the seat next to her and found her own kneeler. Sweetie continued to stare unrepentantly at me, her expression now a wary, unblinking mask.

Without thinking, I hooked my thumbs in the corners of my mouth, pulling outward to open my mouth as wide as humanly possible and wiggled my tongue grotesquely as I crossed my eyes. Instantly, the child screamed and crawled onto her mother’s lap, hiding her head and pointing directly at me. When Mom shot a nasty glance towards me, I raised both my hands in my best mea culpa surrender. No offense, ma’am, I love kids, I really do… especially, medium rare with a nice Merlot or Chianti. Just kiddin’, honey, relax… we’re in church, for God’s sake. I won't steal her, I don’t even like the kid! Turn around and stare at the Missal or something, dear, I’ve got some serious praying to do. I folded my hands in front of my face and closed my eyes. Well, there's one less candidate for The Sign of Peace… Note to Bob: Check into that cult of Madeline Murray O’Hare-followers downtown—find out if they allow children at their meetings.

The procession of altar boys and deacons filed down the aisles, followed by the priest and servers who would assist at Mass. I didn’t immediately recognize the hymn being sung, but it didn’t matter because singing simply wasn't an option. Early on, I learned God had blessed me with a voice capable only of enticing wandering dogs to my side. At the tender age of nine, I gained the distinction of becoming the only boy ever removed from the choir for singing. People sitting close to me were known to cover their ears while staring incredulously. ‘Good God, Henrietta, is that him screeching? I didn’t realize a human could produce sounds like that.’ No, singing wasn’t for me, although occasionally I did chant the responses along with the cantor, if they included no more than three notes, sounded even marginally monastic and were situated in a part of the octave scale that would accommodate my limited range.

Once again, I tried to pray and to recall exactly why I’d come today, but the reasons suddenly melded into the pomp and ceremony. Ritual… pure ritual. The priest, a huge black man, elegant in his brocaded robe, marched solemnly by, his white collar contrasting starkly with his skin. As he progressed through the Introductory Rites, I noticed that even though the man’s English was obviously a second language, his words were clear and resonant and he worked without the aid of a microphone. I’ve heard we had a priest shortage, but I didn’t realize we were recruiting in Africa… Which part of the Belgian Congo is the current hotbed for Catholic seminarians, that village over on the east side of the river that ate Albert Schweitzer or the colony of reformed elephant poachers trying to find a way to keep from starving to death since Greenpeace went militant? One thing is sure… this guy is definitely not a Pygmy!

Eloquence flowed over the Mass today. The Penitential Rite gave way to the Gloria and The Liturgy of The Word; and the man-mountain performed without a glitch, stutter or cough. He shared with us a story from his youth, a parable of sorts, accounting for his own lack of faith in times without strife and his propensity to call upon God only when being chased by a wild beast or searching for food when it was scarce. Then, he patiently asked each of us to examine our conscience and bring our faith to test, to rely upon it when charting our course and determining our worldly goals. Even the jackals and hyena understood their purpose. His homily was short (a redeeming quality in my estimation, since he spoke broken English), and the service seemed to progress ahead of schedule.

“May the Lord accept this sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of His name, for our good and the good of all His Church.” Sacrifice? What do we know of sacrifice? Just because you dump a few bucks into a basket, it doesn’t necessarily make it sacrifice. How many of these people are late on their BMW payment because of this ‘sacrifice’? When was the last time that any of us missed a meal because of our devotion to God? Please… give me a break, here. We know little if anything of sacrifice. But, go on with what you’re doing. Two thousand years of tradition can’t be broken simply because the faithful don’t get it…

The sound of parishioners dropping to their knees flooded the otherwise silent church. “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” Man, you’ve got that right! Finally, something I can take with me! On the Christ-Worthiness Scale, my rating would probably fall somewhere between Judas Iscariot and the Culbertson’s, my neighbors down the street who sent their pedophile son to seminary hoping it would make him see the error of his ways... it didn’t. If this were the Olympics, I wouldn’t get past the Preliminaries in Mankind's Worthiness Decathlon; not a snowball’s chance in Hell to medal. Actually, upon second thought, maybe the snowball is appropriate. Long ago, my heart had turned cold to all but the basest of needs. Who could trust a God who’d take the deserving and spare me? Worthy I am not.

The line formed to receive Communion. I knew it was inappropriate for me to take Communion because I wasn’t in a state of grace, carrying the knowledge of un-atoned personal sin. I hadn’t bothered to go to attend Reconciliation, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I showed a contrite heart. Honestly, I got up because I didn’t want to inconvenience the other people who would have to step around me. Plus, my arrogance wouldn’t allow me to stay seated, feeling the eyes upon me, wondering why I wasn’t joining them. I grudgingly took my place, suddenly aware of the absence of pushing and shoving. Not a single person in front of me craned his neck to see why the line was moving so slowly. Was this some sort of trick? Americans just don’t allow themselves the luxury of patience.

The bas-relief Stations of the Cross lining the outside walls took on new meaning today. Why is Mary Magdalene staring at me? And why was the ‘tingle’ starting to run through me again as I neared the Altar rail? A faint breeze wandered across my face as I stepped up to the waiting priest.

“The Body of Christ…” It had been so long since I’d been inside a church, I didn’t realize that most people no longer accepted The Eucharist by mouth. The priest held the wafer out to me. How can a man’s eyes be dark as coal yet warm as a tropical breeze? What's happening to me? After pausing momentarily in acknowledgement of my fear, I looked into the eyes of Jesus. Although he’d never met me, he knew everything about me. Don’t be afraid, his eyes implored me. This special man, so unlike any other I'd encountered, with four short words offered me such sustenance and forgiveness that my inadequacies no longer seemed important. His eyes compelled me to open my mouth and my heart, and for a few seconds, nothing else existed.

“Amen”, I whispered softly as the wafer touched my tongue. Now, the eyes smiled. A rush of emotion unlike any before engulfed and transformed me; promising me riches I’d never hoped for, joy not yet realized and purpose previously unidentified. Charismatic images of this priest walking with Tommy flooded my mind. After thirty-five years of burden I couldn't comprehend, I released Tommy's casket and embarked upon my own journey of faith, blessed with freedom and understanding. Still not knowing whether I was lion, hyena or jackal, at least I knew I was again free to roam the savannahs. Thank you, Jesus.

Bob Church©2004