And so Father John concluded his talk and asked if we had any questions. A few kids raised their hands and asked a question or two. Why do you wear the collar? When these were answered, Father said the new acolyte team was being formed and asked who would like to join. Well, several of us stood up. A couple of boys hissed: "It is altar BOYS not girls, dummy" or "You can’t be an altar boy." Of course I was going to be an altar boy. My brothers and some of my friends were and I wanted to be one, too. I wanted to place the Bible on the altar, opened to the right page. I wanted to bring the chalice from the tabernacle to the altar. I wanted to ring the bells to tell people to strike their chests. I wanted to watch the mass from behind the priest. I looked to Father John and said "Tell them I can be one, Father. Tell them girls can do what boys can." After all, women had received the vote decades ago, entered the work force during World War II, tested body ownership in Roe vs. Wade and now were trying to pass the ERA.
Father John first paled from distress, either exasperation or remorse. Then a deep shade of red quickly spread from somewhere under his beard to just past his hairline. As I listened to an involved no, girls cannot be acolytes answer, I demanded to know "Why not?" Father John spent a minute or so explaining that it was a tradition set by Jesus with his twelve apostles who were all men. And I responded, asking "But what about Mary Magdalen?" Father said she wasn’t an apostle. And I responded, saying "But she was there, she learned from him, too." Father spent several minutes trying to explain, but it was of little consequence because the tears were already rolling down my face and it was only a few minutes before I was taken to the counselor’s office, where Sister Eileen attempted to calm the sobbing, heaving mass of tricolor plaid and white knee socks that I had become.
Eventually, my mother was called and I went home for the day. At home, I told my mother that I no longer wanted to be Catholic. "The whole church is stupid" was my response to the day -- a response holding all the insight of any eight-year-old. Still the response caused concern for my mother and it was only years later that I understood why. Without Catholicism, I would not know how to get through the day. There is little to guide us, but the stories from our childhood and no matter how we mature and add worldly complications to our daily lives, I see the world through Catholic eyes. After meeting with the Sister and Father the next morning at school, I resigned my fate to being Catholic although some days I wake and feel in my heart that I am Episcopalian; that I believe men and women are equals and can each perform the consecration that turns the wafer into the body of Jesus Christ. On these days I call my mother who always tells me that it is too late to be Episcopalian. And she is right.
The mythology of the Catholic Church transcends time, place and culture. It is how we understand the world and see ourselves. From the saints’ lives to Holy Wars to the awesome Papal Infallibility, school children listen intently to these stories: St. Christopher carrying Jesus on his shoulders, Joan of Arc loving Jesus so much that she would not forsake him over excruciating mortal pain, St. Francis forsaking wealth and nobility to serve the poor, St. Brigid surrendering her worldly wealth for a divine wealth. These stories, combined with the daily, weekly, yearly traditions formed our identities, taught right and wrong, and laid paths for daily life. For those with an attachment to St. Francis or St. Bridget, no animal, human or not, could ever be denied food or attention. For those attached to Joan or Christopher, there is no burden to great for Jesus or our loved ones.
Traditions are just as important as the stories because these show the practice and devotion to the Trinity and the Gospels. Each school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance and the Our Father or Hail Mary. Each day continued with lessons in math and science, religion and history. On Veteran’s Day, we remembered those who fought and died to preserve freedom and special prayers were said for them. In May, we crowned Mary and special prayers were said for her and for us. This is who I am. As an adult, I believe in miracles. I accept that science could save a friend from cancer just as easily as I accept Mary and Jesus ascended into heaven, body and soul. I do not question that God is of three parts or the Gospels were written decades (centuries?) after Matthew, Mark, Luke and John joined the heavenly father. These are things I take for granted, cherish and neglect as a modern person, as an American.
After the incident during Vocation Week, I suffered as all kids suffer on the playground. For the next five years, "be careful, Mary will cry" was a warning called out when homework was assigned, lunch menus were distributed or teams were chosen. I got over it – sort of. I prayed only to the Holy Mother and women saints. I wondered how they suffered for the love of Jesus and how they resolved the contradictions within the Church. I was comforted that it was an honor for priests to say mass for Mother Theresa. I only lit candles at Mary’s altar. I went to mass only for me, not for communal salvation, to see what I could take from the mass as a way of creating hope for myself and for those girls who would come after me.
Mass is the heart of the Church where the idea of communal salvation is reaffirmed week after week. Where we come to understand that we are not alone in the world. Each Sunday at 9:20, the whole family walked to mass, crossed ourselves with holy water as we entered the church, as we genuflected, and then crossed ourselves again as we kneeled to pray. Three crosses before mass even began followed by two Hail Marys for an acceptable kneel time before we could slide back onto the pew and wait for mass to begin. The church pews were long, seating almost ten people in each and I spent part of mass tracing the blackened lines in the wood with my nail, scraping away layers of wax or dirt. My eyes followed the arches in the ceiling to the stained glass window behind the organ loft and then down the front of the balcony over the sea of people.
During mass, my attention was split between the choir, the stained glass windows, and the altar. Guitars, a flute, an accordion, a bass, and many singers filled the church with the sounds of music. Sometimes there were tambourines. Stained glass windows lined the east and west walls and a great round window faced the South above the organ loft. Framed by the rows of arches running the length of the church were stories of saints made with mosaic pieces of glass and held together with lines of black lead. At 9:30 in the morning, the windows to the east shimmered with the morning sun. We always sat on the east side about three to five rows back. The altar was an amazing slab of marble raised three feet and readers walked up marble steps leading to the marble floor, which seemed to spread a hundred feet from the height of a child in the third pew. The marble altar was in the middle of this expansive floor and behind it were carpeted steps leading to three chairs – one high backed in the center and a low-backed on each side. To the left and right of the altar were three chairs with kneelers for lectors and acolytes. I spent part of the mass following the gray veins in the marble from the front to the altar, some veins stopped, some went to the sides, some reached the altar.
After mass, we headed out the main aisle and across the street to the school basement where adults had coffee and children played. During the week the basement was the lunchroom with rows of long tables and chairs. On Tuesday nights, it was where the Girl Scouts met and the Boy Scouts met on Wednesday. Several times a year, plays were held on the stage at the front and drinks were sold at the bar off to the side. When plays were held, the long tables were moved and additional chairs were setup theater style. But on Sundays, the adults drank their coffee and had coffeecake in the back of the room while kids ran around the front tables and up on the stage until an adult called for a rest. After a half an hour or so, we hurried home, so Sunday dinner could be started.
Mass was not for just for Sundays. If it was a Holy Day, we were there and sometimes twice, once with school and once as a family. Then there were the big saint days – Francis, Patrick and Joseph to name a few. There were different rituals for each – on St. Francis’ Feast Day the dogs were taken to the school yard where each received a blessing; St. Blaise found candles crossed at our throats to protect us from choking, St. Patrick’s Day hosted friends and family as stories were read and tales told and a pint was raised to Patrick during the abstinence of Lent; St. Joseph’s Day was truly a feast day with tables and tables of food beginning with breakfast, continuing through dessert and ending late at night as dreams of the custard-filled zeppolis danced in our heads. The string of masses during Holy Week contained the most impressive spectacles, beginning with Palm Sunday and the story of Jesus’ heralded entry into the city even as he knew he would not walk on Palms come the end of the week. On Holy Thursday, the Last Supper is reenacted and we leave knowing one of his apostles will betray him. On Good Friday, the walk to Golgatha occured with each station of the cross and our compassion increased with each fall, relief came as Simon carries the cross and Veronica wiped his face, and tears form as Jesus bequeathed his mother to John the Baptist. On Saturday night, the candle-light Vigil illuminated churches across the world waiting for the good news. And then Easter Sunday held the joy of his resurrection and our own salvation through it. Since the fatal vocation week, the time that passes between Good Friday, 3pm and Easter Sunday morning is filled with worry. I worry that the Second Coming will happen and we will not know it because God will return, as a girl, and no one will listen. Perhaps I worry too much or not enough for those forty or so hours pass and I worry, but do I listen afterwards for a soprano voice that could save the world?
Today, I find myself going to mass late on Sunday afternoon, mostly with the desire that some of the peace and hope of the mass will remain with me as I head into the week. This is often the case as the parking lot tends to be emptier and the drive home quicker and there is less frustrating traffic. By Sunday afternoon I have accepted that weekend time is gone and all that remains is to refuel myself for the week. And so, I go to church. It is in church, during mass, that a person can become something more than an individual moving alone through the world. Peace and salvation can be found in windows, altars, choirs, Gospels and homilies. During the handshake of peace to our neighbors, we join each other in the world and in salvation, extending the gift of peace. As a child the surroundings mesmerized me – the choir, windows and altar – but now I find myself listening to the readings, the homilies, the gospels. It is necessary to hear the words of the Old Testament that inspired Jesus and hear the words of Jesus that inspired so many. There is as much beauty in those words as the voices of the choir, the colors of the window and the gleam of the marble. It is the beauty of the Church that contains and satisfies me, telling me there is more to being Catholic than Papal Infallibility. This beauty lessens the indignities of the many because statements: girls cannot be acolytes because; women cannot be priests because. These reasons are simply polite versions of "because I said so." There have been no reasons that do not ease the pain as our heads collide with the gilded ceiling of the Church. The streams of light, harmony of voices, and wisdom of words calm the anger and grief that rises each time the bumps from the ceiling are thumped.
I sat in mass during Seminary Week as a priest talked of his experiences at the seminary and how he cherished his time there. I know it is important to support the seminaries and that the Cardinal instructed the parishes to talk about the needed support. I know that priests are essential to the Church, that I need them for more than just weekly mass. And when the Priest says "…and for all who hear the calling, the seminaries are a wonderful place…," I know I use every ounce of constraint not to stand up and ask "what happens when you hear the call and are not the right sex?" I know that would be inappropriate and a dishonor to my mother and myself. And so I sit in church as the priest continues and I look at the image of St. Brigid in the windows and I recall the story of the blessed milkmaid and how monks and abbesses looked to her for leadership and the great love and respect she is shown to this day. I find comfort in the story, in the depth of her faith, in the attention she received from God. The concern of traditions were not hers, she accepted her calling and was a faithful servant and leader. When there is nothing to take from the Homily or Gospels, I take the stories from the windows.