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“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.”
Herb didn’t arrive in time to say The Rosary, but he assuaged his guilt and mouthed the words silently along with the parishioners kneeling in the pews he saw in front of him. The holy water fonts were still full and cool. Delicately, he touched the water’s surface and felt the tingle. “Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.” Placed first on his forehead, then his heart and his left and right shoulders, his fingers retraced the paths of his youth and memories streamed into his mind in 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, although Herb admitted many things could change in thirty-five years. Luxury wasn’t a quality that immediately came to mind as he recalled the St. Bartholomew’s of his boyhood.
Today, he would sit somewhere other than right down front, maybe even on the outside, rather than the center aisle. Mom was no longer here and if he wanted to sit on the outside rows, he’d damn well do it. “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 he made The Sign of The Cross and sat down. Earlier than the majority of the worshipers yet to arrive, he pulled the kneeler down from its position at the back of the pew in front of his and winced as his knees yipped at the sudden weight. 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.” Herb folded his hands over the pew in front of him, his elbows resting on top. The cantor left the dais and individuals throughout the church began to sit down on the wooden seats, mothers scolding noisy children and families beginning to fill the rows. Muted conversations could be heard as Herb made an effort to pray. In nomine Patrius, et filii, et spiritus sanctus…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 Herb remembered from his childhood, although none of the words would come. The chills returned as he recalled the funeral of Tom Pryor, his best friend in high school/door-gunner in HMS-163, killed in a firefight while loading body bags in QuangTri Province, RVN. They’d gone in 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.
Silently, Herb moved his weight a little to accommodate his 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 him, 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 Herb assessed to be about three years old, staring rather contemptuously at Herb as she sat down. 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 Herb 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 Herb, her expression now a wary, unblinking mask.
Without thinking, Herb hooked his thumbs in the corners of his mouth, pulling outward to expose the contents as much as humanly possible, wiggled his tongue grotesquely and crossed his eyes. Instantly, the child screamed and crawled onto her mother’s lap, hiding her head and pointing at Herb. When Mom shot a nasty glance towards Herb, he raised both of his hands in his best attempt at 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. What am I going to do, Mom, snatch your little darling and run? If I timed it right, perhaps I could make it to the back of the church carrying my little prize package before Father O’Leary and some Knights of Columbus ushers beat me senseless. Even if I make it, what the hell am I going to do with a brat like her? I don’t even like the kid!
Maybe you’d feel better about the whole thing if you could convince Dad to come with you. Oh, you say Dad’s sleeping in this morning? Well, into every life a little rain must fall, I guess… so why don’t you turn around and stare at the Missalette or memorize today’s responses or something? The fun is over, dear, I’ve got some serious praying to do. Herb folded his hands in front of his face and closed his eyes. Well, that’s one person I can cross off my list during The Sign of Peace… Nothing’s easy these days. A guy can’t even come to church without pissing someone off. Note to Herb: 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 finally made their way down the aisles, followed by the priest and servers who would assist at Mass. Herb didn’t recognize the hymn being sung, but it didn’t matter because he wouldn’t have sung even if he had. He’d been blessed with a voice capable of forcing wandering dogs to his side, whereupon they would begin to howl in recognition of his tenor. People were known to physically cover their ears, after first staring at Herb with incredulity. ‘Good God, Henrietta, is that him screeching? I didn’t realize a human could produce sounds like that.’ No, singing wasn’t for Herb, although occasionally he did chant the responses along with the cantor, if they included no more than three notes and were situated in a part of the octave scale that would accommodate his range… or lack thereof.
Try as he might to recall exactly why he’d come today, the reasons suddenly melded with 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, Herb 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 definitely is no Pygmy!
Eloquence became the order of the day as the Mass proceeded. The Penitential Rite gave way to the Gloria and The Liturgy of The Word; and the man performed without a glitch, a stutter or a cough. His homily was short (a redeeming quality in Herb’s estimation, since he spoke very little Swahili-English), and the service seemed to be progressing ahead of schedule. Thank you, Jesus.
“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.” The sound of parishioners dropping to their knees flooded the otherwise silent 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, I know you’ll proceed. Two thousand years of tradition can’t be broken simply because the parishioners don’t get it…
“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 that I can take with me! On the Christ-Worthiness Scale, I think my rating would probably fall somewhere between Judas Iscariot and the Culbersons’, 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 Salt Lake Olympic judging system, I wouldn’t make the finals; not a snowball’s chance in Hell to medal. Actually, upon second thought, maybe a snowball’s chance in Hell is appropriate.
The line formed to receive Communion and Herb took his place, suddenly aware of the absence of pushing and shoving. Not a single person in front of him had impatiently looked around to see why the line was moving so slow. Was this some sort of trick? Americans just didn’t allow themselves to be hindered in their quest, under normal circumstances. And why was the ‘tingle’ starting to go through him again, as he neared the Altar rail? A slight breeze blew across his face as he stepped up to the waiting priest.
“The Body of Christ…” He held the wafer out to Herb.
How can a man’s eyes be dark as coal yet warm as a tropical breeze? It had been so long since Herb had been in church that he didn’t know that most people no longer accepted The Eucharist on their tongues. Today, Herb looked into the eyes of Jesus. They compelled him to open his mouth and his heart, and for a few seconds, nothing else existed.
“Amen”, he whispered as the wafer touched his tongue. For the first time in thirty-five years, Tommy Pryor’s casket didn’t appear and Herb really felt alive.
Bob Church© February 2002
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