Holy Thursday Memories

I was born in 1963, and grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, in the heart of what many would consider to be "liberal Catholic land."  For example, I was a teenager before I realized that "Blowin' In The Wind" and "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" were not originally written as official Mass music.  And the homily at my youngest sister's First Communion dealt with the complexity of moral decision-making.  Specifically, it addressed the topic of French kissing.  I found this quite fascinating and asked my parents straight-away -- as soon as we got home -- what French kissing was.  My father rolled his eyes.  My mom explained.  She was pretty forward-thinking.  My father was pretty forward-thinking, too, but he left certain subjects to my mom.

Our parish was on the small side -- in both building size and number of members -- and I feel that I was blessed by this.  Most of the parishioners considered each other to be friends, and we were all well-acquainted with the pastor and associate pastors.  The atmosphere was very warm and intimate.  The smaller size of our parish also allowed for many wonderful social occasions that felt more like family gatherings than official church functions.

One of these social occasions was the annual potluck dinner that was held in the church hall after the Holy Thursday Mass.  Right after the altar was stripped and the Holy Eucharist was moved to the Altar of Repose (in the sacristy behind the main altar), we all proceeded to the church hall for this meal.  It was great fun!  Everybody was in a festive spirit.  There were casseroles (which I adored) and salads of all types (including of jell-o, which I also adored).  There was punch and coffee and many kinds of desserts -- cakes and cookies and pies.  My favorite part was to make my way around the food tables after everybody was done eating, and busy chatting, and help myself to the radishes that nobody ate.  There were always MANY radishes.  And I ate them all.  I still love radishes.  And I still get them all, because nobody in my family cares for them.

Now, some of you may look at all this with a disapproving eye.  Because -- as all good, traditional Catholics know -- after the Holy Eucharist is moved to the Altar of Repose on Holy Thursday, everybody is supposed to be solemn and crowd into the room in front of the Holy Eucharist and pray.  The last thing there is supposed to be is a PARTY, for Heaven's sake!!!

Well, frankly, the Holy Thursday shenanigans at the progressive parish where I grew up turned out to be one of the very best things for the preservation of my faith over time.  Because -- sometimes -- I just get fed up and want to throw in the towel.  And when I do get fed up, I am always drawn to the following memory:

Every year, after polishing off the radishes, while everybody else was chatting up a storm, I would wander over to the Altar of Repose in the sacristy behind the main altar.  It would just be me -- all by my lonesome.  I began doing this when I was probably about 7 or 8 years old.  I had been well-instructed (by my progressive Catholic nun teacher, nonetheless) in the Church's theology of the Eucharist, and I believed (and I still do believe) in the Real Presence.  The Altar of Repose was always quite lovely.  There were candles and Easter lilies and lovely altar cloths.  There was a little kneeler in front of the whole thing.  The room was dark, except for the candlelight.  And I would kneel down, the sweet smell of the lilies filling the room.  And I would just be quiet and think about how Jesus was there right in front of me and how cool that was.  I would think about how He loved me and how we were just hanging out together.  Just Him and me.  And I would just feel calm.  And -- believe me -- I was not a calm little kid.  I was always sort of anxious.  My mom was seriously ill when I was fairly young, my dad had some significant work issues (that did work out over time, but were quite stressful when they were occurring), there was alcoholism amongst some of my extended family members, and certain people in my life could be rather fiery in their temperaments.  I also hated school.  As much as I loved my progressive nun teacher, I hated school.  Especially math.  So, just being quiet with Jesus in the candlelight and feeling calm inside was quite something.  I felt incredible peace -- maybe Divine peace.  I don't know.  All I know is I just knelt there and felt like Jesus was my friend, that He was on my side, that He would stick with me, no matter what.

So, when I get all fed up with what I see going on nowadays -- with the "holy" people bashing the "not holy enough" people, with all the judging, with the massive failings of the Church hierarchy -- and I want to just give up on the whole "formal religion" thing, I remember the times I spent with Jesus on Holy Thursday.  And I know -- I know for sure -- that no matter what, no matter how much I fall and fail and doubt, that He won't leave, that He won't look at me harshly, because He gets it.  He really does.  He gets all of us.  And He won't leave us alone.  This I know.  I know it for sure.  I know it because I learned it directly from Him on those Holy Thursdays spent all alone in front of the Altar of Repose.  After eating all the radishes.

Pax Christi.

A Lent Blog Post (Gag...)

I hate Lent blog posts.

For no good reason, except for the fact that they drive me crazy.

There are just WAY too many of them, filled with WAY too much advice.

And I end up getting all anxious.

Because I'm really not very good at Lent, at least in the way most "serious" Catholics think you should be good at Lent.

Because I am basically a wimpy candy-ass.

But, here I am, writing Lent blog post.

*headdesk*

Anyway...

When I was a little girl, I really loved Lent.

I went to Catholic school and we went to church and got ashes on Ash Wednesday.  Which was really fun, because afterwards, all us kids would compare ash marks.  We would talk about which priests gave the best ones and which priests got the ashes in your eyes and whose looked the most like crosses and whose would last the longest.  Us kids would also talk all about what we were giving up for Lent.  Some of us gave up chocolate and some of us gave up chewing gum and some of us gave up swearing and some of us gave up our favorite TV show.  I never gave up my favorite TV show, because for most of my childhood, it was "Emergency." And there was no friggin' way I was giving up "Emergency" for Lent.  I usually gave up chocolate.  On Fridays, all us Catholic school kids would compare lunches and see what meatless items our mothers has packed away for us.  Most of the kids had the usual -- peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread and tuna on wheat.  But, my mother, being who she was, would often pack such sandwich delicacies as deviled egg mixed with chopped olive or deviled egg mixed with canned shrimp.  These creations would inevitably result in various expressions of disgust from my Catholic school confreres, which greatly pleased me, because I have always been such a rebel contrarian.  (I learned to be a rebel contrarian in Catholic school, because I was picked on a lot in these institutions, and it was either that or knuckle under to the bullies.  And I was not one to knuckle under to the bullies.)

Lent was also a lot of fun in my house.  Spring was coming on and my dad would beautify the yard with his Italian gardening skills.  He would spruce up the house by scrubbing various dirty items -- like the stove and the barbecue -- and perhaps applying some paint.  My dad was a kick-ass cleaning person.  So was my mom.  And they knew how to make our house shine.  Perhaps they were a bit over-the-top in their cleaning enthusiasm, but I enjoyed the results.  And on the Fridays of Lent, my mom would cook the most amazing fried fish dinners.  She would pick us up from school and we would go by the fish market on the way home.  Yes, there was an actual fish market in our town.  You don't see many of those these days.  My mom would purchase filet of soul and oysters, which she would coat in a batter of flour and egg, frying them in her electric fry pan.  This wonderful fish would be served with tartar sauce she made herself and lemon wedges.  The sides would be fresh asparagus or artichokes, homemade mashed potatoes, and sourdough bread.  It was amazing.  To be honest, though, I couldn't stand the oysters.  But, I loved the filet of sole.  And since my parents both loved the oysters, and never forced them upon my sisters and me, all was well and happy.

Now, some of you may think that all of this doesn't sound very sacrificial and suffering-inducing.  And it probably wasn't.  And I think that's one of the reasons I grew up to love Jesus so much.  I always had very positive associations with Jesus and being Catholic and Lent.  Jesus was AWESOME and being Catholic was AWESOME and Lent was AWESOME!  In my childhood, anyway.

So, what am I giving up for Lent this year?

Lent blog posts.

And I am resolving to remember the Lents of my childhood -- full of family and fun and love and good food.

Pax. ;-)

Well... Bless Her Little White Heart

As you can probably tell from the title of this post, I am in what my mother would have called, "a shit-disturbing mood."  Sorry.  But, at least it is a jovial shit-disturbing mood.

Anyhow, Megyn Kelly of Fox News made some amusing statements this morning (I think it was this morning) concerning Santa Claus and Jesus being white men.  The whole thing kind of made me chuckle.  If I were as cute and perky as Megyn, I wonder if somebody would pay me a large amount of money to say amusing things on TV.  I bet I would be good at that sort of job.  Perhaps I could go on "The View."  You don't seem to need to be quite as cute and perky to go on "The View." 

But, Megyn's amusing statements are not the subject of this post.  I only mention Megyn and her editorializing because they remind me of an anecdote from my young adulthood, which I will now recount for your entertainment.

My father's mother (my Nana) passed away when I was 12 years old.  As she and my grandfather lived across the street from us, my mother kindly took it upon herself to have Grandpa over for dinner after Nana's death.  Every. Single. Night.  Except for Sunday nights -- because that's when he went on dates with his various girlfriends. 

I hope it doesn't sound like I'm complaining about my grandpa coming over for dinner.  Every. Single. Night.  Except for Sundays.  I'm really not.  It's just that he was EXCEPTIONALLY opinionated.  And he listened to the news 24/7.  (Thank God that there was no Fox News at the time.)  And he was a rather outspoken individual, at least to his relatives and friends. 

Grandpa hailed from Italy.  In the village where he lived, children were required to attend school through the third grade.  Grandpa didn't make it that far.  He played "hookie" most every day, as he explained it to us.  He was also -- naturally -- a Catholic.  Went to church each Sunday, without fail, his entire life.

So, one day, Grandpa came over -- as per usual -- for dinner.  He sat down at the table and loudly announced to the family, "Now they're trying to say that Jesus was a Jew."

My two sisters, my father, my mother, and I all looked up at him.  I said, "But, Grandpa, Jesus WAS a Jew."

"Huh," he replied.  "I always thought he was Italian."

"Why did you think that?" my father asked.

"Well...  The Pope is always Italian,"  Grandpa remarked, the logic of his thinking impeccable.  (Mind you, this was before the days of John Paul II).

"But, Grandpa," one of my sisters said, "didn't you notice in the Gospels that Jesus was born in Bethlehem and traveled around Galilee and Jerusalem and such?"

"Oh, I never pay attention to that," answered my grandfather.

I did not ask him -- and I have often wondered -- what it was he was thinking about during all those Masses on all those Sundays for 80-plus years. 

So, thank-you for the memories, Miss Megyn.  Bless your little white heart. ;-)