I attended All Saints Elementary School. We had the olive green uniforms and recess on
an asphalt parking lot. All of the teachers were soon to be beatified women and
the principle was a stern but kind-hearted nun. Eight o’ clock every morning was Mass,
followed by a morning prayer and the usual pursuits of academic achievement. School actually started at eight-forty-five. It is funny when you look back on the
experience of going to daily mass for the first five years of your young
adolescent life. I am sure that I
misbehaved a number of times. But I am
also certain that the daily sight of lit candles, the beauty of a decorated
altar, the smell of old oak pews and the statues of saints long dead wrote a
script on my heart. I never like being
there. I also never insisted that I not
be there. It was a weird mix of emotion. The priest had a really thick polish accent;
the kind that sounds like a lot of chaa’s and shir’s with a vowel thrown in
every so often. I went because my mom
said I had to. I believed because it was
what I had been told to do. I rose for
the Nicene Creed and I sat for the Homily.
I knelt for the consecration and I held hands for the Our Father. To a non-believer this may all seem like the
behavior of a Pavlovian Dog. To a fellow
Catholic, however, it is a celebration of the universal faith. Us Catholics are a bit of a psychological experiment
in and of ourselves, my generation in particular.
One day, I remember walking into my fourth grade classroom
and hanging up my coat. The other four
students (in my class of twenty-eight) that attended Mass daily had already
left to find their seat in the “assigned” pew.
I was alone. I was not accountable
to anybody. Sr. Claude, the principal
had already left the building. Mrs.
Cutler, my teacher was somehow absent from the room. I suddenly became overtaken by the idea to
avoid the day’s liturgy at all cost.
Perhaps I could hide in the closet?
No good, other students would arrive and question my sanity. Perhaps I could make a run for the
bathroom? It worked in Montessori like a
charm, why not here? I quickly surmised,
for one, it is a half of an hour in a school bathroom and for two; it is a half
of an hour in a school bathroom. Gross. I walked outside the school still unnoticed
by any teachers or that sneaky janitor Mrs. Bostwick only to behold the makings
of a plan.
On the side of the church were a number of gigantic
rhododendrons. If you have never seen
one of these Pacific Northwest plants, you really are missing out. They provide glorious budding flowers in the
spring and rich green leaves year around.
Most importantly they are very sturdy and thick. I don’t know where the idea came from, and to
this day, I don’t know what possessed me to choose this particular course of
action. As the bells began to ring,
signaling the beginning of the morning liturgy, I climbed inside of this woody
skeletal plant. Did I mention that they
are sturdy? This thing was huge and
thick with foliage. I found a branch
strong enough to hold me and nestled in like an owl at daybreak.
You might guess that it was pretty boring in my anti-liturgical
hideaway. I vividly remember the guilt
of missing Mass, but more importantly I remember as a fourth grade boy actually
asking myself, “What am I doing here?”
What could possibly be happening inside that is so awful that I am
willing to soak my corduroy pants from the dripping leaves of this rainy
bush. Why on earth am I so determined to
not sing, “Here I am Lord” and stare at Mother Mary in her usual pose of squishing
a snake and holding her Son? What am I
afraid of? Fear was a new emotion for me
when it came to Church.
Now that I look back, I think that I was afraid of the truth
that was revealed on the altar. I never
wanted to take refuge in God. I just like to challenge Him. At the time I
probably thought is was an innovative way to rebel and maybe get caught up on
some Botany homework. I didn’t want
everything that I had been raised to believe in to actually be truth. I wanted His words to fail. I think that as I approached the years in
life when I thought my parents became idiots and the universe revolved around
me, I wanted to believe that my faith would fade like my brothers hand-me-down
clothes. I wanted God to go away because
he was in charge and I didn’t like authority. I saw no need for His shield. Clearly this is a theme in my life. Authority or authorship is a part of faith
that very few people accept without a conflict at some point. How many Christians do you know that have
always accepted God as ruler in their life and have never questioned His
judgment, His plan, and/or His methods? If
someone blindly follows His word, then they never internalize His love. If somebody constantly challenges His will,
then they can never know His protection.
It is a tough place to be, especially for a fourth grader.
No comments:
Post a Comment