by Robert Markland Smith.
In memory of my friend Martha Sheppard.
This is a true story. Honest. Cross my heart.
My wife goes to Catholic mass once a week, even though she is a Protestant. She is very afraid of being found out. So she always keeps a low profile in church, lest she attract some undue attention or censorship. Especially because she is not a baptized Catholic and is not allowed – technically – to receive Holy Communion. She practically hides behind tall people in her pew so the priest won’t see her.
I rarely go to church, any church, but I was getting rather zealous lately and wanted to go to Saint Joseph’s Oratory, so I could get cured of my arthritis. I am expecting two knee replacements within a year from now. After all, there are thousands of crutches hanging on the walls of this shrine, where Brother André supposedly healed people.
OK, so this is the premise. Today Bonnie and I decided to go to the Shrine and hear mass at 4:30. There was a mass scheduled at that time, and we arrived in the chapel right in the nick of time.
However, I noticed the priest entered the chapel alone. He was wearing a green garment, which symbolizes hope. (I know this because I used to be an altar boy fifty years ago and was taught by nuns.) He entered alone, without an altar boy. So immediately, I took initiative and did what I had seen my father do many times. I leapt out of my pew, left my cane with my wife, and marched up the aisle like a man with a mission. I walked up the steps to the altar and quietly asked the priest if he needed an altar boy. He mumbled, ‘‘Later.’’ So I stood there beside the altar, waiting for my cue.
It came time for the reading, but I didn’t know how to do this. After all, I am not an ordained deacon! So the officiating priest read the Scriptures and I stood there behind him, on one leg, on the other leg, shifting, because I left my cane in my pew.
Suddenly, like in a James Bond movie, a security guard walks up to me and grabs me by the arm and tells me to come with him and escorts me out the back of the chapel. I am trying to amuse him, saying I haven’t done this in fifty years, but he is not smiling. Not only he walks me out of the chapel, but down one hall through the sacristy where there are two other men, and down a flight of stairs. I am hobbling to keep up with him, because for one thing I am sixty-four years old and for another thing, I have arthritis in my knees, but I am keeping up with him. He takes me into a back room where there is a bloody crucifix of the last guy they beat up, and by fuck, I know now they mean business.
OK, they are standing around me, and the guy who grabbed my arm is especially in my face. I can see they think I meant to steal the Host to do a black mass, or something criminal, or something equally naughty – but they don’t believe my story for a minute. You wanted to sit in for the altar boy? Oh sure! Well, there is the altar boy over there and he was late… Would you like us to call the police?? Then you’ll have problems! They’ll teach you not to fuck with the Church!
Mind you, I didn’t take a shower this morning and am missing a few teeth – so I definitely look like a homeless person in need of trouble.
I ask them if I can go back into the chapel to finish hearing mass and could I fetch my cane? They ask me where is my cane? With my wife. Where is your wife?? At brother André’s tomb? No, she is in the pew on the right and she is wearing a black coat.
They go get her and SHE IS EMBARRASSED. This is the worst possible scenario! She mumbles nervously that I meant well and just wanted to sit in for the altar boy.
They escort us to the back door of Saint Joseph’s Oratory and slam the door behind us.
I guess the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions and I can see now why my friend Danuta said to me one day, ‘‘I like Jesus but I don’t like the social machinery of the Church.’’
In any case, it will be a frosty Friday in hell before I go to church again. Now it might be my imagination, but I could swear my knees are getting better tonight.