John of God

The six-year-old version of myself stood in the kitchen in a white suit, “Can I drink water, before?”

My mother looked at me in disgust, “If you don’t know the answer to that question then maybe you’re not ready!”

Not ready? I was just an hour away from the big moment.  I had sat, attentively, through the Saturday morning catechism classes, soaking in the wisdom of the nuns.  And not twenty-four hours earlier, I cleansed my soul with my first confession - kneeling in the dark closet with the little sliding door and confessing all my sins to the priest on the other side.  “I hit my sister, twice,” I said in my meek-and-ashamed voice.

 I really couldn’t remember how many times I hit my sister.  But the nuns told me it was important to attach a numerical qualifier to your sin report.  And I wasn’t certain how far back in time I was required to go so I only reported what had happened during the van-ride to church.  “I disobeyed my parents three times.”

“Is that all?” the stern voice behind the screen inquired. I knew it was Father Sexton.  Who else could it be?  He was the only priest in the parish and I had heard that droning, chiding voice, Sunday-after-Sunday at Mass.  The Protestant kids had it easy – they got to saunter off to “Sunday School” and color pictures of Jesus.  We had to sit still in the pew and listen to homilies about how Father Sexton had found a disgusting mess in the Men’s room toilet and how parents need to better supervise their children. 

“Yes, that’s all,” I replied.

“For your penance, make an act of contrition and say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys”

The old five-and-five as I would come to think of it.  It was a baseline of sorts.  If you confessed a sin like stealing quarters from your Dad’s change bowl, the penance would really climb – ten and ten, or ten and fifteen.  But there were legends of people being given the ENTIRE Rosary as penance.  A fate, I assumed, reserved for only the most wretched of sinners.

In preparation for the big day, we had even practiced receiving the wafers.  Not real, holy ones , wafers that had not been consecrated.  “Do not touch the host!” Sister Mary Agnes, reiterated.  “Keep your hands in front of you, together, pointing upward in a prayerful attitude.  Open your mouth and present your tongue – not gaping like a cow! But politely.  And with dignity.  Then swallow.  No CHEWING!” 

The stand-in for the priest intoned, “The Body of Christ,” and we had to say, “amen.”  It was our only line.  The adults always said AH-men, like open your mouth and say “ahhh.”  So I knew it was important to get the pronunciation correct and not to sound like a Protestant.  And I knew what Protestants sounded like because after we came home from Mass, the service at the Church of the Nazarene, a few houses down at the end of the alley, would still be in full swing.  The front door was open and the sound of exuberant worship would travel out,  “A-MEN, Brother.  A-MEN!” , always emphasizing the “A.”

The practice wafer was placed on my tongue and I was shocked at how bland it was – no flavor at all! I concentrated on swallowing and not chewing.  And the more I did, the dryer my mouth became so it took all my effort to get the host down without choking. That Sunday morning in the kitchen, the recollection made my mouth dry up again, and now I wanted a drink of water.  That’s why I needed clarification on the fasting rules.  I WAS ready for the real thing, I was just so anxious – a bundle of nerves.   I had to get it right.

I wanted to understand what kept my parents trudging off to church every Sunday morning.  The answer had to be in this Holy Communion thing.  Once I got a taste of God, it would all come into focus.  Only nothing happened.  The priest presented the host, I received it, swallowed it, and felt no different.  Except that it reminded me how hungry I was because I hadn't had breakfast.

Anyone looking at my bookshelves would quickly understand that my quest for God continued forward from that day.  It was a journey that took me out of Catholicism and into a fundamentalist group so strict it made Catholics look like Unitarians by comparison. In retrospect, my attraction to the group may have been a subconscious desire to outdo my Dad – to develop a worldview that was even more concrete and black and white than his was.   Overtime my views moderated, taking me back to mainstream Christianity, through various evangelical churches and then into the ranks of the dreaded "unchurched” – a place I occupy while I try to find a community that allows me to stay near my spiritual roots without having to accept the doctrine that God will ultimately condemn two-thirds of the world’s population to eternity in Hell.

    

And while I still enjoy a good theological discussion, I now believe it’s less about the questions and more about the journey.  Shalom.