Street steps, the grounds of St. Francis seemed
neglected and spooky, dotted with irregular stepping-stones, a cracked concrete birdbath, and a forlorn-faced knee-high statue
of the church’s namesake saint. As an Episcopalian, I was a denominational oddball in Cullen.
Until Daintry moved to town, saving me in a way religion hadn’t. The O’Connors attended St. Francis by default. Since no Catholic
church existed in Cullen, the few Catholics made do with St. Francis, where incense was burned on high holy days.
“High church in Cullen, of all places,” Mother said. “Catholics need those smells, bells, and yells.” All I’d known of Catholics
was that they were responsible for fish sticks in the school cafeteria every Friday.
Craning my neck, I looked again. Hal frowned at me, so I faced the altar, where Peter Whicker was beginning his promised sermon.
His message was connected to the Gospel, not the path he’d taken to find himself at St. Martin’s. I’d hoped for something
personal, including Daintry. Thinking of her boldness in not attending her husband’s service made me smile. Where I’d feel
obligated, Daintry was evidently fearless. That, I could tell Ceel, hadn’t changed.
Beside me in the pew, Ellen placed her open palm in my lap and smiled inquiringly, wordlessly asking me to trace her fingers
with my own to pass the time. The high point in the Sunday service for Ellen was the offertory— action at last! audience participation!—when
she could clasp her fingers around the chill golden heft of the platter filled with bills and coins. With predictable sibling
torture, Mark tried to deny his sister’s pleasure by reaching over her head for it. She fished the bulletin from the hymnal
rack to play hangman.
I sympathized with their fidgeting. As a church-captive child I’d tapped fingers against the pew to count, calculating the
ages of dead patrons who’d donated the stained-glass windows. I looked at St. Martin’s Chisolm windows. Muted reds and blues
of light leaked through the stained glass and rainbowed my hands. Grown now, I wasn’t bored, but neither was I attentive.
Church, if not religion, had begun to nag me with its expectations.
Yet even as I fought its invisible imprisonment, I was prisoner to the familiar. I ached for changelessness, missed the old
responses and prayers replaced with contemporary, “accessible” language. I was missing not faith, not belief in God, but simply
what had once been.
Propitiation,
Peter Whicker had challenged me last night. He understood.
We rose for the beginning of Communion. After years of the new prayer book I still had to consult it for the creed, the Prayers
of the People, unable to recite from memory.
“I’ve killed off too many brain cells,” I’d sighed to Mark. “Or maybe they just died. Use it or lose it.” Prepped for confirmation,
he’d challenged his new knowledge against mine, winning handily. In Mark’s confirmation classes he visited different denominations
and watched
A Man for All Seasons.
Mine had been tedious after-school sessions culminating in the bishop mashing my head into my neck, and receiving a charm
that read
I am an Episcopalian.
But at least Daintry had been with me, stopping on our way to confirmation classes at Rexall Drugs to share a warmed oatmeal
cookie gooed with icing.
Peter Whicker was deep into the Eucharist. His every gesture seemed wholly personal, replete with reverence as, palms opened
toward the communion offerings, he touched his thumb to lips and shoulders and finally to heart. I watched. It’s hard to think
of priests as only men: sons, fathers, husbands. “Thus we proclaim the mystery of faith,” he said, and, closing his eyes,
extended his arms again. As he raised the wine and bread he shuddered slightly, and as though I’d stumbled and intruded upon
a private rapture, I quickly looked down again, joining the rest of the congregation’s
neglected and spooky, dotted with irregular stepping-stones, a cracked concrete birdbath, and a forlorn-faced knee-high statue
of the church’s namesake saint. As an Episcopalian, I was a denominational oddball in Cullen.
Until Daintry moved to town, saving me in a way religion hadn’t. The O’Connors attended St. Francis by default. Since no Catholic
church existed in Cullen, the few Catholics made do with St. Francis, where incense was burned on high holy days.
“High church in Cullen, of all places,” Mother said. “Catholics need those smells, bells, and yells.” All I’d known of Catholics
was that they were responsible for fish sticks in the school cafeteria every Friday.
Craning my neck, I looked again. Hal frowned at me, so I faced the altar, where Peter Whicker was beginning his promised sermon.
His message was connected to the Gospel, not the path he’d taken to find himself at St. Martin’s. I’d hoped for something
personal, including Daintry. Thinking of her boldness in not attending her husband’s service made me smile. Where I’d feel
obligated, Daintry was evidently fearless. That, I could tell Ceel, hadn’t changed.
Beside me in the pew, Ellen placed her open palm in my lap and smiled inquiringly, wordlessly asking me to trace her fingers
with my own to pass the time. The high point in the Sunday service for Ellen was the offertory— action at last! audience participation!—when
she could clasp her fingers around the chill golden heft of the platter filled with bills and coins. With predictable sibling
torture, Mark tried to deny his sister’s pleasure by reaching over her head for it. She fished the bulletin from the hymnal
rack to play hangman.
I sympathized with their fidgeting. As a church-captive child I’d tapped fingers against the pew to count, calculating the
ages of dead patrons who’d donated the stained-glass windows. I looked at St. Martin’s Chisolm windows. Muted reds and blues
of light leaked through the stained glass and rainbowed my hands. Grown now, I wasn’t bored, but neither was I attentive.
Church, if not religion, had begun to nag me with its expectations.
Yet even as I fought its invisible imprisonment, I was prisoner to the familiar. I ached for changelessness, missed the old
responses and prayers replaced with contemporary, “accessible” language. I was missing not faith, not belief in God, but simply
what had once been.
Propitiation,
Peter Whicker had challenged me last night. He understood.
We rose for the beginning of Communion. After years of the new prayer book I still had to consult it for the creed, the Prayers
of the People, unable to recite from memory.
“I’ve killed off too many brain cells,” I’d sighed to Mark. “Or maybe they just died. Use it or lose it.” Prepped for confirmation,
he’d challenged his new knowledge against mine, winning handily. In Mark’s confirmation classes he visited different denominations
and watched
A Man for All Seasons.
Mine had been tedious after-school sessions culminating in the bishop mashing my head into my neck, and receiving a charm
that read
I am an Episcopalian.
But at least Daintry had been with me, stopping on our way to confirmation classes at Rexall Drugs to share a warmed oatmeal
cookie gooed with icing.
Peter Whicker was deep into the Eucharist. His every gesture seemed wholly personal, replete with reverence as, palms opened
toward the communion offerings, he touched his thumb to lips and shoulders and finally to heart. I watched. It’s hard to think
of priests as only men: sons, fathers, husbands. “Thus we proclaim the mystery of faith,” he said, and, closing his eyes,
extended his arms again. As he raised the wine and bread he shuddered slightly, and as though I’d stumbled and intruded upon
a private rapture, I quickly looked down again, joining the rest of the congregation’s
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