front doors and would sit on the left side, halfway up the aisle, always. He was never too far, not too close or obvious. He would make eye contact with me only once, as I walked down the aisle in the procession with Father Whelan. Grandpa Mac would wink.
Grandpa Mac dropped me off, and I headed toward the back door to the sacristy. Just outside the door against the building leaned FatherWhelan, smoking a cigarette. I can still hear A.C., as he puffed on a candy cigarette from Ben Franklin Five and Dime Store: “Winston tastes good…like a cigarette should.”
Most of the priests that I knew at that time smoked. Heck, most of the adults that I knew smoked at that time in my life: Grandpa Mac, most of the dads, and some of the moms on our block. I had my suspicions about a few teachers. A.C. and I used to think that Father Whelan was one of the coolest smokers ever, though. He seemed deep in thought as he inhaled and squinted. Maybe he was contemplating his sermon for this five thirty p.m. Mass. Maybe he was praying for someone he had visited in the hospital. Maybe he was thinking about some of the more awful or interesting confessions he had listened to recently.
“Good evening, Ben.” Father exhaled as he spoke. Father Whalen was the only priest who knew my name. Father Whelan was cool. A.C. and I had names for each priest in our parish. Big Father Laverty, Young Father Gusweiler, Old-Fart Father Dailey, Fun Father Spokinski, and Cool Father Whelan.
“Hey, Father!” I always liked serving for Father Whelan. He didn’t make me feel nervous if I forgot to bow or get the wine right away. I ran into the sacristy hoping that he would think that I was eager to serve.
Calling these men “father” was always strange to me. They weren’t my father. My own father wasn’t even my father. The name, I figured, even then, was to show that a priest held great responsibility to the people of the church. He was supposed to nurture the people and be their strength and safety during challenging times. People looked to the priest in this way. I could see that in the older women in the church as they told Father Gusweiler he gave a great sermon, or in the faces of children as they ran to Father Spokinski on the playground.
One Thanksgiving as the choir pounded out an impressive performance of “Faith of Our Fathers,” I listened to the words:
Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword;
O how our hearts beat high with joy
Whenever we hear that glorious Word!
I pinched my eyes together to see what face would pop up in my mind as the father, living still. The father who made my heart fill with joy. I saw Grandpa Mac. Not the priests of Saint Pius.
Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.
A.C. and I had analyzed the whole priesthood thing. Having people look up to you and call you Father would be kind of cool. Giving our lives to God would certainly gain us some points and impress the adults in our worlds. If I knew that I could be as cool as Father Whelan as a priest, I might consider the priesthood, especially if that whole girl thing never worked out.
A.C. had already committed his life to God in the second grade following his First-Communion ceremony. He had announced in front of the cake and coffee at the family party that he was going to be a priest. He would live his life and offer all he did up to God. He also wanted to be a zookeeper and an NFL football player. If anyone could juggle the three, Father A.C. would be the man.
As soon as I signed in to serve that summer evening, I bumped into a kid whose last name must have been right next to mine in the altar server roster since I more often than not got stuck serving with him. Ken or Keith Kemper or something like that. I just remember I didn’t care much for him.
“Dibs on the book. Oh and I’ll do the bell, too!” Ken-or-Keith skipped off to light the candles on the altar—another fun thing I wouldn’t
Grandpa Mac dropped me off, and I headed toward the back door to the sacristy. Just outside the door against the building leaned FatherWhelan, smoking a cigarette. I can still hear A.C., as he puffed on a candy cigarette from Ben Franklin Five and Dime Store: “Winston tastes good…like a cigarette should.”
Most of the priests that I knew at that time smoked. Heck, most of the adults that I knew smoked at that time in my life: Grandpa Mac, most of the dads, and some of the moms on our block. I had my suspicions about a few teachers. A.C. and I used to think that Father Whelan was one of the coolest smokers ever, though. He seemed deep in thought as he inhaled and squinted. Maybe he was contemplating his sermon for this five thirty p.m. Mass. Maybe he was praying for someone he had visited in the hospital. Maybe he was thinking about some of the more awful or interesting confessions he had listened to recently.
“Good evening, Ben.” Father exhaled as he spoke. Father Whalen was the only priest who knew my name. Father Whelan was cool. A.C. and I had names for each priest in our parish. Big Father Laverty, Young Father Gusweiler, Old-Fart Father Dailey, Fun Father Spokinski, and Cool Father Whelan.
“Hey, Father!” I always liked serving for Father Whelan. He didn’t make me feel nervous if I forgot to bow or get the wine right away. I ran into the sacristy hoping that he would think that I was eager to serve.
Calling these men “father” was always strange to me. They weren’t my father. My own father wasn’t even my father. The name, I figured, even then, was to show that a priest held great responsibility to the people of the church. He was supposed to nurture the people and be their strength and safety during challenging times. People looked to the priest in this way. I could see that in the older women in the church as they told Father Gusweiler he gave a great sermon, or in the faces of children as they ran to Father Spokinski on the playground.
One Thanksgiving as the choir pounded out an impressive performance of “Faith of Our Fathers,” I listened to the words:
Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword;
O how our hearts beat high with joy
Whenever we hear that glorious Word!
I pinched my eyes together to see what face would pop up in my mind as the father, living still. The father who made my heart fill with joy. I saw Grandpa Mac. Not the priests of Saint Pius.
Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.
A.C. and I had analyzed the whole priesthood thing. Having people look up to you and call you Father would be kind of cool. Giving our lives to God would certainly gain us some points and impress the adults in our worlds. If I knew that I could be as cool as Father Whelan as a priest, I might consider the priesthood, especially if that whole girl thing never worked out.
A.C. had already committed his life to God in the second grade following his First-Communion ceremony. He had announced in front of the cake and coffee at the family party that he was going to be a priest. He would live his life and offer all he did up to God. He also wanted to be a zookeeper and an NFL football player. If anyone could juggle the three, Father A.C. would be the man.
As soon as I signed in to serve that summer evening, I bumped into a kid whose last name must have been right next to mine in the altar server roster since I more often than not got stuck serving with him. Ken or Keith Kemper or something like that. I just remember I didn’t care much for him.
“Dibs on the book. Oh and I’ll do the bell, too!” Ken-or-Keith skipped off to light the candles on the altar—another fun thing I wouldn’t
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