Am I In or Am I Out?

by Joey Shmoe

The air was thick. My buttocks ached. It was impossible to escape the smell of incense and mahogany. The tone of the preacher’s voice was enough to put one to sleep for an entire month. I sat and stared blankly into space, waiting for the proper times to stand, kneel, and then sit back down again. The only sound to be heard other than that of the preacher’s mundane voice was the continuous trickling of water in the baptismal fount. We were nearly half way through the mass when a loud thud two pews behind me broke the monotony. I quickly looked back to see one of my classmates had passed out cold.

This is my earliest memory of the Catholic Church. It took place near the beginning of my Catholic education when I was in the first grade. I attended a Catholic private grade school in Louisville, Kentucky, and once a week my classmates and I were herded into the adjoining church for an all school mass. The only opinion that I had on the matter was that I was not quite sure why we went, or what were supposed get out of it but I was happy to have time taken out of class for something that required such little thinking. Unfortunately, after completing eight years of Catholic teaching, my feelings on the subject had not changed much.

I come from a family of devout Catholics. My mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, great grandmother, great grandfather, four aunts, and four uncles have all had different roles within the church community. Whether they were door greeters, lectors, or Eucharistic Ministers, all of them had their specific place. On top of all of this my father was a Youth Minister as well as a current teacher of Catholic scripture at a Catholic high school, and my grandfather was a deacon, which is a very high position in the Catholic faith. Needless to say my family has some deep roots in our Catholic community and we are well known and liked by our fellow parishioners.

Coming from a family with the background such as this one, I am also expected to play a role in our Catholic community. The first time I had this opportunity I jumped on it. In sixth grade we were officially allowed to begin training to become altar boys. The only person more excited about it than I was my grandfather. He even gave me a cheat sheet that displayed all the responsibilities I had during a normal mass and I studied it diligently. The morning of my first mass had arrived and as I awaited the arrival of my fellow altar boy, I scanned the cheat sheet one last time. As I finished, I noticed my partner had yet to arrive. The minutes melted away ever so slowly and the closer it got to the beginning of mass, the more nervous I became. Finally the priest walked in and said, “We are going to have to start without him”. My stomach dropped, my face turned pale and I slowly made my way out to begin the precession. On numerous occasions during the mass I simply froze up and the deacon, who was not my grandfather on this particular Sunday morning, had to come down off the altar to perform my duties. That was my first and last mass as an altar boy.

Knowing that my family would be incredibly disappointed if I did not participate in our church community, I decided to volunteer to read at our all school masses. I was an unimaginably shy child in grade school and this is a position I would never volunteer for on my own, but I knew how much it would mean to my family to know that I was doing my part. The first reading I was assigned was a joint reading with a fellow classmate. She was to read half and then I would take her place and read the rest. I was calm the entire mass until it was time for us to approach the altar. As I stared into vast crowd that was my entire school community, I found myself in a trance. I could not hear or feel anything. When my partner finished her portion of the reading, everyone looked to me. Instead of taking her place and finishing the reading, I simply stared back at everyone. After about ten seconds, my classmate got back on the podium and finished the rest of the reading herself. As we walked back to our seats I felt both embarrassed and relieved at the same time. It goes without saying that this was my last time at the podium.

A few years passed and when it came to family and church, I felt myself taking a back seat. I would sit in the pew by my lonesome when my parents were assigned to be door greeters, and I would even bring seek and finds to do while mass was in session. I never knew that my life was about to change forever.

The year was two thousand and one and I was in the seventh grade. My grandfather had been battling cancer for the past six months but I always felt he would prevail. Those feelings were shattered one rainy April morning. I was doing everything in my power to stay awake in history class when a slight tap from the door rang through the classroom. When my teacher answered, our assistant principal poked her head in, pointed at me, and faintly waved me to the hallway. I followed her to the school office and when I entered I was shocked to see my mother standing there, eyes red from where tears could have been found just minutes prior. I knew immediately what had happened. We rode in silence back to my grandparent’s house. When I walked in the door, I was overwhelmed with grief. There literally was not a dry eye in the house.

Two days later a question came up that I was not expecting. It is customary that when a deacon is buried, he is laid out in his Daimatic which is the robe that they where while on the altar. However, my grandfather opted not to be buried in his but in a normal suit in the hopes that one day, one of his sons would pick up where he left off. My grandmother decided that my father was best suited for this position and asked him if it was something that he would be interested in. I was not at all excited about this proposal because I knew that if my father did accept then I would be expected to take his place when he passed away. Just the thought of going back up on that altar made the hairs on my neck stand up like a soldier in attention. As for my father, he decided to sit on it for a while. Since that day he has yet to get up.

As my eighth grade year came to an end and graduation approached, we were to perform one of the Catholic Church’s most sacred sacraments, confirmation. Confirmation is a sacrament in which you personally make the decision to continue your journey in the Catholic faith. After performing this sacrament, the Catholic community officially recognizes you as an adult. Before we could complete this sacrament, we had to have an interview with our principal and she would decide if we were ready to continue our faith. Most of my fellow classmates dreaded going to this interview fearing that they would say something wrong and would be left out of the whole ceremony. I on the other hand was looking forward to this interview because I had a lot of questions about my place in our Catholic community. I entered my principal’s office and before I could even sit down she said, “Get out”. I looked at her completely perplexed and she further explained that with my family background, there was no question that I was ready to continue my journey in the Catholic faith. I smiled and turned around slowly then walked back to my classroom with my head down, and all my questions still unanswered.

Upon entering high school, I found myself becoming more and more independent. I began forming my own views on issues instead of hiding behind those of the Catholic Church. One topic in particular was homosexuality. Throughout my entire life I was taught that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, accepted anyone and everyone no matter who they were, or what their views may have been. I was told that in order to be good Catholics, we should attempt to live our lives as Jesus did. The Catholic Church has spoken out against homosexual men and women and even stated that homosexuality is objectively wrong. This in itself is contradictory to that teaching. In chapter seven, verses one and two of Matthew’s gospel, he states, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you”. In Matthew’s gospel, which all Catholics know to be the word of Jesus, it is clearly stated that if we judge others, we too will be judged yet, the Catholic Church contradicts itself. Upon my realization of this I felt even more alienated from my church community.

It may seem obvious that I would go to my father if I had questions about my faith and its views, but our relationship has never been incredibly strong. It seemed that every weeknight he was at a meeting of some kind and on the weekends I was always with my friends. As a result, my first question was answered by my Hebrew Scriptures teacher, Mr. Christopher Grisanti. One day after class let out, I stayed after and asked him, “Why do we have to go to church?” His answer is something I will never forget. He replied, “It’s not that we have to go to church, it is that we have the privilege. Every time we walk down those aisles and receive the Body of Christ, we are receiving a piece of Jesus himself. That is much more important than anything else we have to do”. (2002) From that point on, every time I entered a church and practiced the sacrament of Eucharist, I felt something that I lacked the last fifteen years of my life. I felt that I was supposed to be there.

It was not until later that I felt completely comfortable with my place in my Catholic and family communities. It has become a tradition in my family to go to midnight mass at our respective parishes for Christmas Eve and after, all congregate at my aunt’s house for lasagna. This past Christmas Eve was the first time that I felt old enough to participate in the conversations that took place at this post mass dinner. I felt like an adult, I felt like this is where I am supposed to be. I can honestly say that on that night, there was nowhere else that I would have felt more at home.

Slowly I am beginning to find that maybe I do have a place in the church. Maybe my place is not to actively participate, but to observe and reflect. Maybe there is a reason that I have different views than the Catholic community. Maybe, just maybe, this is where I belong.