Destined for Sainthood ... NOT! ;D

Someone asked me recently about my non-church going status, and I gave one of my usual flip answers, but then it dawned on me, that this is a great blog story!

I know that you, dear reader, are as irreverant as I myself am, otherwise I'd have lost you quite awhile ago, so I'm going to share with you a story that happened to someone I know and love, a very traumatic and faith-altering story ... for those of you needing a happy ending, stop here. There is blood, there is a body, there is name-calling and there is a resolution. But a happy ending, well, I don't think so, at least, not in the traditional sense. :)

Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far, far away (we shall call this land "Falls Church") there was this young girl who would go to church every Sunday. She loved church, she read the bible for fun, excelled in CCD (don't ask her what that means, she doesn't remember anymore ... basically, it was bible studies) and was pretty adamant that one day she was going to be a saint. (That was before she realized that the requirements were so stringent.)

One beautiful Sunday, she went to church with her family as always. Oh, one important thing I left out about this youngster ... she had a very sensitive stomach that required breakfast in the morning, a meal she frequently skipped, as happened on this particular day. Unfortunately, when she skipped this important meal, she would sometimes get kind of sick. (I know, why didn't she just eat something then? Kids. Can't tell them anything. ;)

It was a beautiful day, but rather warm. It was not yet far enough into the season for the church to turn on the air conditioning, so they propped the doors open to let the slight breeze blow in. But it wasn't enough for our girl. She began to feel queasy and soon felt a cold sweat break out on her brow. She leaned over to tell her mother, but her mother hushed her and continued to listen to the priest giving the blessing ..

And then it was upon her ... the thing she had been dreading ... Communion. Her stomach was doing flip-flops and she knew it would not be a good omen for her to take Communion on that day. When she tried to stay behind, her brother poked her and her mother frowned, so up to the front she went to receive the Sacrament.

As soon as it hit her mouth it was very evident that it wasn't going to stay there for long. She tried to swallow with a mouth gone bone dry. Someone offered her wine and that was her undoing. She bolted down the aisle and just made it outside in time deposit the body and blood of Jesus Christ on the ground. Now, she was just horrified ... what do you do about something like this? This was never discussed in church, or CCD, or in any of the books she'd read. After a bit of thought and some agonizing, she decided to bury it in a nice little hole she dug with a stick. Feeling that she had done the right thing, she was able to leave church with a light heart.

A few days later and it came time to go to confession.

The Catholic church had just decided that face-to-face confessions were the best thing for the youth of today to get accustomed to, rather than the dark box the previous generations used. So, she waits her turn to go in to confession, with Monseigneur H. (we shall protect his name, even though he was not innocent), a notoriously bad-tempered priest on the best of days. Her turn comes all too soon. Gazing longingly at the dark box, she bravely turns the door knob that exposes her to the face-to-face confessional and the dreaded Father H. She gingerly sits down and he asks her what her sins are.

"I said a few bad words... and umm, I wished the other softball team would lose so we could go to the finals."
"Nothing else?"
"Oh, well there was this one thing ... well, I don't think it's so bad, but it's embarassing, and I don't really want to say."
"You may tell me anything. I am a priest. I will forgive you for your sins. There is nothing you can tell me that I haven't heard before."
"Well ... this one day at church ... I got sick and I threw up the host. But I buried it. In the church yard."

His rage made him incoherent, but it didn't stop his eyes from bugging out of their sockets, his face from turning beet red, his arms from reaching towards her neck. She stumbled up and out of her chair, backing towards the door as he advanced towards her, spitting and frothing and shaking. She managed to get the door open, just as he regained his voice.

"BLASPHEMY! YOU ARE GOING TO HELL! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD SOMEONE SO IT COULD BEEN BLESSED! THIS IS A SIN THAT WILL BRING YOU ETERNAL DAMNATION WITH NO HOPE OF REDEMPTION!" His words followed her as she ran out of the church, white-faced and shaking, while trying not to cry.

When she told her parents they were outraged and discussed it with one of the priests (NOT Monseigneur H.) who indicated that Monseigneur H. had gone slightly loopy, around the bend, and not to take it to heart. However, this youngster was bruised from this encounter, her faith in the church severely shaken. She took away with her that Confession was not a place to tell those things that are better left unconfessed, because priests don't really want to hear them, they just want to tell you to deposit money and say 500 Hail Mary's.

--- Fast forward a few years ---

This same youngster, now a fiery college student and sometimes debater, went to Mass on another beautiful Sunday. Same church, different priest holding down the pulpit. It was packed with a standing room only crowd. The collection plate had already been passed twice and a third time was pending. Communion was over, hymns had been sung. It was almost over, except for the final blessing.

Several people slipped out the door and made their way to their cars, emptying the doorway where our youngster was standing. The priest watched this, glaring and shaking his head, until finally he seemed to snap. He stomped up to the microphone and proceeded to lecture the entire remaining congregation about leaving before the final blessing, indicating that if anyone leaves before the final benediction, then it was as if they had not attended church at all and that they would be going to hell.

Total silence from the congregation, except rustlings as the guilty shifted in their seats when his belligerant eye passed over them. He kept everyone in their seats for an extra 10 minutes just to prove his point; it was like an immediate return to grade school mentality: the bell had rung, but since the class was being punished, no one could leave until the teacher said it was okay. He kept everyone there until the collection plates were passed again, then he finally gave the all clear and people began the controlled exodus.

Our youngster joined the shuffling crowd as they headed out the door at the officially sanctioned end of mass, but she moved to the side, lingering by the door outside, so she could speak to the priest as he came out the door, shaking hands with fawning parishioners. She politely waited for him to acknowledge her.

"Excuse me, Father, but may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, certainly." He was now very jovial ... the last collection must have been plentiful, the catholic guilt causing the parishioners to reach deep.
"I'm wondering why you are angry at the people who left, instead of being happy that they came to mass at all?"
"EXCUSE me?"
"Well, you don't really know the circumstances ... maybe they had someone watching their children and had to hurry home so another family member could attend mass. Who knows? Not I, because I'm not omnipotent. The point is, it seems to me that you should be glad they came at all, instead of just skipping mass entirely, and I don't think it was right of you to lecture everyone on it, because now you've made everyone think that if they can't attend for an hour, then they might as well not come at all. And it I remember correctly, the other speech you made was that the expected funds from parishoners are not as generous as in years past ... perhaps this speech about 45 minutes vs. 1 hour of mass time could explain why it's going to continue to drop?"

She suddenly flashed back to the confessional experience with the Monseigneur, because this priest grew alarmingly red, sputtering and spitting.

"I don't think you know what you are talking about."
"Well, I know that if I could only attend church for 45 minutes instead of an hour, the God that I believe in would understand and appreciate the effort."

The rest of this conversation is not worth repeating. Suffice it to say that our youngster has now grown up ... she has her beliefs, she has a strong foundation of values, but she does not have church, priests or conformity.

The end. :)