The Mass (From Broken Homilies CNF)

The Mass

The frozen pressure treated steps creaked and popped under my weight as I reached the back door of the church. The door swung open with a groan and I was suddenly struck with a sense that I should be quiet; as if I were disturbing something in this sacred space. Nothing stirred as I stepped inside the study, met by the mingled odor of old books and the mustiness of an abandoned building. Once known as the Pastor’s Study, the name was changed to simply “the study” by a council that thought that the pastor’s personal space ended at the steps of the parsonage. To call the cramped office in the back of the church the Pastor’s Study was viewed as an invasion and attempted usurpation of their domain. Besides, it didn’t matter any more since they ran the poor man and his family out of town and back to South Carolina, “Where he could be closer to his family.” For a place that was usually seen as a space of life and music, at this cold hour of the morning, I could have been an archaeologist, opening an ancient crypt for the first time in millennia. Softly closing the white steel door behind me, I made my way to the right of the room; around the side of the long folding table used for church council meetings, and into the narrow room that connected to the study and the sanctuary. I passed the white robes hanging on the wall beneath the stern portraits of over one hundred and fifty years of ministers. To my left sat the chest that held the bread and wine of the Eucharist.
Passing into the sanctuary, I was met by the dim morning light filtering through the wall-length stained glass windows that flanked the tiny church, and sprinkled fine rays upon the tops of the rows of cold oak pews; aged and worn to a dark brown patina over the last century and a half.
From above in the old choir loft in the front of the nave, there was a long whining creak, followed by a bang in the vacant stone classrooms in the cellar. I bowed my head respectfully toward the noises, wondering if anyone else in the congregation had felt what I always did when the church was still. I called them the silent congregation, and the oppression of their collective gaze from the nave was matched only by the feeling of expectation they caused in the air. There they sat. Quiet. Always waiting for the next service to begin. Generation upon generation; never leaving the church, but becoming one of them. I was at least reasonably certain that they, unlike the living congregants, listened to my sermons. Another creak, and my attention was once again drawn toward the nave. I traced my eyes along the side aisle, with the light now starting to slant through the intricate windows as if expecting to see someone. The countless layers of chipped white paint shone in stark contrast to the unforgiving pews as I followed the shadows past the stairs and up the loft where the old organ in disuse. In the church’s heyday, by this time of the morning there would be carts and horses tied outside and children, with last names like Anderson and Jepson, chasing each other up and down the stairs, calling to each other in their native Swedish. Perhaps they still do.
It would have been an all day event, complete with food, drink, and gossip for all. Today, I will stand where ministers have delivered the mass for generations. I recalled their faces from the robing room and wondered what they would think of me.
From behind the church study, an ancient furnace roared to life, attempting to bring some warmth to the sanctuary. Rubbing my arms to stay warm, I puffed a couple of breaths into the air to see if it was cold enough to make a little cloud. I wondered to myself if I would look too puffy if I kept my jacket on under my robe. I decided to lose the jacket and opted for strategic positioning instead. It only took a couple of cold mornings to learn where the sweet spot on the floor was up front. If I were to deliver my sermon from just to the left side of the lectern, I would be standing directly over a large heating grate. The chimney effect of the robe would be sufficient to keep me from shivering through the homily and prayers.
Donning my vestments, I began my preparations for the service in earnest. Kneeling at the communion rail, I sat in silence for several minutes, allowing the quiet to center my thoughts before commencing my silent prayers for myself and the congregation. My prayers would end with my full awareness of my responsibilities to God and to the congregation for dutifully delivering the liturgy and sermon. After some minutes again in silence at the rail, my anxiety would diminish and I was then free to look over my notes, prayers, and sermon material.
Turning my attention back to the service, I strode across the raised platform that separated the altar area from the nave towards the lectern that stood opposite the pulpit. I never preached from the pulpit, but instead opted for the humble white lectern by the organ. It was not that I felt that I was not good enough for the pulpit, or had any perceptions that only an ordained minister should ascend the steps as some have reasoned, but rather because I liked the feeling of working among the congregation. The pulpit was tall, with a spiral staircase elevating the minister some six feet or more above an already seated congregation. It was white with gold trim accenting an already gaudy array of Swedish scroll-worked panels. Anyone who stood atop this tower appeared looming and exalted above the parishioners as they delivered sermons and lofty prayers. No, my position was one of a servant, and my part, that of a groundling. Arranging my papers, I conducted my usual microphone check and scanned the day’s lessons for any words that might trip me up. (There’s nothing quite like getting several lines into a scripture reading and having no clue how to pronounce a particular name or place.) Next was my pen. Many people will mistakenly tell you that a minister is lost without his or her Bible, however, this is a myth perpetuated by ministers to cover up the real truth. The most powerful instrument in the minister’s arsenal is a pen. If you doubt my claim, simply ignore a commandment or two and take a minister’s pen just prior to a service and watch them squirm. It only took a couple of services when someone asked that a friend or relative be added to the prayer list to convince me of the power of the pen. The service would pass, and I would look insensitive for forgetting to ask the congregation to pray for so-and-so’s aunt, who is about to have a toe removed or something. Often times, I would panic if I could not procure a pen before the church bell rang, and on more than one occasion, have settled for one of my kid’s Crayons. If only God looked out for lost pens like he does lost car keys, I thought to myself.
The theology of the God of Lost Car Keys comes from the culmination of my experiences within various Protestant churches. It would inevitably start out the same way, every week, without fail. In the beginning of the service, people were invited (coerced) to “share” with the rest of the congregation what God had done in their lives that week. It was usually the same person in each congregation every week with a slightly different twist on the same story. The faithful congregant, usually a woman in her thirties, would rise smiling and begin her story in a nervous, wavering voice. She was always running late to get somewhere, (fill in the blank: soccer practice, dentist appointment,
prayer meeting) and low and behold, could not find her keys anywhere. She would search high and low, never omitting a single detail of the places that she checked just in case we thought she might be exaggerating and thus nullify her miracle. Suddenly, in the midst of the worst car key crisis ever to strike suburbia, she would fall to her knees and pray for guidance. “Father”, she would reenact, “You know all things. Please help me find my keys.”, and Bam! Just like that, she would report seeing the gleam of the Astrovan key dangling from the corner of her tea cozy collection or something and she would then go into her praise and elation over God’s intervention. Week after spleen-rendering week, I would hear stories like this eliciting a hearty “Praise God!” from some euphoric congregant on the other side of the aisle.
The Lutheran Church, at least, refrained from “sharing” such stories of divine detective work. The theology, however, stuck with me and came out to play with my more cynical side whenever I heard echoes of my religious past. Always, in the back of my mind, I would remember something from the news about how many hundred people
were killed in an earthquake in the Middle East; or about another little kid who was abducted by some freak, raped, murdered, and thrown away like a piece of toilet paper. I was sure that somewhere, the terror-ravaged child that was being butchered alive would be over-fucking-joyed that God somehow found time to retrieve your keys. I would wonder if perhaps God had just grown too old and tired to bother with the big stuff. When explaining my theory, I would often liken God to an old Wal-Mart greeter, handing out stickers and finding lost keys. He’s just an old guy who still wants to feel useful, I would say to them. “Reno and the rest of you will just have to wait. I have keys to find. Oh, here. Have a smiley sticker.” Now, if only I could get him to find pens.
The darkness started to creep up on me again. “Car Keys”, I muttered out loud
and looked at my prayers for the service. I starred at yet another conundrum in my spiritual life; the prayer request list. Considering my past in the military and the fact that we were at war, I was compelled to add a line item for our troops in the Middle East. The simple fact was that I fully supported not only our troops, but the idea of annihilating those who intend to destroy our country before they get a chance to do so. The hypocrisy of the whole notion was not wasted on me and I made no attempts to pull an end run-around on the Bible by bypassing “Thou Shalt Not Kill, and Turn the other cheek”. No, killing was killing but I would rather see them get it than us. It was a common problem, really, in American Christendom, to support war. The difference came down to how our support of killing was worded to make us sound as if we had taken the high road. We put up signs and displayed stickers saying “God Bless Our Troops”, which when translated really meant “God Bugger Their Troops”. To ask for divine support for one side is to ask divine vengeance for the other. “Bring forth the Holy Hand grenade of Antioch”, I could hear from the Monty Python loop in my head, “…that with it, Thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits… who, being naughty in Thine sight, shall snuffit.”
The front door creaked and in walked Reid, one of our dutiful ushers, to make sure all the bulletins were properly folded. Reid was an easy going old timer with a kind face and a reserved tone. He was a fixture here and never a potluck dinner or men’s group meeting had passed without Reid’s presence. A soft spoken man, Reid handled all of the background details that made church events run smoothly. At fellowship dinners, Reid could be seen in the kitchen, cooking or organizing the meal. When work needed to be done at the parsonage, it was Reid who would haul materials and lend a hand wherever needed. Finally, on mornings such as this, it would be Reid, who by the time I had noticed his arrival, had cleared the snow away from the front step and was quietly scuffing the snow from his shoes. Without saying a word, he raised his hand to greet me and nodded his head. I wondered if his wife, Ellie would be attending this morning. For many months now, both Reid and Ellie had been in and out of Carry Medical Center for various aliments.
Soon, people started shuffling in with the usual lack of enthusiasm. Lutherans are not a very perky group to begin with and old Swedish Lutherans are virtually catatonic. Reviewing my notes, I glanced occasionally to the gathering crowd, noting how the church always fills from back to front. I toyed with the idea of blocking off the rear pews or moving the lectern up to the fifth row to compensate, but this was not a group that was open to change. I had been told by another member that families had sat in the same pews for generations and that when a family member dies, quite often that space will remain unfilled. It’s amazing how Lutherans tend to die from the front, back. I noticed that the bell was about to ring. I’m on.
The service went off without a hitch, even though we were supposed to sing only the first and third stanzas of “A Mighty Fortress” after the sermon. When I rolled off track into the fourth stanza, Karla, the organist glared at me comically from over her music; her glasses perched at the tip of her nose, she sneered. Laughing and singing, I was tempted to take her all the way to six, but I realized that she could screw with me twice as bad during the liturgy. The service over, I stood and talked over several cups of the worst coffee in the world. The coffee served at the church was never any good and more than once I thought that they must have gotten a deal on the beans Juan Valdez’s donkey pissed on. As I was heading over to the cheese and cracker spread by the coffee, Norma Bondeson caught sight of me and strode over.
“So, how are the kids?” She asked as she slid herself between me and the crackers.
“They’re doing well, thank you. And yourself?”
“Oh well, can’t complain you know. Spring will have to arrive sometime.” She beamed with her typical optimism. I played with the rope that held my robe together; letting it swing slightly from side to side.
“That’s what they say, although I’m not sure this time.” I added with a smirk. Norma was a small framed middle aged woman with short graying hair and wire rimmed glasses. She still maintained much of her military bearing from her years of service as a nurse in the Air Force, making her too much of a spitfire for many of the locals here to deal with. “So, after seminary you do plan on coming back here to serve, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you, Norma. You guys can’t afford me.” I wasn’t joking. With four years of undergrad work and four years of seminary hanging on student loans, there was no way this little church would or could sustain me.
Taking my leave, I moved on to greet another group talking in the fellowship hall. The interesting thing about being in the ministry is how quickly conversations slam themselves shut whenever you invade the circle. Suddenly, those people who only uttered the name of Jesus in a moment of mild blasphemy become pious at your arrival. It didn’t matter. It was getting late and I was tired and hungry; all the cheese was gone. As the last stragglers made their way to the front door; final destination a Sunday dinner with their families, I turned out the lights, cut back the thermostat, and let myself out the study door. The sun was high in the sky now, and beginning it’s downward slope towards night.
**********
Home loomed out of a snow bank like a small dark cloud. The shingled walls of the cabin appeared cold and gray in the winter gloom. Even the metal roof refused to reflect any light that would have made my homecoming a little cheerier. Walking up to the porch, I was met by Sheba, who lowered her head and wagged her tail lazily as I approached. Entering the dining room, the smell of white cedar and coal gas met our noses. The answering machine was blinking and it occurred to me that I could not remember the last time I checked the damn thing. “Fifteen messages… fuck sake!” I shouted, eliciting a grumble of agreement from Sheba.
“Message one” The automated female voice began. “Please call, 1-800-847-7772. It is very important that…” Beep! “Message one deleted.”
“Message two”
“Mr. Mack-kin-tear, my name is…” Beep! “Message two deleted.” I pushed the button again and opened a beer. This was going to take a while.
“Message three”
“Look, we can play these games day after day or you can call my office back..” Beep!
“Message three deleted”
“Buddy, you have no idea how long we can keep this game going” I quipped while looking over my pile of neglected mail. “Bills, bills, bills, useless lawyer stuff.” My lawyer was a sloth who had one eye on retirement, and the other on my checkbook. Had I not taken the reigns midway through my divorce hearing, I would be homeless as well as penniless, childless, and furniture-less. I noticed another envelope and recognized it immediately; another nasty gram from the Department of Human Services. Not only were they raping me for half of my already weak Wal-Mart paycheck, but they insist on sending me bills in the mail so I can mail in the lint that was left in my pocket. “A little help down here.” I uttered toward heaven with more than a little exasperated sarcasm in my voice.
Checking my cupboard, I just couldn’t decide upon which Top Ramen delicacy I would choke down today. There were odds and ends in there that didn’t get thrown away simply because they were edible. There was a can of olives, a can of blueberry pie filling, some raisins of questionable date.
“You know” I said, not ready to let God off so easy yet. “If you could just let me know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing here, I could feel a little better about my life being in the shitter right now.”
There comes a time when a person prays and feels the divine presence of God filling the room like a brilliant light and spiritually empowering them to face any crisis. This was not that time. I do not think that it was all of the abusive language, or the disrespect; God had known me too long to be offended by that. This was something completely different that had been growing for quite some time. This was a feeling of absence. That was it. I had the firm knowledge that God was not listening. It was as if I would pour out a heartfelt prayer, begging for guidance or help, only to hear spiritual crickets chirping in response.
I looked back at the stack of bills next to the computer that I could not begin to hope to pay (waiting for a miracle). Was that what I was doing? I didn’t know anymore. Between work, school, church, and the pack of wolves at the door growing larger by the day, all I knew is that when I called for help, there was only my own voice and the furry assurances from Sheba. The whole world was against me, God gave up, and I had no recourse. “Well then!” I shouted “If you won’t treat me as one of your children, could you at least treat me as an employee! After all, you said that ‘the worker deserves his wages” I sank into my stiff dining room chair that had to double as a computer chair. I logged on and ran my fingers vacantly over the keyboard. When my wife had left, she took all but my great grandfather’s dining room table, a cupboard, a butcher block (only because it was too heavy to move), and a mattress on the floor. My couch, I had to fashion out of logs cut on my property. The computer came via Stafford Loans, and the computer desk, I built out of scrap wood. When people asked me why the marriage broke up, I would tell them, “Irreconcilable differences. She wanted to sleep with other people, and I thought that was a bad idea.” And here I was, alone. I thought about a quote from middle English that my high school teacher used to use. He said that it was the saddest thing he had ever read pertaining to death, “all alone, without any company.” I laughed every time he said it with that Germanic sounding middle English dialect. I wasn’t laughing now.
Sheba slowly rose from her usual resting place by the ladder to the loft. She carefully approached me, claws ticking off of the worn pine floors, and rested her head upon my lap. “You’re right.” I said to her; her ears turning, but never letting her head leave my lap “Fuck ‘em all. The bill collectors, the lawyers, the ex, and if God doesn’t want to talk to me, then fuck him too. I wasn’t born to play Job for his little games anyway.” When I was lonely, it was not God, but Sheba who came to me to cheer me up. When I despaired, she curled up next to me on the floor until I was able to stand again. Whatever I had once been called by God to do, it was now becoming clear that it was ending. My whole life at this point had been little more than a temporary gig, and now the time was near, to leave my long exile in the Northern Maine woods.
**********
It was four months later that I met Alicia; a confirmed lapsed Catholic, Baptized Methodist, dabbling Wiccan and follower of Eris, Goddess of Discord. My faith and I had become just as my previous marriage had become; an attempt to live in toleration of each other, broken by spats and driven by a compulsion to run away.
It wasn’t the way that her blonde hair was surprisingly free of product and was allowed to catch every fleeting breeze as we sat on the porch drinking wine. It wasn’t that her eyes were intriguingly of two different colors; one hazel, the other green. In fact, I would have been hard pressed to tell anyone the difference between hazel and green before that spring. It wasn’t her smile, that rare natural occurrence that so many seem to force at inopportune moments in an attempt to convey appropriateness. Hers was a smile that beamed with unrestrained delight. She sang as if it were as natural as breathing. That, in fact, every breath contained it’s own song; every moment, it’s own occasion to sing. If it were her exquisite eccentricities alone that drew me to her, that would be enough.
She was freedom. Unfettered in heart and mind, she stood as all I had denied myself. Confident and alive, my own life seemed as an enigma to her. Why would someone voluntarily fetter themselves at such a young age? Why give up your youth? Why your ambitions? Why get married so young? Have children? Dedicate yourself to a set of religious ideals that are predicated more on dogma than on the kind of person that you are?
It was this pouring out of myself that had been my undoing. Every time I had thought that I was walking towards something, I was leaving more and more of myself behind. What my ex-wife didn’t take from me, my religion demanded it and called it righteousness. Eventually, when we pour ourselves out enough, we become empty vessels.
That’s how I wound up staring at a black and white picture of me at one year old, sitting on my grandparent’s lawn. I was remembering. Remembering who and what I was. Long hours, I would spend, recounting my childhood from earliest memories to my bumpy road to basic training. The photos, along with my baby pictures, were packed in a box and placed in the truck. The next day, I would be in my own apartment in Brunswick. In a few months, I would start getting the phone calls asking what went wrong back at the church.
Arsenic, they said, as I listened to the news report in disbelief. It must have been a mistake; I tell myself and others, including Alicia, who had come to know some of the parishioners, before my move. Herman was looking pretty bad. Lester was in a coma. So was Ralph, they think. Reid was dead. He was the first to fall from it.
Danny Bondeson did it. He took the arsenic and put it in the coffee urn in the kitchen. This much he admitted to in his own suicide note before putting a high powered rifle to his chest and blowing a sizeable hole in himself. Despite his admission of guilt, and subsequent suicide, the parishioners and the town still blame his sister, Norma. Since she went away and in fact, spent some of her time away, she had to be the culprit. As for me? I figured out that had I not moved away in the middle of January; an act for which many questioned my sanity, I would have served that Sunday. Being the biggest coffee drinker in the church, I would have had more than enough. What’s more, since it was the last Sunday of the month, I would have had my children with me, and subsequently died in front of them in my cabin in the woods.
Six months later, Alicia and I are in a Las Vegas gift shop, looking at souvenir magnets. She points one out to me that says, “Spiritual people enlighten me. Religious people frighten me.” I laugh and choose the one next to it, “Not all who wander are lost.”