Catholic Beef

I've got beef with Catholics. Not Tupac and Biggie Smalls beef. You can rest assured that no one will end up shot. But if Catholics and I ever found each other face to face in the streets… there would have to be a freestyle rap battle or an Ol’ Skool dance off, at least.


Catholics believe in God and I believe in God, so in essence, we're family. But unlike most familial fights, this didn't start over money or what went down at last year’s family reunion. Our misunderstanding started over Communion.

Allow me to give you some background...

My grandmother was in charge of baking the Communion bread for our church. Every Friday afternoon, I sat in the kitchen on our rickety, step stool and watched as as she whisked together flour, olive oil, salt and water for our crispy, unleavened bread. If I did not disturb her, she gave me a corner of bread fresh off the cookie sheet. There is nothing better than piping hot Body of Christ fresh from the oven. Yummo.

If I wasn't eating advanced entrees of Communion, I was playing it with my best friend, Lelia. Since she was a preacher's daughter, Lelia played the part of pastor. We sang out of decrepit hymnals where the songs only had numbers. --Hymn #162. We chose randomly so we rarely knew the melody. We sang off key, off tune and just plain off. After singing, Pastor said a quick prayer and announced that it was time for Communion. Being the sole member of the usher board, I stepped forward to serve her crunchy bread and a shot of warm Welch’s grape juice. Needless to say, me and Communion go way back.

***
A few years ago, I attended my first Catholic mass. I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist and one of the major tenets is modesty. I had never been exposed to the opulence of a Catholic cathedral. The domed ceiling of the sanctuary was gilded in gold leaf. Jesus’ Ascension to heaven was told in picture through Gothic, stained glass windows. The pulpit was flanked by pillared candles covered in flickering images of the Virgin Mary. Earlier I made the mistake of lighting three candles and saying a few short prayers. It wasn’t until after my prayers that I noticed the offering box requesting a quarter for each candle you light. (Ooops! Does the church accept Visa debit?)

Services started when the priest began his reverent walk down the cathedral aisle. He swung his brass censer like a pendulum while plumes of earthy incense billowed down the pews. I took deep, fluid breaths of the heady mix of frankincense and myrrh. As he walked, he sang a song in Latin that sounded like slow Lamaze breathing, "ah ha hee hee ho oh." Compared to drab church services of my youth, Catholicism was magical.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything about the sermon. I was too busy concocting ways to score church incense and figure out reasons to sit in the confessional booth. But I do remember the priest announcing the start of Communion. We were all instructed to stand and file down the aisle to accept God's sacrifice, when my neighbor asked, "Are you Catholic?"

I'm sure he already knew the answer because I had completely flubbed the whole kneel, stand, cross over your heart routine repeatedly.

"No," I answered sourly.

"Well, then you aren't allowed to take Communion here," he scoffed and darted off to join the rest of the congregation in my row.

A breathy, “oh” escaped my mouth. I looked for someone else sitting but I was the only one. I suddenly felt like I had come to church drunk on bourbon and inappropriately dressed. I watched as each member held their mouths open as if in a medical exam and the priest pressed a single, round wafer on their tongues. Then after a quick swipe around the cup with his napkin, he tipped the gold chalice towards their lips. I grabbed my keys and power walked to the exit.

So when Dan Brown made the Holy See appear greedy and obnoxious in The DaVinci Code, I considered it payback. And when local teens stole the plaster model of Jesus on the Cross from St. Michael’s and left a note saying that he’d be back on Easter Sunday, I laughed hysterically and said, “That’s what you get, nonnie, nonnie boo boo.”

But family is family right and you can’t stay beefing forever. So I’ve decided to call a truce.

To all you Catholics out there, the next time we meet up, you bring your wafers and real wine and I’ll bring my crispy bread and Welch’s and we can have Communion… together.

PS- And just in case you wondering, I went back to that church and put a whole dollar in the candle offering.