photo credit: Jim, the Photographer

The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live.

— Flora Whittemore

I describe myself as a recovering Catholic, though I’m never sure exactly what that means.  For the first 20 or so years of my life, I was a devoted Catholic.  As a matter of fact, I knew almost nothing about any other Christian denomination.  Having been the only “goy” family in the neighborhood, I knew that there were Catholics and Jews, and on a practical level that was all I knew.

I’d been baptized shortly (minutes) after I was born, so that if, heaven forbid, I were to die, at least I wouldn’t end up in limbo. (At the time, limbo wasn’t a dance, it was where unbaptized babies went if they died.  They could never leave limbo because they didn’t have the appropriate “certification” by the Church to go to heaven, but at least they wouldn’t go to hell and suffer for all eternity.  That wouldn’t be fair to the baby.  It wasn’t their fault that they weren’t baptized.)  Because my mother had gall bladder surgery shortly after I was born, it took a while for the “show” baptism – you know, with the dress and party, etc.

I spent 12 years in Catholic schools complete with First Communion, Confirmation and religion class every day.  The only time I attended another church was when I went to one of the neighbors bar or bat mitzvahs.  I could easily have been an altar server, if they’d let girls serve, because I knew the whole Mass in Latin.  Still do, if pushed.  (It’s amazing what sticks in our brains.  I’ll be in a home with Alzheimer’s and won’t know anyone around me, but I’ll know the Confiteor in Latin – that and the words to all the old Broadway musical numbers ever written.)

I Need a 12-Step Program

For years I’ve struggled with the whole “Catholic thing.”  I enjoy the traditions – the ceremonies and hymns and pageantry.  I love the smell of the incense and the candles.  But I strongly disagree with much of what the Church teaches.  This leaves me in a quandary that has me sometimes attending Mass and sometimes not returning for months because the Church has made me so flippin’ angry that I’m hardly Christ-like when I’m there.  I’ve tried looking around for another Christian church but so far I haven’t been successful.

When I was very young, it was before Vatican II – the council where the Church attempted to move into the 20^th Century and become more inclusive of its own members as well as other Christian denominations.  In essence, we attempted to find common ground with other Christians instead of arguing about obscure bits of theology.  Part of this included saying Mass in the language of the people who were attending the Mass instead of using the universal language – Latin.  It also included a focus on being more Christ-like.  Loving one’s neighbor instead of deciding that God was going to send them to hell – that kind of stuff.

Not being one who really gave a damn about her neighbor, my mother hated everything about the post-Vatican II Church.  They wanted her to love black people; she believed that black people had single handedly destroyed her chance for prosperity and happiness.  They wanted her to accept people as they were; she believed that it was her way or the highway.  So, she hit the highway and left the Church.  (To be fair to my mother, she and Dad had been having marital problems from the very beginning and when they went to the parish priest for marriage counseling, he told them to have kids.  Since they didn’t have enough money to keep themselves together, this struck her as ridiculous.  However, here I am.  The Church hadn’t served her well.)

Ash Wednesday

But, no matter what, my roots are in the Catholic Church.  So, I went to church to get ashes on Ash Wednesday.  I called the local parish and was told ashes would be distributed at 12:10.  I got there a little bit after 12:10 and there were people leaving the church with ashes on their foreheads and lots of people going into church.  Having seen people leaving, I drove around waiting for someone to come out and leave so I could park.  It finally dawned on me that there weren’t many people leaving anymore so I went around the block and parked a couple blocks away.

By the time I got into church, I’d missed the sermon (thank heavens!) and had gotten there just in time for the “pass the basket” portion of today’s service.  The actual schedule was that Mass was scheduled for noon and ashes had been distributed at the beginning of the Mass.  So, having come this far, I attended what was left of the Mass, offertory, consecration, communion and blessing.  The priest walked out (recessional) and as people were leaving the church they’re asked him to distribute ashes.  He was not immediately receptive, but as he noticed how many people were making the request, he changed his mind.

So, after all this history, NOW we get to the heart of the matter.  They STAMPED my forehead using ashes.  You know what I mean, like the stamp you get on your hand when you want to re-enter Disneyland.  Only this one is easily visible – and it’s supposed to be a cross.  Ok, it seemed a little impersonal and personally I liked the smudge you always ended up with in the past, but times change. (I haven’t become my mother quite yet!)  BUT, the deacon, the guy who in theory should know more than me, didn’t know what he was supposed to say as he STAMPED you.  He turned to the deacon next to him and HE DIDN’T KNOW either.  Oy!!!

I tried to help him out, “Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”  Not only didn’t he listen to me, it turned out that they were saying something else, which I can’t tell you because they weren’t exactly sure of it, so they mumbled something, stamped me and sent me on my way.

F-L-E-X-I-B-I-L-I-T-Y

I’m not asking that things stand still.  I’m not asking that nothing change.  BUT the thing that struck me was that this reminded me not of a church, but of a badly run business, trying to give the customer what they wanted while not even understanding their own product.

Things change.  Cell phones replace land lines.  iPods replace CD players which replaced turntables.  The vernacular (English, Spanish, etc.) replaces Latin.  Things will always change and when we choose to reject change just because it’s different or because we need to learn something new, we begin our contraction into old age.

I’ve really run into this with my elderly relatives.  As I’ve tried to keep everyone in the loop about Dad’s situation, I’ve been asking for email addresses.  80% of the elder bodies tell me that they don’t have a computer or use email or the internet.  “I’m 80-something” – they say as if that explains everything.  Unfortunately, what that really means is that they won’t know what’s going on until I can find the time to call them individually to update them.  With all I have on my plate, those calls just don’t rise to the top very often.

So, as I watch the changes in my church, I remind myself – FLEXIBILITY.  It may not be easy, but to my way of thinking it’s the only choice until I’m ready to lie down and die.  I may look “older” but I want my attitude and my mind to be “young” and that means being able to flexibly accept change.  To adapt.  And to do it with a smile and a willing attitude.