He should have known immediately that he had made a mistake. It was a cold Sunday in November, and she was visiting Fayetteville, North Carolina. Following my host’s instructions, I found the church and pulled into the parking lot. As I walked in I was greeted by a greeter with a smile that brightened up the day.
“Good morning! And how are you today? I’m Bob Sullivan and it’s great to have you with us.”
Warmed by this southern hospitality, I made my way to a bench and sat down. As I looked around at the other parishioners, I felt like they accepted me as a welcome guest. I looked at the red prayer book. Oh! I was in an Episcopal Church. Embarrassed, I left and hurried to the Catholic Church two blocks away. As I climbed the steps, a solemn-looking usher was watching me.
“You’re late!” he announced in a voice loud enough to be heard in the Episcopal Church. Eyes downcast, I voiced my guilt and mumbled an apology as I walked past him. No response. Throughout the service and until I got in my car and left, I was treated like an trespasser deserving of suspicion. I felt at home.
Within the Catholic Church, I am curious why eighty-nine percent of parishioners embrace the concept that every believer is an island. Also, seventy-one percent seem to be saying “And get off my beach!” If Jesus had behaved like most Catholics, his only followers would have been stray dogs and beggars.
My Aunt Mary was a good example of this. She was a lifelong devout Irish Catholic (a word in the Catholic vocabulary). Whenever she was upset, the phrase “Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God” would easily roll off the tip of her tongue. If she got frustrated, she would call out to the whole family: “Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph!” And when the Church initiated the “handshake of peace,” she would not have been more offended if the Pope had approved polygamy.
He was a person who always knew the answer before asking a question. Then she would confidently say, “Tell me, please, what does shaking hands with a complete stranger have to do with religion?” To confirm her disapproval of this practice, she at that time during Mass feigned contemplation of her by burying her well-groomed head in a missal to avoid having to touch someone she did not know.
Also, with the unique behavior of Catholics, when Mass is over (“thank God, it’s over”), we walk out as if we heard a fire alarm. Three minutes after the end of a service, the custodian can arrive and begin cleaning. In sunny Florida, where I occasionally attend a Methodist church with my sister, parishioners stay long after the service to visit with one another.
There are rare exceptions. Before beginning his Mass at Seattle’s popular St. Bernadette Parish, Father Jim spends five minutes “getting to know you.” He instructs the members of the congregation to stand up and introduce themselves to everyone within reach. He says, “Tell them who you are and what you do. Then find out about them.”
Instantly the church comes to life and resounds with the sounds of happy chatter. Each person shares with another. Then, as if by magic, the group becomes a comfortable community of believers.
If you want to see a surprised expression, try this next Sunday. As you pull out of the parking lot and head toward the church, say hello to two or three strangers. Last week, I did this and this is what happened:
An old lady dressed in gray silk to whom I said “Good morning” took a moment to regain her balance from the jolt of hearing my voice. She clutched her black bag close to her chest and reluctantly gave me a tight smile. She then rushed into the church like a sand crab crawling into a hole.
When I greeted a burly man in a friendly way, he seemed annoyed. He looked at me with an expression that said, “Who the hell are you, some kind of smart guy?” Then he nodded and abruptly echoed my greeting.
I am in no way critical of our behavior as Catholics today. Through many years I have learned to accept it as the norm. And seventy-nine percent of those reading this will agree with me that there is no need to change. However, from time to time I wonder why we are the way we are.
Unfortunately, I’m not like Aunt Mary. I do not know the answer