It all started when I applied to join our new parish 2.5 years ago. I met with the priest, who seemed like a nice young man (which is kinda weird because everyone knows there are no young priests. It's super hard to sell celibacy these days.) Me and the kids were talking companionably with the priest on the porch of the rectory, when the priest used his Jedi mind tricks to pull the rug out from under me...
Priest: So, you were baptized and raised Catholic?
Me: Yep.
Priest: And your husband was baptized Lutheran.
Me: Yep. Whatareyagonnado... am I right? Love is blind.
Priest: But, let me see if I have this straight: You were married in a Lutheran Church?
Me: Yeah. The one across the street. I think its foot-washing Baptist now...
Priest: And your husband converted to Catholicism 7 years ago?
Me: Yep.
Priest: Then I am sorry to say, "Mrs." McSwain, but the Catholic Church does not recognize your marriage. You and your husband live in a state of sin. You'll have to go through marriage counseling and get married in a Catholic Church to absolve your sin. That means you cannot receive Holy Communion or be godparents.
Me: Holy sh... Are you serious? I've been married, like 13 years! I don't want to get married again! Counseling? For what? We have two kids! If that doesn't work out all the kinks, nothing does!
Priest: (stony silence)
So, I left in a bit of huff. I decided to pout about it and refuse to receive Communion because that would teach him. (I've always been a "cut off my nose" kinda girl) Me and the kids continued to attend Mass.
Week 1
I was certain (paranoia) that the priest was eyeballing me during Communion to make sure I didn't try to sneak up. But that wasn't the worst part:
Me: (whispering) Henry, go up without me and take your sister. Remember to bow and say "amen," for the love of God.
Henry: (out door voice) WHY AREN'T YOU GOING UP FOR COMMUNION, MOM?
Me: (hissing) Shut up right now. I will kill you in the parking lot. Just get up there right now.
Henry: FINE, MOM, WE'LL GO UP FOR COMMUNION WITHOUT YOU.
Which left me with the sweet pleasure of the stares and whispers of EVERY DAMN PARENT OF MY KIDS CLASSMATES AROUND ME.
Snooty Mom: OMG! Henry and Anne's tattooed mom can't receive Communion!
Snooty Dad: Our kids don't go to their house, do they? I don't want them hanging around the kids of the Bride of Satan! Don't arm tattoos mean lesbian?
Week 2
We arrive early and get seats in the third row. Because I decided not to cower in shame and also, so my kids focus on the Mass. The seat ahead of us was empty until a hobo with a knapsack, wearing a t-shirt with a giant cinnamon roll on it wandered in (urban parish; it happens) and of course, sat right the fuck in front of us. Me and the kids started poking each other and giggling about the t-shirt. A stern glance from the priest silenced us.
But not the Cinnamon Roll Hobo. He was super excited to get his Jesus on. Everytime the priest spoke..
Priest: InthenameoftheFatherandoftheSonandoftheHolySpiritAmen...
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SAVE ME JESUS!
Priest: (dirty look)
Priest: ThegraceofourLordJesusChristandtheloveofGodandthefellowshipoftheHolySpiritbewithyouall.
Cinnamon Roll Hobo: JESUS! JESUS! SWEET JESUS!
I mean, it went on and on. Every single time the priest spoke, the hobo started wailing. (I think he meant to be across the street with the foot-washing Baptists...) Me and the kids were turning red from the exertion of not laughing out loud. I kept trying to jab the kids in their ribs so they would understand they could in no way bust out, because we were 11 feet from the altar.
Priest: MayalmightyGodcleanseusofoursinsandthroughtheEucharistwecelebratemakeusworthytositat histableinhisheavenlykingdom.
Hobo: SWEET LAMB OF GOD! JESUS CHRIST!
At this point, Father had had enough. He came storming down of the altar and stopped right in front of the hobo. I think they teach them in the Seminary how to talk with out moving their lips, because boy did he let that hobo have it, but we, only 2 feet away, couldn't make out a word. I imagine it went something like this:
Priest: If I hear one more "JESUS" out of you and your cinnamon roll shirt, things are gonna get real, buddy. I have been working on this sweet sermon all week and you are making me break character. I'm opening with a joke and you and your "SWEET JESUS" is going to ruin it. I will take you down, do you hear me?
Hobo: OH FATHER! FORGIVE ME! FORGIVE ME!
Father had the strength (and naive hope) to return to the altar and try to finish Mass, amidst the mumbled "forgive me's" of the hobo. Me and the kids were barely holding it together. I was sweating from the effort of not laughing and jabbing my kids.
That's when the hobo decided to amp up his game. He reached in his knapsack and pulled out a 8 x 10 picture frame. Holding it high above his head, like an icon, he slowly rotated 360' the whole while wailing, "JEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSS!" The kids and I were wheezing and clutching our stomachs, hunched over and missed seeing the actual picture on the first two rotations. I couldn't say what Father was doing, up there on the altar. My guess would be stretching out to deliver an ass kicking.
On the third rotation, we finally saw what picture the hobo was flashing to the whole congregation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father had parked himself center stage at the altar and looked ready to unleash the wrath of God. The hobo and his cinnamon roll shirt slowly pivoted to face us and we saw...
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"JJJJJJJEEEEEEESSSSSUUUUUUUSSSSSS!!!!!"
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Yes. He was slowly rotating in a circle, in the second row of a Catholic church, with a giant picture of a pirate ship. In a cinnamon roll t-shirt.
And that's when the giant, wracking squeals and snorts exploded out of me and the kids. I tend to snort spastically when I am overcome with mirth. We were totally helpless. The rest of the congregation must have been made of sterner stuff than we, because they all stood there, staring in horror at the blasphemy of the hobo, and probably the blasphemy of the mom and kids adjacent who were squealing joyously at the whole business.
Father began his rage filled descent from the altar. The hobo quickly stuffed the pirate ship and a hymnal in his backpack, saluted the congregation and sprinted for the back door. I finally willed myself upright and wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. The kids were joyously hooting; transported to another place from the ecstasy of being front row center to something awesome finally happening at Mass. Somewhere, I heard the sound of the doors slamming behind the sprinting hobo. And I found myself staring into the eyes of Father, who had come to a full stop in front of us: the "unwed" tattooed hussy and her hooting offspring. He did not look pleased.
It's been pretty much downhill ever since. I don't think I can share anymore humiliation today. I need to go lay down with a wet towel on my eyes. Next time, I will tell you how my bra betrayed me during Mass. And how 2 people with some sort of palsy told me off loudly during another Mass and I ended up crab walking to the altar.
~dana
