There had always been a very real sense of tranquility found at Saint Mary’s of the Hills. A pristine white jewel of a building seemingly rupturing through the tick foliage of the New England forest at the end of a winding, seldom traveled back road. This Church had always been an institution filled with fond memories from my childhood. All of which came back to me when I turned off that winding dusty back road onto that weathered and cracked asphalt of a parking lot one Sunday evening to attend a morning mass. My first one in I don’t know how many years. Although I have no doubt it had been enough to qualify as a sin.

     Without a Patriots game on this Sunday (New England’s unofficial religion) I suppose there was hardly anything else keeping these people busy. I had a different time finding a parking spot. I drove past rows upon rows of Buick’s and Mercury’s before I found a place to park. Evidently I arrived a little past what was normal for most people. Here I thought an eleven o’clock mass meant eleven o’clock. Not quarter ’til. While I was stammering up the concrete steps planted in the grassy hill leading to the over sized doors where everyone clamored like sheep to a gated pin, I heard an elderly woman say to what I can only presume to be her sister, “if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss out on all the good seats.” I found that to be rather whimsical and amusing. A good seat? As opposed to what, a bad seat? It’s the same stories hashed out week after week. After all, there hasn’t been a sequel to the Bible for a few thousand years. That is of course unless you’re a Mormon. In which case the Book of Mormon is essentially the Return of the Jedi in this Abrahamic trilogy.

     I found a set only a few rows separating me from the very back (or a “bad seat” as it were) just in time as the hymns came to their conclusion and the chimes rang, signifying that the priest was about to begin. He made his entrance down the heart of the church while holding the bible above his head, with alter boys at his side. His flowing white robe draped on the bright red carpet leading up to the alter. He was of African decent, spoke with an accent that was easy to understand but quite audible that English was not his first language. He had taken over for the retiring Priest at this place of worship several years ago. He had replaced Father Togaus, the former priest who was the man whom had both held me underwater for my baptism and gave me my first Communion at this church some twenty-years ago. He still lived on the church grounds on a home adjacent to the church with his white and brown floppy-eared dog.

     This new priest was much younger. And had a tangible amount of vigor and energy to his preaching. Not in a fiery, Southern Baptist sort of way. But in an energetic, approachable manner of speaking. You could sense he truly liked being up on that stage. Believing that he was, well, doing the lord’s work. I must admit, it certainly takes a lot of memorization to be up there preaching to a crown that is upwards of about one hundred or more people. It’s not as though it’s a lot of mental exertion to recite passages or tales from the Bible (when he’s up at that podium, it’s sort of an open-book test, as the Bible’s right there in front of him with a golden laced book mark dictating what’s to be read this mass) but in the sense that there was a level of communication going on between himself and the crowd. The priest would say some quote from the Book of Someone or the Letter from Blank to Blank, pause, and the crowd would recite back in unison, “And also with you” or something else recited from memory that I obviously missed the memo on. Most of the people filling the church this Sunday were white, although ages ranged anywhere from infants to the elderly with every generation peppered in between. I imagined categorizing each person into groupings of which president was in the oval office when they were born. As my eyes flickers from person to person, it ranged from the Obama administration all the way back to ‘I Like Ike’ and Roosevelt.

     Most of these church goers were dressed quite well. Not nearly as dapper as my late grandmothers laced hat she and her generation adorned, but snazzy enough to be seated at a restaurant with cloth napkins as opposed to a paper napkin dispenser. I noticed wherever there was a family with either a father and/or mother that was dressed up, usually the children were well put together as well. With combed hair and perhaps a shirt tucked in. That’s not to say that there weren’t people who were about to head out, what my only guess would be, to a Buffalo’s Wild Wings immediately after the priest says “May god be with you, you may leave in peace.” I shutter at the very thought that that’s what they wear when they are dressing up.

     Then came the singing. I looked up at the pillars where there were wooden frames caved in the shape of an opened window sill with the pages that governed which hymns were to to sung this morning. There were to be four during this congregation. Now it doesn’t take a sociology major to figure out why communal singing has in bedded itself with religious institution. It denotes a sense of community, a impression of belonging to something larger than oneself. It’s also easier to memorize the message being taught when it’s sung with a melody. I don’t think there’s person or child in this country who din’t learn their ABC’s to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. But this in not a song that would be defined in the traditional sense – it doesn’t rhyme. Not a single lyric. Not even by accident. This didn’t seem to affect the abilities of most to recite the lyrics back without even opening their dark green hymn books with the word “Gather” embossed on their cover. Although the “h” in “Gather” had a deep swoop to it’s tale, nearly connecting it and making it into a “b.”  So ever since I was a child, I would always read it as Gatber.

     The priest would go on to tell the tale Noah’s Ark. But his segue was what caught my attention. He would make small talk about how lovely the weather has been over the past several months, which always helps church attendance, and thus thanked the lord for bestowing unseasonably warm weather to this region. And then came the e-brake and u-turn of a segue, “The lord has not always been so favorable with climate where man in concerned.” I could see around the bend where he was taking this. “One would only have to know the story of Noah and his family,” he continued. I almost wanted to exhale and grunt at the candidness of that pivot in what he said. I don’t need to bore anyone in repeating the narrative of Noah. But I All I will say is it was left out that Noah lived to be over 950 years old. Or how the true miracle lay in the fact that when the ark made landfall, the kangaroos and penguins managed to traverse thousands of miles to the opposite ends of the globes, over open oceans and unforgiving deserts. And without any opposable thumbs were able to pick up every bone of their dead along the way both to and from the ark, as no remains of either species have ever been found outside of their home environments. Perhaps all of that will be touched on during next Sunday’s mass, which I sadly won’t be attending.

     Then came the time for everyone to step out of their pews to receive communion. Everyone (aside from the children) shuffled out from their respected pews, formed an even and organised line to the alter and received a flat piece of bread and the option to wash it down with some wine. When I was a child, I always wondered what that bread tasted like. And upon completing my first communion, I came the realization that all that waiting was disappointment. The mushy, flavorless bits would get suck in every crevice of my teeth and I was still tasting it well into the car ride home. When this seventh inning stretch was over, there was one more hymn to be sung and the chorus repeated until the priest walked back down the aisle signifying that the gathering was now over. Some stayed to chitchat with friends and neighbors, but most shuffled out to make it to their cars and beat the gridlock of trying to leave a barely-wide-enough driveway exiting the parking lot. The priest stood a the the doorway as people left, shaking hands and making small talk with pretty much everyone as they trotted by. Not entirely sure if he actually knew everyone he was greeting and shaking hands with, or if it was more of a politician’s approach of crowd pleasing. A good firm handshake and pat on the shoulder accompanied with a smirk can instantly from a connection with an individual. I’d image this would be helpful for someone who’s in the business of preaching to people the mysteries of the universe and what happens to the souls of you and your loved ones.

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