I've been thinking about religion lately and Cubiclegirl's entry inspired me to write about it.

I'm not religious in the traditional sense of the word. I'm Catholic and probably always will be, but I no longer go to mass on Sundays. I've become what my father refers to with disdain as the "twice a year Catholics" - one of those who show up at mass for Christmas and Easter.

I'd like to think I'm a little more than that. There's an Episcopalian Church on my neighborhood that I've written about before. They keep the church open at night even when there are no services and I frequently stop in on my way home to sit or kneel and reflect. I stopped there tonight, after doing some Christmas shopping to pray for the deceased and their families during what is bound to be an emotionally challenging time.

I knelt, and bowed my head to pray that they are safe and happy with God; I prayed that they feel no pain now in the afterlife. I prayed for them to give added strength to those they left behind.

When I left the Church, I rounded the corner and saw the back of a man leaning into a car, fastening a baby seat. The man was a dead ringer for my friend's husband and I stopped immediately. I felt this rush of hope and an underlying current of impossibility. I wanted to stop him and stare at him. As I regained my sanity, I walked away, angry and sad because my friend's husband should have had a chance to one day place his own baby into a car seat. They both should have had that chance.

But as my father would tell me, "No one ever promised you a rose garden, fraulein." True dat, Dad.

I belong to the Cathedral parish in my hometown. The grammar school attached to the church, is the same school that my mother and father both attended, with their brothers and sisters. In this church, my parents were baptized, received First Penance, Holy Communion, Confirmation and were married. My grandmother served as a lunch lady there in the 30's and 40's. My aunt was a lunch lady there in the 80's and 90's. We laid both my grandmother and my aunt to rest in that church, as we did many other family members.

I was also Baptized, Penanced, Communioned and Confirmed there. My parents were active in the church when I was young and I would accompany them to their Sunday coffee and doughnut meetings in the basement auditorium of the Church.

During this time, my father had a falling out with the Church that I didn't understand, I just knew that the Monseignor did not like me. What I now know happened was that the bishop and the monseignor wanted to take the coiffers collected for the poor and gold plate the 20 foot ascending Jesus that hangs as the backdrop to the alter. My father felt this was a repulsive misuse of funds that had been collected to aid the poor in foreign countries and he disputed it. The Bishop maintained the support of parishners who feared him, because he *is* a man of GOD and would of course, always make the right desicion. My father refused to bend and terminated his participation in church activities outside of attending mass.

It was ugly. During this time, various dioceasean priests would make housecalls to our home at night, and there were many heated conversations behind closed doors. My father was a man of standing and influence in our community - he had lived in this town his entire life - and they were desparate to salvage this situation that threatened the solidarity of their flock, and I dare say, their funding from the community.

But I knew none of this. All I knew was that when it was time for report cards, this monseignor would come to our classroom and call each child's name and review their marks, offering comments. Some he would congratulate and others he would tell to study more, in front of the entire class. We would sit and control our fear of his judgement, seemingly holding our collective breathes for the entire process to end. When my name was called, I would walk up that looooooooooooong classroom aisle and stand in front of him as he reviewed my marks, consisting mostly of A's, and look up at him silently praying for just one kind word, as he pretentiously peered down his spectacles at me and handed me my report card, without a word. Not a single word. With his silence he would try to shame me because of my father.

When I would come home, bewildered, and tell my Father about this, he would become irate. He and my mother would exchange glances over my 10-year-old head and my Father would tell me that the Monseignor was preoccupied with spending God's money as he saw fit and told me I should stand with my head held high and stare back at him.

And so I did. But I had my revenge, unplanned. The next year, a sign up sheet was posted for altar boys, the end-all-be-all honor for boys in catholic school. I, more cosmopolitan than my schoolmates, had been to mass in New York City (GASP!) and seen altar girls that year. So, on the last day of sign-up's, I added my name to the list.

The next week, I was called to the principal's office. This was curse worse than the burning fires of hell. I walked in with my head down in shame, and faced the head nun and the monseignor. "What is the meaning of this!" they demanded, accusing me of making a mockery of a service to God. "What do you mean," I asked, confused. "I want to be an altar girl." "That's preposterous!" they said. "Girls *cannot* serve on the altar!"

"Yes, they can. I saw them serve on the altar in St. Patrick's in New York City," I told them. Silence. Both of their faces were flushed in the anger and the Nun looked at the Monsiegnor. The Nun tried to accuse me of lying but I protested, telling her I did see altargirls and she should go an see for herself. The Monsiengor butted in and said, "We do not have altar girls here at the Cathedral and you will stop this immediately," Case closed.

I went home that day and prepared my parents for a call from the Principal, explaining what happened. They laughed over my heads and when my Father finally regained control and said, "Partygirl, you *are* right. I think you should be an altar girl! You did nothing wrong. Now let's all go out for dinner."

Shortly after that incident, there was some scandal at the church with several of the priests leaving the priesthood in disgrace, to marry elementary teachers from our school. My Dad had a field day with that one.

Today, I am happy to report, there are now altar girls at my parish, albeit serving on an altar with a 24k gold ascending Jesus larger than 20-ft tall and goes knows how many feet wide, and when we go to mass at Christmas and see them, sometimes, my Dad gives me a little wink.

To be continued....

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