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It’s funny how we treat going to church. Funnier still how we can act whenever we’re there. Folks who don’t believe in the practice avoid it for whatever reasons; some of which must have at least something to do with a rote dullness sometimes seen in it, especially from the outside looking in. It’s no surprise to this average sinner on the street that masses of humanity avoid breathing in stuffy, stagnant religiosity on a regular basis. Besides, there are practical concerns and prohibitive considerations. One could catch a God-awful virus strain from a pew, or suffer a sudden bout of conscience therein. Rubbing elbows with religious crowds comes with such risks, right? Heaven forbid.
Certain relatives I recall — the men, mostly — were fairly devout in their church avoidance behaviors during my boyhood. Throughout the calendar year, they were allowed their Sunday service truancy. Come Christmas Eve, though, thanks to a virtual cattle-prodding by their vehemently more virtuous spouses, they’d show a laughably woozy willingness to let go and let God have an hour or so of their time and wandering attentions by going to midnight mass where, in an air of joyful homage helped by the holidays’ extended happy hours, the boys from our hood celebrated the birth of Jesus like those shepherds keeping their sheep might have that Holy night, had they been pounding shots and beers all evening.
Typically, it took some doing to get them there, so the wives started in on their husbands early.
“You’re going,” I’d hear my aunts start asserting right after dinner.
“I’m not,” my uncles each initially countered with accord. “Let me relax. It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake.”
“Exactly. Have your fill of holiday cheer, but you’re going.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’ll go.”
“Not saying yes. Not saying no. I’ll think about it.”
“Think all you want, boys. Janek, come here and have another shot with Harry and Razz. They’re ready.”
“I know what you’re doing, Mary.”
“So do I, Harry dear. You’ve got plenty to be thankful for. You’re going. You’s can all go sit together. Get the group blessing. Maybe there’s safety in numbers from the lightning bolt.” And all the ladies in the house would laugh.
“Damn right,” Aunt Stella would weigh-in sort of righteously for the benefit of Uncle Raymond.
“Surrender, Harry,” he’d say, doing as much in that moment. “We’re goin’. Janek, get your drunken ass over here. Let’s have another shot of holy water!”
By 11:30 or so, everyone — liquored-up as they were, guys and gals alike — got in their cars and by God’s grace, made it the few blocks to St. Barbara’s safely. Conversation heading over was festive on the ladies’ end. They’d won again. Their men were coming to Jesus, such as they were, for another round of blessing that might have had to last them until Easter. My uncles, meanwhile, kept quiet as my aunts went on. But not long.
“Hey, Harry!” a voice boomed inside the church vestibule when we walked in.
“Hey, Joe, whaddya know?” my uncle bounded right back off the marble walls.
“Harry!” Aunt Mary tried to hush him.
“Yours dragged you here, too?” Neighbor Joe laughed, before taking a rib shot from his own better half.
“You know how it goes,” The boys went back and forth.
“Let’s go ice fishin’ soon, Harry,” Joe cast with a wink before being ushered by the arm into the sanctuary.
“Ah, your winter watering hole,” Aunt Mary knew the drill.
“Yeah, Razz calls his ‘union meetings,’” Aunt Stella snickered back toward Uncle Raymond.
As we searched for seats, loud meet-and-greets continued. Those gregarious guys stood tall in my eyes. The church seemed filled with fellow fisherman and labor rights fighters, all friends of theirs. I felt like my faith’s most privileged little gangster listening in on every impious exchange, where any words I myself ever uttered above the wispiest whisper were silenced with somber enforcement by my elders. This particular night of the year appeared an exception to rigid church rules; affording infrequent attendees some special dispensation allowing their irreverent, happy buzz as they just shot the shit in front of God and everyone. And it did this old parochial school kid’s heart some good to see and hear it; teaching me a slightly crooked, human truth about the path to righteousness in a church packed to the rafters with people who-by and large were in no condition to walk a straight line, let alone give sober thought to the saving of their souls.
If there’s hell to pay with my pastor for saying this, so be it: I’m not convinced only religions line the road to soulful redemption. Personally, twists, turns, and grace in a world I’ve wandered have all helped lead me to faith. Now, while no one will ever convince me that anyone’s wasting time and effort in places of worship where God can be given some due thanks and praise, maybe spaces like the one that hosted those high-spirited midnight masses in my memory would do well to welcome the imperfect to come as we are, a little more openly and often.
If there’s hell to pay with my pastor for saying this, so be it: I’m not convinced only religions line the road to soulful redemption.
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“You know, Mary, it felt good going,” My Uncle Harry would admit, driving back to their house after 1 a.m. on Christmas morning.
“See, Razz. Was that so damn hard?” Aunt Stella would second the good Catholic vibrations.
“Hallelujah!” Uncle Ray would say, then segue. “Who’s up for a few more rounds of Pinochle?”
“No more rounds, boys,” the wives, unwavering, were about to win again.
“Stella, we’re stayin’ up, playin’ cards, and celebratin’. It’s Christmas.” Uncle Ray would try to have the last word.
“Bullshit. You’s guys are going to bed,” The sisters always had the actual final say in tandem.
“Listen Stella…”
“Just surrender, Razz,” Uncle Harry took his turn, doing so in that same moment.
“Harry, careful,” my mother tapped him while backseat driving. “Try to stay on the right side of the road.”
Good advice.
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