Altar boys

I was just reading an online article regarding the controversy currently raging over the refusal of some diocese of the Roman Catholic Church to allow females to act as altar servers. It seems that some priests and bishops have decided that altar service should be limited to males.

The Catholic Church has a long history of treating women as second-class citizens. I don’t agree with the attitude of the church toward women but then, I also don’t understand why any girl would want to be an altar server. Or any boy, for that matter, but that’s not where I’m going.

I was an altar boy back in the days of solemn high Latin masses. I can still rattle off a mean Suscipiat at lightning speed. I remember all the choreographed dance steps as though I’d last performed them yesterday.  

I went through my initial training under Father LaVelle, staying late afternoons after school to learn the Latin and the moves and the order of things. I picked it all up quickly and was soon awarded a special wooden cross to wear around my neck on a string. It was supposed to be an honor of sorts for those of us who were on the altar boy fast track.

I found myself assigned to Father Holland’s Sunday crew, on the 7:00am and 12:15 pm mass shifts, and on call for special masses. I altar-boyed for a lot of weddings and funerals.  Some assignments were better than others. We used to vie to work funerals with Fr. Holland, because he would always take us out for burgers and fries afterward.  After a Mass of the Angels, he’d take us for a swim at the neighborhood pool. He didn’t want our young psyches damaged through exposure to such sad events as the funeral of a child. He was a good guy with a huge heart and of course, we played him shamelessly. Looking off into space after a particularly sad funeral was usually good for onion rings.

When we worked weddings, we would make bets on the probability that one of the wedding party would faint during the service. There was usually a box of Jujy Fruits hanging in the balance. With stakes like that, arguments in the changing room behind the sacristy would rage. Nodders didn’t count, but what about leaners? If the first usher caught the best man, who then came around before going completely comatose, did that count?

A kid who went down in the pews was out of bounds. Stumblers didn’t count, although a really good one would make us bite our collective lips. As fun a guy as Fr. Holland was, even he frowned on laughing at stumblers.  And a dancer was highly entertaining but scored no points unless the noggin hit the carpet.

The bride and her women in waiting didn’t count. Which is not to say they never went down. But women were considered more likely to swoon, and therefore too obvious to bet on.  Only males earned points. The irony is that although women were exempted due to their assumed frailty, I can tell you from long experience that more groomsmen end up kissing the kneeler than bridesmaids. We should have doubled up bets on the fair flowers hitting the floor.

We weren’t totally heartless in our calculations. A fainter who also upchucked earned our sympathy and therefore, was outside our calculations. And bets were off for any service involving the use of incense, long regarded as the bane of potential passer outers.

Betting on syncope was not our only entertainment. One priest who frequently worked our room had two peculiarities that played right into our hands. Fr. X had a thing about always consecrating all the wine we brought him. This meant he had to drink it, this being before the days of pass-the-chalice. This particular cleric also had trouble holding his vino. So naturally, when the prep boy saw the poor chump’s name on the schedule, he would make sure to set out the largest wine cruets, filled to the  spout with the novitiate’s finest.

This poor guy would bravely drink down all the wine, and within a few minutes, would be struggling visibly and painfully to avoid burping into the microphone. And after mass, he would politely but firmly remind us to use the small wine cruets and next mass, we’d super-size him again. Great fun!

You know, come to think of it, we really were little monsters. Mothers, don’t let your sons – or daughters - grow up to be altar servers. It’s a bad crowd.