Altar Call

 

by Chairman Joe McDonnell

My father had been an altar boy and he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. Whenever a new class would be forming, he'd strongly suggest that I sign up. But I would always forestall him by saying I had to study. By the time report cards came out and he had evidence I was not studying, it was too late to join the altar boy class.

Then one year, the church near the cottage where I summered offered a class. "You're going," my father said. The church was not all that close. I had to ride my bike about twenty minutes and climb a steep hill to where the church sat. It was blessedly cool inside. There were ten of us future acolytes and Father Don would lead us in our lessons. 

This was back in the days of the Latin mass and having to memorize the many responses to the priest seemed daunting. I just now looked up the Latin mass online. The priest starts by blessing himself, then says "Introibo ad altare Dei." which means "I will go in to the altar of God." The server then replies, "Ad deum qui laetificat, juventutem meam," or "The God who gives joy to my youth." You may recognize those lines are from the Forty-third Psalm.

The server has some lengthy passages after that, but soon most of his responses are simply, "Et cum spirito tuo."  Of course all those Spirito tuos had to come at the right place. There was also much business of holding up books for the priest, bringing him water to wash his hands, and the ringing of bells. Father Don said if we made a little mistake now and then most of the congregation would not notice, but that we should really get the bells right.

Well I was doing pretty well on my way to becoming an altar boy. In the morning I'd memorize my lines, and in the afternoon I'd go out rowing. One day I took an extra long row under a blazing sun. I was wearing shorts and the next morning I woke up with a horrible sunburn and a case of sun poisoning. I wasn't able to get out of bed and missed that day's lesson. Then I went off to Boy Scout camp. By the time I got home I told my father I was too far behind to catch up with my class. He didn't say "Whatever!" because people didn't say that in those days, but he must have been thinking it.

I really did want to be an altar boy, at least for the sword fighting part. My grandfather told me that my father and his buddy would have swordfights in the sacristy with the altar candle lighters (lucerna leviores) before  mass. Of course my grandfather wasn't aware of this until the morning my father grew bored with sword fighting and stuck the metal end of his candle lighter into the fuse box to watch the sparks fly. He got a bit careless and blew the main fuse, plunging the church into darkness.

After mass, the priest and my grandfather met in council. My grandfather was a Boston cop, but was better known for issuing sermons rather than citations to minor transgressors. My father told me he received a dope slap to the back of his head along with a memorable homily.

Another reason I was sorry to drop out of  class was Father Don's stories. There was a life-size statue of Saint Anthony in our church, and Father Don said that it reminded him of a story he had heard from a priest up in the North End. The North End is the part of Boston was where the Italian immigrants lived. 

One day the priest heard a new immigrant asking Saint Anthony to get him a job. A few days later he heard the same immigrant telling Saint Anthony he was still jobless and if he didn't come through, "I'm gonna smash-a-your face." The priest got worried and had the statue removed and replaced with a twelve inch replica. Sure enough the guy returned a couple of days later with a hammer. Spotting the little statue he said, "Hey kid! Where's-a-your poppa?" Father Don could do a great Italian accent.

"Cavé!"