The Militant and Just Bloody Rotten Order of the Torch begins.
Guildenstern: All your life you live so close to truth it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye. And when something nudges it into outline, it's like being ambushed by a grotesque.
Very true. Sometimes that truth is something you just don't remember because it's been out of you line of sight for so long.
When I was a yute, we went to church in the next town over from our. (I never got a straight answer as to why we didn't go to the one closest to home).
We'll call my church Our Lady of Perpetual Weirdness. It even looked like a 70's church.
The sketch doesn't do it justice. It was built in the mid 1950's but wow is it ugly. The interior is indescribably bad. Poor layout with numerous chokepoints, high ceilings in the center but low over the rear pews (like a big cone) that guaranteed the head would go up and leave us freezing year round. Dark stone walls with thick mortar, stained glass that looked like it was made from broken beer and soda bottles. I'll spare you the rest...
Sometime in the late 70's someone must have dosed the rectory water supply with LSD. Little else could explain the capers that followed.
Around that time I was making my first Communion. All of you who are old enough know what that means. Dreadful 70's haircut, powder blue itchy polyester suit and matching itchy polycotton blended shirt. Clip on tie and shoes by Blistermax.
Father Tim was running the show. He was loved, nay, adored by the parishoners. My Mom still says he was "the holiest person I've ever met." (NB: My Mom isn't a particularly observant or devout person. Only natural for someone who attended 13 years of Catholic school) He was rotund, with a scraggly beard, wandering eye and bright smile. He had a belly laugh that was infectious and would always make me smile. He was also a Franciscan which means he dressed like this:
That meant one thing. He was a Jedi. Why else would he dress like Obi Wan Kenobi? All the other Priests I've ever met dressed like English professors with a collar instead of a tie. I had no idea that Priests could be Jedi and Jedi could be Priests. Did I miss something from the movie? Only one way to find out. Ask Mom.
Me: Mom, how did Father Tim get to be a Jedi?
Mom: (bewildered) What?
Me: You know, a Jedi, like Obi Wan.
Mom: He's not a Jedi, he's a Priest!
Me: What? They why does he dress like Obi Wan?
Mom: (laughing) No! He's a Franciscan (as if this explains it all)
Me: So?
Mom: That's how they dress.
Me: Why?
Mom: I don't know, because they do.
I wasn't satisfied with that answer and kept a close eye on Father Tim for any signs of use of The Force.
Shortly after my First Holy Communion, Father Tim was reassigned for reasons known only to God and the Bishop.
His replacement we'll call Father Oddball.
He was a nice enough guy. He looked a bit like Brawny but with a full beard and about 15-20 years older.
The downside was that he was one of those "Vatican II means there are no rules anymore" guys. I say that with no exaggeration whatsoever. We had couples getting married who's entrance songs were The Carpenters. Sometimes they were barefoot. Confession became Reconciliation and was a one time thing. The confessionals became storage lockers for chairs and such.
There was a youth group band at mass with acoustic guitars, drums, keyboard and the ever present tamborines.
The Nun who ran the adjacent Catholic school founded her own order, of her own volition. She never wore a habit and dressed like one of Charlie's Angels.
My parent's gritted their teeth through all of it and we went, dutifully, week after week.
Then came the final straw.
Interpretative dance of the liturgical reading by leotard clad dancers.
I.
Am.
Not.
Kidding.
Even as a wee lad, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I remember being slackjawed as these women (and some men) danced their way down the aisles to the dais where they continued their "performance".
That was the last time we went there. My parents figured that no church was better than that. In retrospect, they were probably right.
If you've made it this far, you're wondering, what does any of this have to do with the title of the post?
Simply put, I was reading this post and it all came back in a flood. I remember making those infernal felt banners. Always with doves and rainbows and whatnot. I had completely forgotten about the banners. Nothing screams 1970's Catholic church quite like those banners. I join the call to find and burn every last dreadful one of them.
Epilogue:
I went back to Our Lady of Perpetual Weirdness last year. First time in almost 25 years. My wife was in a wedding for a friend of her's who was a parishoner. Rehearsal was relaxed and I had a chance to speak to the "new" Priest (he's been there for almost as long as I've been gone).
I mentioned I used to be a parishoner and Father Tim and such. He never knew Father Tim but knew his reputation as being the local favorite. He also remembered Sister Oddball. "She was crazy. I mean, really nuts." he said in all seriousness. It seems after the Bishop had enough he turned up the heat and she left to join some schismatic order of nuns or something. Those felt banners were gone as was the space for the band. The confessionals were no longer storage closets (I peeked) and despite the unrelentingly horrible architecture and aesthetics, things seemed to be OK.
People come and go but other things stand outside of time. Human errors in a divine institution have a way of correcting themselves.
Very true. Sometimes that truth is something you just don't remember because it's been out of you line of sight for so long.
When I was a yute, we went to church in the next town over from our. (I never got a straight answer as to why we didn't go to the one closest to home).
We'll call my church Our Lady of Perpetual Weirdness. It even looked like a 70's church.
The sketch doesn't do it justice. It was built in the mid 1950's but wow is it ugly. The interior is indescribably bad. Poor layout with numerous chokepoints, high ceilings in the center but low over the rear pews (like a big cone) that guaranteed the head would go up and leave us freezing year round. Dark stone walls with thick mortar, stained glass that looked like it was made from broken beer and soda bottles. I'll spare you the rest...
Sometime in the late 70's someone must have dosed the rectory water supply with LSD. Little else could explain the capers that followed.
Around that time I was making my first Communion. All of you who are old enough know what that means. Dreadful 70's haircut, powder blue itchy polyester suit and matching itchy polycotton blended shirt. Clip on tie and shoes by Blistermax.
Father Tim was running the show. He was loved, nay, adored by the parishoners. My Mom still says he was "the holiest person I've ever met." (NB: My Mom isn't a particularly observant or devout person. Only natural for someone who attended 13 years of Catholic school) He was rotund, with a scraggly beard, wandering eye and bright smile. He had a belly laugh that was infectious and would always make me smile. He was also a Franciscan which means he dressed like this:
That meant one thing. He was a Jedi. Why else would he dress like Obi Wan Kenobi? All the other Priests I've ever met dressed like English professors with a collar instead of a tie. I had no idea that Priests could be Jedi and Jedi could be Priests. Did I miss something from the movie? Only one way to find out. Ask Mom.
Me: Mom, how did Father Tim get to be a Jedi?
Mom: (bewildered) What?
Me: You know, a Jedi, like Obi Wan.
Mom: He's not a Jedi, he's a Priest!
Me: What? They why does he dress like Obi Wan?
Mom: (laughing) No! He's a Franciscan (as if this explains it all)
Me: So?
Mom: That's how they dress.
Me: Why?
Mom: I don't know, because they do.
I wasn't satisfied with that answer and kept a close eye on Father Tim for any signs of use of The Force.
Shortly after my First Holy Communion, Father Tim was reassigned for reasons known only to God and the Bishop.
His replacement we'll call Father Oddball.
He was a nice enough guy. He looked a bit like Brawny but with a full beard and about 15-20 years older.
The downside was that he was one of those "Vatican II means there are no rules anymore" guys. I say that with no exaggeration whatsoever. We had couples getting married who's entrance songs were The Carpenters. Sometimes they were barefoot. Confession became Reconciliation and was a one time thing. The confessionals became storage lockers for chairs and such.
There was a youth group band at mass with acoustic guitars, drums, keyboard and the ever present tamborines.
The Nun who ran the adjacent Catholic school founded her own order, of her own volition. She never wore a habit and dressed like one of Charlie's Angels.
My parent's gritted their teeth through all of it and we went, dutifully, week after week.
Then came the final straw.
Interpretative dance of the liturgical reading by leotard clad dancers.
I.
Am.
Not.
Kidding.
Even as a wee lad, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I remember being slackjawed as these women (and some men) danced their way down the aisles to the dais where they continued their "performance".
That was the last time we went there. My parents figured that no church was better than that. In retrospect, they were probably right.
If you've made it this far, you're wondering, what does any of this have to do with the title of the post?
Simply put, I was reading this post and it all came back in a flood. I remember making those infernal felt banners. Always with doves and rainbows and whatnot. I had completely forgotten about the banners. Nothing screams 1970's Catholic church quite like those banners. I join the call to find and burn every last dreadful one of them.
Epilogue:
I went back to Our Lady of Perpetual Weirdness last year. First time in almost 25 years. My wife was in a wedding for a friend of her's who was a parishoner. Rehearsal was relaxed and I had a chance to speak to the "new" Priest (he's been there for almost as long as I've been gone).
I mentioned I used to be a parishoner and Father Tim and such. He never knew Father Tim but knew his reputation as being the local favorite. He also remembered Sister Oddball. "She was crazy. I mean, really nuts." he said in all seriousness. It seems after the Bishop had enough he turned up the heat and she left to join some schismatic order of nuns or something. Those felt banners were gone as was the space for the band. The confessionals were no longer storage closets (I peeked) and despite the unrelentingly horrible architecture and aesthetics, things seemed to be OK.
People come and go but other things stand outside of time. Human errors in a divine institution have a way of correcting themselves.
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