Two Confessions

I have two confessions: I went to church today; and, I miss my mother when I set an Easter table.

Some if you may have gathered from my posts that I have a background in theology. You probably don't know that my tradition is Roman Catholic, and for my tradition, well, really all Christian traditions, Easter's the thing. It's the raison d'etre for the whole theology. And you may know that part of the traditional rules of Catholicism is to attend Mass every Sunday. I don't do that.

The rationale for that rule isn't the subject of this post. But the fact is, that many, many Catholics, particularly those who were adolescents during the 60s when Vatican II was held and opened the way to sweeping changes that freed up the role of the laity, have become disallusioned with the hierarchy of the tradition. And, it is fair to say, that that subgroup of American Catholics are among the most educated Catholics in the world. Post Vatican II it was finally possible for non-clerics to study theology with the very best theologians. In fact, I could not have studied for a masters in theology before 1980. This is a long way of telling you that I think I'm a practicing Catholic --but not if the definition is based on attendance.

So, I decided to celebrate the liturgy of transformation, new life, hope, at a great big old turn-of-the-century church at 96th and Amsterdan. And what a good idea that was! First of all, the church was packed ( very, very unusual in these days of disallusionment and disappointment of the laity after the sexual abuse scandal. It was filled with the immigrant population, probably a different one from 1900, but what a mixture of people. Altar girls attended the priest at the altar ( unheard of before Vatican II ). And in the choir loft, two trumpeters, two dozen singers, and a choirmaster/organist who could really PLAY the music.

The gospel was my favorite--Mark talking about the women who went to the grave ( the men were hiding, remember?), worried about how they would open the heavy stone of the tomb. The faithful women. The liturgy ended with a hymn. And then. And then, the choir began the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah. I winced a little. I've sung this in pretty good choral groups, and it's awful if the musicians can't pull it off. I needn't of worried. After a few lines of the score, the crowd stopped moving toward the exit, and literally stood in their pews, facing the choir. Some sang along in four part harmony ( Me, too ). When the trumpets ended the finale, the entire church burst into applause. The choirmaster tried to hide his discomfort with the adulation, but the ovation continued until he nodded his (young) head in response.

Now on to the second confession. Let me begin by saying that I still can't believe that I am the elder generation, that there is no "older" one. I'm the eldest group along with my siblings. And I miss my mother more as I age. I suppose some of it is because I am walking the part of the journey I watched her walk when I was a young adult ( although I was clueless about what this part of life is about ). ButI think it's more than that. Every time I set a table for a holiday, I think of all that she did to make it a "deal". I took it for granted--we all did ( except her sisters who would remark on how beau....ti...ful everything looked while I looked on and rolled my eyes at their focus on a TABLE ). The Easter nests that were always tucked away to be found on Easter morning. There were always a pair of white stretchy gloves for Easter Mass, maybe some new white socks with lace, and, a little candy.

Mother always had the extended family for holiday meals. My aunts would contribute. Aunt Jean would bring a couple of vegetables ( always wonderful ) and Aunt Kate would make one of her famous two crust fruit pies. I would watch my mother put the linen cloth on the table, smooth it out with the palm of her hand. Then, the candles, and a centerpiece. Sometimes she'd ask me to make placecards for everyone. She would lay out the serving utensils on the tablecloth, and set each place. Then, she would stand back and admire her work, her hand on her hip. She had a good eye, and the table always had a sense of proportion. Then, she would take off her apron, maybe change her dress. When the doorbell rang, she would greet the guests as if she had just been waiting for them all day. She was a great hostess. And, of course, it wasn't as easy as it looked.

So, today when I finished setting the table, I stood back and looked, my hand on my hip and sighed.
M.C.