New Believers Of God

CHAPTER FOUR

My parents and I attended nine thirty mass on Sundays, which I hated because it was one of only two days I ever had the chance to sleep in during the school year. But of course, I didn't have a choice.

St. Margaret Mary's was a decent sized church. Three rows of pews filled the majority of it, while a large marble altar stood at the very front on a wooden platform, with a presider's chair behind it. Next to that was an ambo, made of the same material, on one side, and an organ, with a woman sitting at it, on the other. Along with that, the windows, made of stained glass, each depicted a certain story from the bible, while a large wooden cross hung below the ceiling.

Upon entering, we sat down and waited in silence for a couple of minutes before one of the lectors stood up and made their weekly announcements, all of which were in some way related to the parish. Following that, we were told the hymn to start with and stood up as the organist played the first few notes.

My Mom grabbed one of the books and opened it to the said hymn, then began singing. At the same time, she held it in front of me and pointed to the lyrics, which was her way of saying "You need to sing too."

As a kid, Church to me was nothing more than a monotonous routine that I was forced to take part in. Every week, it was basically the same thing, like endlessly attending the same play. Of course, I could see its importance, but not to that great an extent. I wondered why we had to go so frequently. Couldn't once or twice a year be enough?

While we did this, our priest, Father Stanley Kirkpatrick, walked down the center aisle with two altar servers on each side and the deacon close behind. He was a middle-aged man, late fifties or early sixties, who had a nearly bald head and pair of wire rimmed glasses. He was also wearing a green vestment over his long white robe, referred to as an alb.

Once they reached the platform, he took a seat at the presider's chair with the deacon sitting next to him, while the altar servers lit candles and bowed to the tabernacle before sitting down as well, then waited for the song to end before proceeding.

"In the name of the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit." said Father Stanley, touching his forehead, chest, and shoulders as he did so, which the rest of us repeated in return.

"Amen." we said back.

"The Lord be with you."

"And with your spirit."

"Good morning, everybody."

"Good morning, Father."

Even at a young age, I could never understand why anyone would want to be a priest. It was a livelihood that seemed far too lonely and restricting. You couldn't get married, or date at all for that matter, and basically had to dedicate your whole life to God. There just wasn't much I saw enjoyable in a commitment like that.

"Folks, I welcome all of you." he continued "We gather here today to celebrate the twenty-first Sunday in ordinary time. As we come to mass, let's prepare by pausing and calling to mind any time we have sinned and ask of you Lord to forgive us."

With that said, both him and the rest of us looked down and fell silent again for a few more seconds, then resumed.

"I confess to almighty God," we said "And to you my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned. In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore, I ask blessed Mary ever-virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters to pray for me to the Lord, our God."

Not one word of that made any sense to me. What was it we had failed to do? What was our most grievous fault? Why tell us to do something if you're not going to completely explain the point of it? This was exactly the same issue I had with Hunter's lecture.

"May almighty God have mercy on us," Father Stanley proclaimed, "Forgive us our sins, and bring us everlasting life."

"Amen." we replied.

"Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy."

"Christ, have mercy."

"Christ, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy."

"Lord, have mercy."

This is what I was being taught to believe. The impossibility of living forever.