On the Way to Church

On the Way to Church

Maggie Sweeny

I was fifteen, dressed in black polyester skirt and an orange-red polyester zip-up-the-front shirt-like jacket. It was June, and I was ready for work. My job was serving in the snack bar at Oakwood, an upscale Jewish Country Club. Kids, my age, came into the snack bar and ordered whatever they wanted to eat. Then they charged it. That was always a bit of a mystery to me. My father loved to brag that his children went to Catholic School by working at the Jewish country club.

My mother offered to take me to work that day, but thought we should go to church first. I thought that was odd, "Why go to church when it isn't Sunday?"

She was smart, she knew that she would not know how to deal with my reaction to what she had to tell me. If she told me on the way to Church, she would be safe; ritual, silence, and prayer would surround and protect us both. So in the parking lot of St. Catherine's she delivered the news.

Our parish, I suppose, was typical of Catholic churches in the 1970s. Masses were routine; stand up, sit down, and kneel. The tired organist played mundane, monotonous hymns. The majority of sermons seemed to center around raising money for the new church building. Monsignor Risor was an overweight, white haired, red-faced man that drove a sparkling white Cadillac, and he played golf at the Jewish country club. Void of personality, he delivered monthly lectures to my eighth grade class at St. Catherine's grade school. His lectures, like his sermons, were something to endure. I was sure listening to him was some sort of penance on earth. School and Church were part of our lives; we breathed it in and out without question, until a new priest was assigned to our parish.

Fresh from seminary, Fr. Hager rocked and rolled. The foundation of our church was shaking, and not from construction. Out went the organs and in came guitars. Out went monotony and in came hand clapping. Out went the "kiss of peace" nod, in came the "kiss of peace" get up and hug as many people as you can. Out went keep your hands to yourself and in came reach out and hold someone's hand. Out went the money sermons and in came the talk of living a Christian life.

Up to that point, I did realize being Christian had anything to do with being Catholic. Along with the foundation shaking, the parishioners were swinging, at least some of them. Committees were formed. Bible groups began meeting. Social justice issues leaked their way into conversations. The presence of Father Hagar in our parish made me realize that my religion and Catholic laws and rules were not carved in stone. People thought differently and actually argued over the interpretation of rules. The most dramatic and visible change was that The Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary (B.V.M.) decided to free themselves of the traditional nun's habit. Some parishioners and Monsignor Risor found their new wardrobe, consisting of black knee length skirts, white blouses, tennis shoes, and no headdress, offensive. Much too offensive to be teaching at a Catholic school. God forbid! So either the new wardrobe or they had to go. The Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary marched out of our suburban parish with their tennis shoes on and their naked heads held high. Then, the strangest thing happened. My parents, after sending five children through Catholic grade school, decided to support the nuns by sending my younger brothers & sister to public school.

Fr. Hager breathed life into our stale, Church. He made us believe that just possibly, Church was not synonymous with misery.

It didn't take long before Fr. Hager was "moved." My family and other members of our parish were devastated. The going away party was at our house. Many people came by to wish him well. I snuck down to the basement to make him a going away gift. Being the queen of decoupage, I decided to make him a plaque. Of course, I did not plan ahead. The only card I could find had a Holly Hobby picture on it. In her hand, was embroidery that said, "Hello." Carefully, I burned the edges and glued the "hello" card on the plaque. I painted decoupage over the picture. On the back I wrote, "I never did like good-byes, so hello. Hello to your new life. Love Maggie." Being true to my dislike of good-byes, I quietly placed the plaque in the front seat of his car.

The next Monday was Father Hagar's last mass at school. The church was packed with students and parents. When it came time for the sermon, everybody sat silent, waiting for the final address to the flock. He began his sermon with these words, "I received the best gift last night; it was a plaque with one simple word on it, "Hello." He went on to preach about welcoming new beginnings and being open to change. Honored, stunned, amazed, thrilled I sat in awe, clinging to his last words.

Little did I know, two short years later, as we sat in the parking lot of the new St. Catherine's Church, my mom would tell me softly that Father Hagar drowned in Lake Michigan.

Stunned, I followed my mom into church where we were safely tucked into tradition. I knelt and laid my head on the pew and began to sob. I remember only one thing about the funeral; the ride home. Many kids from our neighborhood were crammed into our station wagon. I rode in the way-back. A famous Beetles song played on the radio, "You say goodbye and I say Hello. Hello Hello. I don't know why you say goodbye I say hello."