Growing Up CATHOLIC!

Articles

Growing Up CATHOLIC!

By Patrick Hurley
Aug. 14, 2006

There are so many experiences in a young man's life growing up. Being a Catholic is probably at the top of the list.

I went to kindergarten in a public school. From that point on until I was a junior in high school all I knew were nuns and priests and a lot of wooden rulers. I have scars.

It was partly my fault. I was the class clown. If you were an underachiever in my class with a short attention span you would have loved me! If you were in school for the purpose of actually trying to make the honor roll you would have stabbed me with your Schaeffer fountain pen. (if you remember those, you will enjoy the remainder of this article!)

The litany of nuns flows through my mind to this day...Sister Columba, Sister Fabian, Sister Fidelma, Sister Laura, Sister Gerard, Sister Oliver, Sister Thomas More, Sister Simeon, Sister Margaret Irene, Sister Concepta....how many is that? TEN? The same number of Hail Mary's in a rosary chant. I said enough rosaries to guarantee a spot in heaven. I will be the one over by the nine consecutive First Friday club in the corner next to the people who faithfully went to early morning mass every weekday.

Many public schools today require their students to wear uniforms. This is to help discourage gang wear and bring a semblance of respect to the campus. We had to wear uniforms for a far different reason. There were no gangs in my public school. The nuns would have beat them up. All of us young people lived in fear and terror whenever we glimpsed black and white rolling past us. It was always, "Good morning, Sister and not, "Hey, you talking to ME?" If any of us had copped an attitude it would have been the last time we would have had any feelings in our hands for days. You didn't mess with the nuns. Growing up there was the Communists, Sonny Liston and the nuns.

We were also taught about mortal and venial sins. Venial sins were the lesser ones like murder, terrorism, kidnapping and nuclear war. A mortal sin was when you talked back to a nun.

We had intriguing activities as Catholic school children. We were warned never to put our feet on the kneeling pews. We always had the mass presented in Latin. (I always wondered what a "Dominus Vobiscum" was....a vanilla wafer?) and, a grueling hour of pain and endurance that tested our mental stamina as much as it crippled our knees...

The Stations of the Cross.

For some reason, a priest somewhere decided it would be really cool if average Catholics could EMPATHIZE with what Jesus went through in his suffering and death for us. This twisted logic never made sense to me. In my book, Jesus went through all that FOR us. Get it? But, the Catholic Church in its infinite wisdom and style decided to teach a lesson here. It was called sacrifice. Someday it will be called by another name...

Arthritis.

I was an altar boy. I was one of the best ones, too. I always got the plumb assignments, like serving Midnight Mass. That was great because we got to wear the red cassocks with the GOLD embroidery. This made the girls swoon. I felt like a young, angelic god until the morning I caught on fire serving communion...

This kid named Greg Olzack snuck in to the last spot at the end of the communion rail where he should not have been. As I learned way over the prayer candles I was barely able to hold the plate under his chin but I did it. Walking back to begin a new row of communicants, I sensed something was wrong. I also thought I smelled smoke. I looked down and.....I was on FIRE! I quickly handed the communion plate to the priest and ran around in circles not sure what to do next. Several of the men in the congregation leaped over the railing and tried to catch me. I was having NONE of that! I kept dodging and darting like Hugh McElhenny. Finally, one of them tackled me before I burned to death. He smothered the flame and I stood up, went into the altar boy room and changed my cassock and surplus. I came out and served the rest of the Mass. The priest laughed about it. After that, even the nuns eased up a bit on me...

Another clever ploy by the church fathers was confession. We were forced to enter a small closet-like space and reveal very personal things to a priest WHO KNEW YOUR VOICE even when you tried to fake him out by whispering. So, the game of "I've got a secret and I am about to feel humilated and ashamed by telling the guy who knows my parents the truth..."

Me: "Father, forgive me for I have sinned. It has been about two months (See! I told you how freaked out I was!) since my last confession."

Priest: "Go ahead Pa...er, son."

Me: "I, uh, lied seventeen times, I disobeyed my parents six hundred and sixty times, I stole twice, I...."

Priest: "Yes?"

Me: I....um....committed...."

Priest: "Go on, my son..."

At this point I had one hand on the door handle. I didn't want to say the next word. If you grew up Catholic, you KNOW what that next word was, too! It encompassed everything from assaulting and pillaging YWCA camps to seeing naked girls in Playboy. It was a word that symbolized every perverted thing you ever did, did a lot, thought about or enjoyed while thinking about it. In all fairness, it should have had LEVELS of explanation instead of just one catchall term. I gritted my teeth and choked it out....

Me: "I have committed ...ADULTERY! (feeling the blood rush to my head and almost passing out) uh, three...no, TWO times."

Priest: (long pause) "Yes." (longer pause)

Me: (hoping I could die at that exact moment)

Priest: (finally) "Anything else?"

Me: (relief pouring out of me) "No."

Priest: "Okay, twenty Our Father"s, sixty Hail Mary"s and ten Glory be's." (followed by inaudible mumbling while I crossed myself 8-10 times and quickly exited the death chamber)

The good news about being raised Catholic is that I got a great education, never had to decide what shirt to wear, never got threatened by a bully, learned how to write in perfect cursive and became a devoted John F. Kennedy follower. After all, he was a Catholic and therefore, OUR President.

And, I still get emails from my favorite nun, (yes, I had a huge crush on her!) Sister Laura. After all these years she is still checking up on me.

Of course she is.

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About the author:

Pat Hurley has won three Emmy awards for writing, hosting and producing television shows. He resides in Southern California.

Email: coolhumor@sbcglobal.net

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