100.

Week . . . ummm . . . Three Hundred and Thirteen? Yeah, definitely lost count on that one. Saint Clare Chapel (Wyoming/Hartwell)

10:00 Sunday morning mass.  St. Clare Chapel at the convent of the Franciscan Sisters of the Poor. Remember me? Your friendly local church tourist?  Okay. Okay. So it's been a while since my last post . . . a while as in "two and a half years."  TWO AND A HALF YEARS?!?!  Good lord.  That's . . . awkward.
      
Truth is:  1. The remaining churches on The List aren't exactly around the corner any more.  Factor in a 45-minute drive to a church, a one hour mass, and 45 minutes to drive home, and well, The List takes a backseat to other priorities.  2.  I developed a strong affinity to one particular church close to my home. Other than saying that said church is not the parish I'm registered with, said church shall remain nameless.  In short, for these past few years, you can find me at mass there almost every weekend and often during the week.  It's small, it's reverent, it's nice.  I was never "looking" for a church when I started this whole thing, but ironically, I found one, and now, well, I hate to leave it - but leave it I did this past weekend. 

When I left off in February of 2013, I had visited 99 churches. NINETY-NINE, and that 99 has been hanging over my head taunting me ever since. Thus, this past Sunday became the day to jump in the Mighty Honda Odyssey (one last time before it's imminent departure, by the way) and take this thing into triple digits.  Mission accomplished at St. Clare Chapel.   

Built in 1895, St. Clare Chapel is located on the grounds of the convent for the Franciscan Sisters of the Poor - 35 acres on the border of Hartwell and Wyoming.  It's peaceful and quite lovely there, what one might expect for the home of a religious order but definitely not what one would expect given its location. The 10:00 mass on Sunday is open to the public, i.e. yours truly, and the chapel is located only 25 minutes from my house; ergo, this was the perfect opportunity to break 100.  

The chapel itself is quite pretty - baby blue walls accented with white arches, painted angels floating in the dome above the altar, large mosaics (I think - hard to tell from a distance) of both Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Sidenote:  The image of Saint Francis had the letters "P" and "J" at the bottom; the image of Saint Clare had the letters "F" and "T."  What's up with that?

It was a nice mass.  An older priest kept things going at a brisk pace, so much so that by the closing prayers, he was putting in his two cents before the congregation had finished saying theirs. Music, on the other hand, was a bit of a shocker.  The organist was quite good at just that - playing the organ, but his vocal style was . . . different.  As the first lines of the opening hymn were sung, I initially thought that we were speaking the words rather than singing them.  It's hard to describe, so I'll just take the high road and stick with "different."

It was a fairly well-heeled crowd at St. Clare Chapel and slightly reminiscent of those attending mass at Saint Anthony's Friary on Colerain Avenue, although  I'm still not sure about the guy in the brand new denim overalls over a golf polo. Whatever. Meanwhile, for the first time in all of my visits, I was called out for sitting in one of the regular's seats.  Yes, I'm sure I've done it before, but this week, I was actually called out on it! I was politely asked to move over for an older couple, and yes, they were most definitely regulars - this guy knew EVERYONE and spent every minute before mass socializing with them.  It was one of his friends behind me who had asked me to move.  Oh, I didn't care a bit - they were a sweet couple - the woman unable to make the walk to receive communion, the mister bringing it back to the pew for her.  Cute.

I don't know how many sisters reside at the convent.  I immediately met one sister outside taking her dog for a walk.  Inside, there were maybe a dozen or two in attendance at the mass. Several took active roles - lectors, communion distributors, etc., but most were simply in the congregation. The left side of the chapel was comprised of individual chairs, rather than pews, and it was there that many of the older and infirm sisters could be found.  They didn't stand; they didn't kneel; they sat, but I like to think they participated in the mass just as actively as the rest of us.  One sister had a blanket on the chair in front of her - clearly, that was her "regular seat." I saw a nursing aide help bring one sister in.  I'm not sure if the others had required similar assistance as they were already there when I came in.  Maybe they're just there all the time - after all, no one seemed to be leaving when mass was over.  The walkers and rollators (or "little engines that could" as my children refer to them) were double-parked.  The sensible shoes were running rampant.  A few wore their habits, veils bobby-pinned in place.  When in line to receive communion, I caught a glimpse of a few sisters at the front wearing headphones (over their veils) to better hear the mass. Man, I love these ladies.

I was rather dismayed to recently read an article in the local newspaper putting the number of parishes in the Archdiocese of Cincinnati at 211 (plus an additional 47 in the Covington diocese).  Dang. Here I thought I was doing so good hitting 100! Nonetheless, the St. Clare Chapel was the perfect place to make my 100th church visit.  Ironically, the "Centennial Barn" can be found on the same grounds, a beautifully restored barn used for various events and, quite frequently, wedding receptions.  I'll definitely be back for mass at St. Clare Chapel, and as for the blog, I'll probably be back here too.  To be honest though, finding myself fairly content on Sunday mornings and without that "99" hanging over my head, it might very well be another two and a half years.

ATTENDANCE: Minimal, but comfortably full for the size of the chapel.

DURATION:  40 minutes.

Funerial

Week One Hundred and Eighty-Three - Holy Cross (Latonia)

4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, Holy Cross.  When we left Holy Cross, the clock said 5:35, but it seemed so much more like, oh, I don't know, 7:35?  8:35? Surely my husband and I had just spent what I'll call FOREVER in there.  Sigh.  Let's start at the beginning . . .
   
Even then, I should have known things were taking a nose dive as we made the drive south on Covington's Madison Avenue - behind a TANK bus the whole way.  There sure are a lot of bus stops on Madison.  A few zigs and a zag later, however, we did manage to find Holy Cross Church.  I purposely picked Holy Cross in an effort to keep My Husband the Heathen interested in any architectural details that might come with an old church as well as to spare him from another weekend of suburban piety.  You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men.  Suffice it to say, I ended up apologizing to one very patient husband.

Holy Cross has an innocuous parish website listing only the bare-bones details, i.e., no church history. (I do love the comment on said website, however: "Holy Cross ministers do not accept email."  Ouch.)  Luckily, the Kenton County Public Library came to my rescue.  Holy Cross Parish was founded and a church built in 1890 when the German Catholic residents of Latonia found St. Augustine's Church to be too far away and too hard to reach in bad weather.  (Hold on.  These were the German Catholics?) In 1908, with a rapidly growing population, an even newer church - the existing church - was built.  Okay.  Cool.  Sounds good, and things did, in fact, look pretty good as we parked outside of the church.  And then we went inside. 

I still don't know what's happening at Holy Cross Church.  A large random swatch of blue with decorative detailing occupies an equally random section of the high ceiling.  I'm not sure if it was going up or coming down.  One side of the church sports bright blue walls.  What the . . .?  Are they renovating?  Are they "trying things out" to see if they like it?  I'm confused.  Large stained glass windows are nice, but I'm not sure if all of them even matched.  Maybe it was just the lighting.  An area marred by what appeared to be smoke damage could possibly be explained by the library article's mention of a fire that did significant damage to the church . . . in 1990.   Maybe not. Truthfully, I can't say I remember much more about the interior of Holy Cross because, in spite of its potential, it was just so . . . so . . . blah.  Unfortunately, the same was true of the mass. 

A visiting priest - a notably tall drink of water - seemed like a nice man.  Unfortunately, this nice man took his homily to a whole-nutha-level.  He first covered commonly-asked questions about Lent for a good ten minutes and then moved on to a second topic, the subject of which I can't recall - or ever did know, for another ten or fifteen minutes.  At this point, the troops were already growing restless, but when he said, "Now let's talk about today's gospel,"  I swear I heard a collective groan go up from the congregation.  Oh lord.  After yet another fifteen minutes of straining to make out the monotonal, hard-to-understand-because-of-the-echo-in-the-church words of this nice man (to be read with gritted teeth), we finally, mercifully stood for the creed.  Am I being too harsh?  Ask the several people who left mid-homily.

It was all so melancholy at Holy Cross.  Each of the hymns was even sung like a dirge.  Oh, I know, it's Lent and everything, but this was just so . . . sad.  The only good thing about attending mass at Holy Cross?  Coming home and crossing it off The List. 

ATTENDANCE:  Less than half

DURATION:  One hour and five minutes

Flight Path

Week One Hundred and Eighty-Two - Mary Queen of Heaven (Erlanger)

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Mary Queen of Heaven.  And we're back . . . well, at least, for a while.  In spite of enjoying my travels over the past three years, it's getting more and more difficult to schedule a visit to the remaining churches on The List - most of them aren't exactly around the corner.  It is also with great reluctance that I must admit I've found a church that I've grown quite fond of.  Not just the church, but the mass, the priest, and the very convenient schedule.  Because I don't play favorites, I'm not going to name my new favorite, but I will toss out this bit of irony:  Now that I've finally settled  into a fairly consistent routine at a local church, I've also learned that this same parish will be merged with another parish . . . in July.  Are. You. Kidding me. I might be back on the circuit much sooner than I expected.

I was on the circuit last weekend.  A lazy Saturday set the stage for a drive to Erlanger, Kentucky and Mary Queen of Heaven Church.  They have a "world-famous" fish fry there.  Mary Queen of Heaven occupies a nice flat parcel of land just west of St. Henry High School and just east of the airport.  My husband and I took a few wrong turns finding the church, but we still managed to arrive in time, although later than we might have under ideal circumstances.  As a result, we may have gotten not only the last parking spot in the lot but the last seat in the church.  To be fair, there seemed to be another event going on at the parish, boys' basketball, no doubt, which may have accounted for the strain on parking, but I didn't expect the church to be quite so full, especially with a 5:30 Saturday afternoon mass not far behind. They have a famous fish fry during Lent. 

I suppose the size of the church may be somewhat to blame for the crowding.  Surprisingly, for what appears to be a fairly sizeable parish, it's not a very big church at all.  It's also not very fancy.  Their famous fish fries start this week.  Truthfully, the only thing I remember is what My Husband the Heathen termed the "poor man's stained glass windows."  No intricate details here, just solid panes of colored glass.  I can't say they were particularly attractive, and one really has to wonder why they even bothered.  Fish fry, fish fry, fish fry.

Kudos to a visiting priest from Mount St. Mary's Seminary for his excellent homily on God's sacrifice of His son.  After 52 years, it really gave me a new way to look at the core of my faith during this Lenten season.  Did I mention they have a fish fry?

Mary Queen of Heaven is a harmless enough church.  If I would happen to be in Erlanger again at the right time, I might stop in for mass . . . or, perhaps more importantly, a fish sandwich.

ATTENDANCE:  SRO

DURATION:  One hour

Peeves

Don't you hate it when people have (what they consider to be) a nice blog going . . . and then seemingly abandon it?  I hate that.

Pulling Teeth

Week One Hundred and Sixty-Five - Blessed Sacrament (Fort Mitchell) 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Blessed Sacrament.  If I were to live in Northern Kentucky, I think I'd like to live in Fort Mitchell.  I've always said that, and after my brief time there this weekend, I still believe it.  It's a well-kept neighborhood, the homes are beautiful, and there's a feeling of ease and security there.  Aaaahhh.  For the Fort Mitchell Catholics who are already there, the go-to parish is clearly Blessed Sacrament, located at a prime location on Dixie Highway.  If I lived there, however, I sadly report that my parish of choice might not be Blessed Sacrament.

Entering Blessed Sacrament, I noticed a predominantly golden hue to the interior.  Not a bad thing, but upon closer inspection, it isn't gold.  I don't know what it is. There is an odd color scheme to the church and an overall odd decor that didn't win me over.  Six angels lining the the walls of the sanctuary immediately brought to mind the decor of Saint Peter in Chains Cathedral and its hieroglyphic-ish murals - the angels at Blessed Sacrament appear to be part of that same troupe, and the oddities didn't stop there.  Large columns flank the sides of the church, the top of each adorned with an assortment of church symbols . . . as well as X's and O's.  Hugs and kisses?  Tic-tac-toe?  I didn't get it.  The arch of the sanctuary sported what My Husband the Heathen called "caution tape."  I decided it was something more akin to a checker cab. Yellow and black checks.  I didn't get that either. 

Much of the church is a peach color, so I'm still having a hard time determining why everything looked so golden.  I could attribute some of it to an  impressive, although somewhat neon, tabernacle which, in combination with the stars on the domed ceiling behind the altar, creates an appearance of a small city all its own.  Fairly cool.  With some imagination, you could even see the Taj Mahal . . . which it actually may have been . . . given another issue all its own - the celebrating priest.

Standing no more than five feet tall - if that - this gentle man may have grown up in the shadow of the real Taj Mahal - he was Indian.  (Interesting to come across a second Indian priest in Northern Kentucky. What's up with that, Covington?)  Okay. I have no issue with his nationality.  I have no issue with his barely decipherable accented speech - it keeps me on my toes trying to understand what he has to say (although, in all honesty, I missed about half of it).  I do have an issue with his sloooooow, monotone manner of speech.  Ooooooohhhh. Myyyyyyy.  Gooooooddddd.  Soooooooo sloooooowwww.  His leadership in prayer threw the cadence of the whole congregation off.  It was genuinely hard to participate.  Look, I'm sure he's a nice man, a holy man of God, but . . . oh lord, it was painful.  Thankfully, a female soloist saved the day, leading the music with one of the best voices I've heard over the past few years.  Very, very nice.    

Not surprisingly, it was nearly a full house on this Saturday afternoon.  Lots of families. Lots of coming and going.  Lots of late arrivals.  I've always thought of Blessed Sacrament as the St. Ignatius of Northern Kentucky, but the reality of Blessed Sacrament threw me.  This weekend, I found the only real similarity between St. I's and Blessed Sacrament to be the liturgy of the mass, but then again, I guess that's all that really matters.

ATTENDANCE:  Comfortably full

DURATION:  One very long hour.

Three Strikes

Weeks One Hundred and Fifty-Nine, Sixty, and Sixty-One - In Which I Slack Off from "The Tour" but Manage to Blame Everyone Else

10:15 Sunday morning mass, St. Ignatius.  Daughter home from college for the weekend.  Wait . .  . what?  The 10:15 mass?  What are we?  In grade school?  And who are these people?

7:30 Saturday evening mass, St. Simon.  My Husband the Heathen comes down with the sore throat from hell . . . if he believed in hell.  I have to pause here to comment on St. Simon's 7:30 Saturday mass.  This was always one of my favorite churches to visit and masses to attend, but with the recent death of their pastor, as so often happens with any change at any parish, things just aren't the same.  St. Simon's new "administrator," as he is so called - not the "pastor" or even "assistant" - seems like a nice guy, albeit a little wordy in the homily department.  I do love when it's time for the gospel - he doesn't read it.  He seems to have it ... memorized and delivers the week's gospel reading as casually as if he was merely striking up a conversation with you, telling you a story.  It's really something.  Kudos.  And yet, even with that, things just aren't as appealing as they used to be.  We all miss Father Beatty, but I also miss St. Simon's amazing - and former - music director.  Wylie, if you're reading this, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?  I was horrified to see - and even more dismayed to hear - a sad group of suburban guitarists providing music for this past week's mass.  Unfortunately, I've talked to other St. Simon parishioners who have also packed up their spiritual belongings in search of another parish.  I do hope this isn't the end of the road for St. Simon.  Such a nice little church.

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Aloysius Gonzaga.  MHTH still down with the bug that has been making the rounds.  I like St. Al's.  I really do.  These are my people.  I don't even know their pastor's name, but I like him too.  So nice, so . . . normal.  He has to be a local because he's definitely one-of-us.  I like their music director, the winner of the 2010 Cincinnati Opera Idol - makes me feel like I'm hearing something special every time I go to mass there.  I like the proximity of St. Al's to my house and the tempo of the mass, and I especially like that 4:00 time slot.  I think it's safe to say, if I'm not on The Tour, there's a good chance you'll find me at this nice little church. 

Holy Smoke

Week One Hundred and Fifty-Eight - Saint Lawrence (Lawrenceburg)

 



5:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Lawrence.  And I'm back. Oh, I'm sure some of you are probably asking yourselves, "What happened to weeks 147 through 157?!  IS EVERYTHING OKAY?"  Well, at least, that's what I'd like to think you're asking, but yes, everything is fine, and the answer to your first question, in a word, would be "summer." 

The List, while still chocked full of unseen churches, poses quite a challenge these days.  Any outing to a yet-to-be-visited church isn't exactly a hop and a skip down the road; it's more like a two and a half to three hour outing.  Not a problem for me and my husband in our autumnal return to empty-nesterdom, but when the kids are home for what amounted to be a very, VERY short summer, I'm certainly not going to ask them to give up their valuable time to indulge their mother's liturgical whims.  Likewise, I'm not giving up my valuable time with them by leaving them behind to indulge my liturgical whims.  Bottom line:  there are a dozen or so Catholic churches within ten minutes of our house.  We spent our summer mass times at those, especially base camp, St. Ignatius. But now, it's just me and the mister again, and oddly enough, it was that very mister who asked me last week if The Tour would be resuming soon.  Yes, it would!  And so begins "Year Four" of The Tour. 

YEAR FOUR?!?!?!?!

 

Good lord.  Ths is getting ridiculous.  Let's go to the tote board: I've been to 96 different churches, 11 of them in Kentucky, 3 in Indiana, the remaining in Ohio.  I honestly don't have a favorite church, although several have specific aspects that I really liked and do remember.  There are a few churches that I will not by choice return to.  In the words of Foghorn Leghorn, there's just something "eeeeee" about them.  I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that if, in fact, I did revisit churches that I initially liked or disliked, my second opinion could very well be distinctly different from my first.  With that said, where were we . . . ?  Ah. Indiana. 

As we made our way into Indy on Saturday afternoon, it was all my husband could do not to pull into the Lawrenceburg Speedway.  Thankfully, he had already made his annual pilgrimage to "the track" a few weeks ago, fulfilling some primal need for mud and noise, and continued on to our more peaceful destination - St. Lawrence Church.  His first comment once inside the church, however, was about the long, narrow decorative arch surrounding the crucifix, something to the effect of "Is that supposed to represent the racetrack?" I scooted down a bit to avoid the imminent lightning bolt.

I can't say I was much better in the reverence department though, especially when I noticed the statue of Saint Lawrence at the front of the church.  He was holding what appeared to be . . . a grill rack.  "Patron saint of grill masters?" my husband asked.  Giggle.  Actually . . .

It's an interesting story, if a bit gruesome.  Saint Lawrence died a martyr's death . . . a slow, cruel death.  He was tied to an iron grill over a slow fire, so that his flesh roasted little by little.  It is said his love for God was so strong and God gave him so much strength that Lawrence was able to joke, "Turn me over.  I'm done on this side!"  I couldn't believe this part of the story, but several resources give the same information.  So that was, in fact, a grill rack in his hand - which still strikes me as kind of bizarre, and Saint Lawrence is the patron saint of chefs . . . which, I suppose, includes "grill masters." 

With the present day church built in 1867, I expected the interior of St. Lawrence Church to really be something.  It isn't.  Whether the result of some modern day renovations or restoration following any of several floods from the nearby Ohio River, things are pretty plain, so plain that there's really nothing to comment on.  The stained glass windows are nice.  The arched ceiling is nice.  A statue of the holy family seems to take the place of individual statues of Mary and Joseph which are absent.  I did notice a small painting of a dove, the Holy Spirit, on the ceiling, high above the altar.  I thought that was pretty cool, a hidden treasure.

I liked the celebrating priest here.  Although a poor sound system made it difficult to comprehend his words at times, his relaxed style projected a true paternal presence.  My husband and I exchanged nervous glances when he, rather than the servers, lit the altar candles before mass with what appeared to be a flame-thrower.  Could have burnt the whole church down. 

Overall, mass at St. Lawrence was pleasant enough, and amazingly, I spotted a family I knew across the aisle.  Small world.  Small Catholic world.

ATTENDANCE:  Three-fourths full

DURATION:  50 minutes