Week Twenty-Four - Ummm . . .
Sooooo, my timing was off this week. What with a concert . . . and shopping . . . and . . . stuff . . .
Shoot. This sounds so much worse in print than I thought it would.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
I Don't Think We're in Cincinnati Anymore
Week Twenty-Three - Saint Monica - Saint George
5:30 Sunday afternoon mass, St. Monica - St. George. I have come to realize that the absolute best part of going to a church that you've never been to before is that moment when you walk into the sanctuary for the first time. I look forward to that moment, that split-second when you quickly take everything in, seeing something that you've never seen before. At St. Monica - St. George, that split-second literally took my breath away. I believe my exact words were, "Oh, my gosh." My husband's were, "Holy crap." I truly could not believe what I was seeing, just as I'm also sure words will never describe how absolutely beautiful this church is. Where is the Cincinnati Film Commission because this looks like something that should be in a movie. I mean, really - does the rest of Cincinnati know about this place because, if they don't, they should.
Built in 1926, St. Monica's actually served as the Archdiocesan Cathedral until 1957. A quick bit of research revealed that St. Monica's church was established as the cathedral only after St. Peter in Chains Cathedral, downtown, fell into decay and disrepair. In the 1950's, a master plan for the rebirth of downtown Cincinnati prompted the restoration and expansion of St. Peter in Chains at a cost of $5 million, at the conclusion of which the downtown cathedral was rededicated. Having seen both, I'm not sure if the $5 million was well spent. There's simply no comparison. St. Monica - St. George definitely plays the part of "cathedral" much better. It is by far the more beautiful of the two and, frankly, the most beautiful church I've ever been in. The soaring heights, the marble columns, the incredible stained glass windows - this place should be considered a wing of the Cincinnati Art Museum. I don't think there's one inch of the church that was left untouched by some form of artistic enhancement. The stations of the cross look like valuable oil paintings (maybe, they are). Look straight up and you'll see angels on the rafters. Keep looking - you'll find more and more and more. Approaching the altar to receive communion, I was genuinely awe-struck. This place is amazing. I just couldn't believe it.
It was also a refreshing change this week to attend a mass where my husband and I brought the average age up to about . . . 19. St. Monica - St. George serves as the Newman Center for the University of Cincinnati, so I expected a good number of college students to be in attendance, and I wasn't disappointed. A clear majority of the congregation had undoubtedly walked from their residence halls for mass. They made up the music group, the servers, the lectors. It was definitely a youth-dominated gathering. A guest homilist, a professor and noted theologian from the University of Notre Dame, added to that "collegiate" feel. Surprisingly, the presiding priest was the exception to the rule. An elderly man, he was slow and hesitant, always leaving open the possibility that he wasn't going to make it through the mass . . . but he did. He and another priest who was milling around were Franciscans. I've always liked the Franciscans - I don't know if it's their big brown robes or the sandals or what.
There was one minor "incident," and after taking a quick glance at the weekly bulletin before mass began, it was one that I immediately knew was coming. As pictured on the front page of their bulletin, at St. Monica - St. George, everyone joins hands for the praying of the Our Father, even joining hands across the center aisle . . . and there was My Husband the Heathen, sitting on the end of the pew . . . towards the center aisle. Now, I'm not a big hand-holder, but "When in Rome," right? Oh no. Sure enough, when the time came, the entire congregation automatically shifted towards the center with everyone on the ends of the pews stepping into the center aisle to extend a hand to the person across from them. My Husband the Heathen gave me a confused look. I took his left hand in my right and subtly body-slammed him to get him to move towards the center. Unfortunately, his cement shoes weren't budging. People were stacking up on my left, and I imagined them silently wondering, "Why aren't we moving?" My daughter died a slow death of embarrassment while the nice, young man across the aisle was left literally empty-handed, shunned. A lively discussion in the car ensued on the drive home. I wasn't mad. After nearly twenty years of marriage, I have a pretty good idea of what Mr. Wonderful will or won't do, and this one was clearly in the "Won't" column. On the contrary, I'm happy each time he joins me on one of my church outings. In my husband's book of life, the whole concept of religion would have a whole "Won't" page of its own if it wasn't for yours truly. Of course, these days, I think he's enjoying this church tour thing as much as I am.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: An unfortunate one hour and 15 minutes
5:30 Sunday afternoon mass, St. Monica - St. George. I have come to realize that the absolute best part of going to a church that you've never been to before is that moment when you walk into the sanctuary for the first time. I look forward to that moment, that split-second when you quickly take everything in, seeing something that you've never seen before. At St. Monica - St. George, that split-second literally took my breath away. I believe my exact words were, "Oh, my gosh." My husband's were, "Holy crap." I truly could not believe what I was seeing, just as I'm also sure words will never describe how absolutely beautiful this church is. Where is the Cincinnati Film Commission because this looks like something that should be in a movie. I mean, really - does the rest of Cincinnati know about this place because, if they don't, they should.Built in 1926, St. Monica's actually served as the Archdiocesan Cathedral until 1957. A quick bit of research revealed that St. Monica's church was established as the cathedral only after St. Peter in Chains Cathedral, downtown, fell into decay and disrepair. In the 1950's, a master plan for the rebirth of downtown Cincinnati prompted the restoration and expansion of St. Peter in Chains at a cost of $5 million, at the conclusion of which the downtown cathedral was rededicated. Having seen both, I'm not sure if the $5 million was well spent. There's simply no comparison. St. Monica - St. George definitely plays the part of "cathedral" much better. It is by far the more beautiful of the two and, frankly, the most beautiful church I've ever been in. The soaring heights, the marble columns, the incredible stained glass windows - this place should be considered a wing of the Cincinnati Art Museum. I don't think there's one inch of the church that was left untouched by some form of artistic enhancement. The stations of the cross look like valuable oil paintings (maybe, they are). Look straight up and you'll see angels on the rafters. Keep looking - you'll find more and more and more. Approaching the altar to receive communion, I was genuinely awe-struck. This place is amazing. I just couldn't believe it.
It was also a refreshing change this week to attend a mass where my husband and I brought the average age up to about . . . 19. St. Monica - St. George serves as the Newman Center for the University of Cincinnati, so I expected a good number of college students to be in attendance, and I wasn't disappointed. A clear majority of the congregation had undoubtedly walked from their residence halls for mass. They made up the music group, the servers, the lectors. It was definitely a youth-dominated gathering. A guest homilist, a professor and noted theologian from the University of Notre Dame, added to that "collegiate" feel. Surprisingly, the presiding priest was the exception to the rule. An elderly man, he was slow and hesitant, always leaving open the possibility that he wasn't going to make it through the mass . . . but he did. He and another priest who was milling around were Franciscans. I've always liked the Franciscans - I don't know if it's their big brown robes or the sandals or what.
There was one minor "incident," and after taking a quick glance at the weekly bulletin before mass began, it was one that I immediately knew was coming. As pictured on the front page of their bulletin, at St. Monica - St. George, everyone joins hands for the praying of the Our Father, even joining hands across the center aisle . . . and there was My Husband the Heathen, sitting on the end of the pew . . . towards the center aisle. Now, I'm not a big hand-holder, but "When in Rome," right? Oh no. Sure enough, when the time came, the entire congregation automatically shifted towards the center with everyone on the ends of the pews stepping into the center aisle to extend a hand to the person across from them. My Husband the Heathen gave me a confused look. I took his left hand in my right and subtly body-slammed him to get him to move towards the center. Unfortunately, his cement shoes weren't budging. People were stacking up on my left, and I imagined them silently wondering, "Why aren't we moving?" My daughter died a slow death of embarrassment while the nice, young man across the aisle was left literally empty-handed, shunned. A lively discussion in the car ensued on the drive home. I wasn't mad. After nearly twenty years of marriage, I have a pretty good idea of what Mr. Wonderful will or won't do, and this one was clearly in the "Won't" column. On the contrary, I'm happy each time he joins me on one of my church outings. In my husband's book of life, the whole concept of religion would have a whole "Won't" page of its own if it wasn't for yours truly. Of course, these days, I think he's enjoying this church tour thing as much as I am.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: An unfortunate one hour and 15 minutes
Saturday, January 16, 2010
"I See Kentucky." "Where?"
Week Twenty-Two - Saint Aloysius on the Ohio
5:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Al's on the Ohio . . . Ohio River, that is, and yes, that is Kentucky over there. How weird it is to go to a church a fairly significant distance from your home and still see five or six people that you know - none of whom belong to that church either. That's exactly what happend at St. Al's this week. Doesn't anyone go to their own parish anymore? I'm fairly certain that no one else is in the midst of a I'm Trying-To-Go-To-Every-Church-In-Cincinnati project, so it seems that attending Sunday mass has become a personal commitment strongly determined by convenience. Not necessarily a bad thing . . . and certainly a good thing when compared to not going at all. Just an observation.
Attending mass at St. Al's made me feel like I was in a scene out of "The Waltons." Although I strongly suspect that a Catholic church on Walton's Mountain was never really an option, the opening song, "How Great Thou Art," took me back to the mountain right away. St. Al's church is very small, small enough that the servers actually extended a sign of peace to everyone sitting at the end of every pew. St. Al's is also fairly simple - four votive candles on the altar, one on the lectern, and one on either side of the tabernacle. Except for a carpeted center aisle, the floors were concrete, and the pews reminded me of . . . park benches. Large stained glass windows on both sides of the church were not particularly attractive given their majority of plain green glass. (Green is just not a good church color.) However, beautiful stained glass windows ringing the top of the dome over the altar more than compensated, each depicting one of four saints and/or popes, I wasn't sure which. The front of the actual altar showcased the last supper. I couldn't tell if it was a flat painting or something more, so I was disappointed when I didn't get a closer look when we were directed to the back of the church to receive communion. Notably, I really liked the priest, an older man with a great, easy-going presence. His homily, although a bit long, was excellent.
There was also an abundance of shiny, painted, pastel statues. The one taking center stage above the tabernacle, what appeared to be a large altar boy, really threw me. I didn't get it. An altar boy? Who is this so-called "altar boy"? A quick search on the internet enlightened me. Shocker - it's Saint Aloysius. Okay, I feel stupid. I really have to do my research before I go to these places. On Altar Boy Al's right were two smaller matching statues of the same person, and on his left were two other smaller matching statues of another person. Large shiny, ceramic angels flanked the altar. One had orange hair. The whole effect was like being in a Jewish grandmother's house filled with big ceramic tchotchkes.
The highlight of the visit was the expression on the faces of my children when one of their grade school teachers innocently took a seat in the pew in front of them. A curmudgeonly, older man, his teaching style and legendary classroom quotes have lovingly earned him his own fan page on Facebook. Somehow, the kids were spared the awkwardness of any interaction with him, but the whole situation added a certain element of . . . suspense to the time we spent at St. Al's. Priceless.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: 55 minutes
5:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Al's on the Ohio . . . Ohio River, that is, and yes, that is Kentucky over there. How weird it is to go to a church a fairly significant distance from your home and still see five or six people that you know - none of whom belong to that church either. That's exactly what happend at St. Al's this week. Doesn't anyone go to their own parish anymore? I'm fairly certain that no one else is in the midst of a I'm Trying-To-Go-To-Every-Church-In-Cincinnati project, so it seems that attending Sunday mass has become a personal commitment strongly determined by convenience. Not necessarily a bad thing . . . and certainly a good thing when compared to not going at all. Just an observation. Attending mass at St. Al's made me feel like I was in a scene out of "The Waltons." Although I strongly suspect that a Catholic church on Walton's Mountain was never really an option, the opening song, "How Great Thou Art," took me back to the mountain right away. St. Al's church is very small, small enough that the servers actually extended a sign of peace to everyone sitting at the end of every pew. St. Al's is also fairly simple - four votive candles on the altar, one on the lectern, and one on either side of the tabernacle. Except for a carpeted center aisle, the floors were concrete, and the pews reminded me of . . . park benches. Large stained glass windows on both sides of the church were not particularly attractive given their majority of plain green glass. (Green is just not a good church color.) However, beautiful stained glass windows ringing the top of the dome over the altar more than compensated, each depicting one of four saints and/or popes, I wasn't sure which. The front of the actual altar showcased the last supper. I couldn't tell if it was a flat painting or something more, so I was disappointed when I didn't get a closer look when we were directed to the back of the church to receive communion. Notably, I really liked the priest, an older man with a great, easy-going presence. His homily, although a bit long, was excellent.
There was also an abundance of shiny, painted, pastel statues. The one taking center stage above the tabernacle, what appeared to be a large altar boy, really threw me. I didn't get it. An altar boy? Who is this so-called "altar boy"? A quick search on the internet enlightened me. Shocker - it's Saint Aloysius. Okay, I feel stupid. I really have to do my research before I go to these places. On Altar Boy Al's right were two smaller matching statues of the same person, and on his left were two other smaller matching statues of another person. Large shiny, ceramic angels flanked the altar. One had orange hair. The whole effect was like being in a Jewish grandmother's house filled with big ceramic tchotchkes.
The highlight of the visit was the expression on the faces of my children when one of their grade school teachers innocently took a seat in the pew in front of them. A curmudgeonly, older man, his teaching style and legendary classroom quotes have lovingly earned him his own fan page on Facebook. Somehow, the kids were spared the awkwardness of any interaction with him, but the whole situation added a certain element of . . . suspense to the time we spent at St. Al's. Priceless.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: 55 minutes
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Keeping It Real
Week Twenty-One - Church of the Assumption (Mt. Healthy)
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Assumption. I had never been to Assumption before, but after quickly summarizing the church's interior, I thought I had it all figured out. Clearly, the original church had been smaller than what I was seeing, with the "old" church situated at a right angle to the current set-up. As time went by, a growing parish community undoubtedly forced an expansion. A larger worship space was constructed and the altar moved to its new - and current - location, perpendicular to its original. I had it half right.
Checking Assumption's website for the history of the church, I discovered that the original church, built in 1854, was, as I predicted, expanded in 1957. Although the new structure was intended to be temporary until a more appropriate one could be built, at some point, the concept of a new, permanent church faded. Apparently, the parishioners were quite happy with what they had, and as a result, the "temporary" church lasted for almost 30 years. It was what happened next that surprised me. In December of 1978, a fire - later ruled as arson - extensively damaged both Assumption's church and school. The altar and sacristy were a total loss. Why I don't remember this bothers me. I would think it would have been big news, especially among us Catholics. Anyhow, it was at this time, as the church was being rebuilt, that the altar and pews surrounding it were reconfigured. Only eight months after the fire, the current church was dedicated, finally becoming the permanent structure that had been planned many years earlier. I really need to start researching my churches before visiting them. After reading that, I certainly have a new and greater respect for Assumption.
It's a nice enough church. Wooden, beamed ceiling. Several stained glass windows. Nothing fancy, including the people, and I say that as a compliment. Almost all of the people in the congregation at this particular mass - and there were a lot of them - were senior citizens, individuals who have probably seen a lot and been through a lot. No need to put on a show. These people are real. I like that. They've probably been parishioners at Assumption longer than I've been alive. I bet they remember the fire.
An older husband and wife were leading the rosary from their pew before mass began. Another elderly gentleman both played the organ and led the singing. The ushers - all senior gentlemen - wore green jackets (think: "The Masters"). There was no distribution of wine. That one somewhat surprised me. I wasn't sure if the move was a temporary one during cold-and-flu season or an adaptation to meet the preferences of the crowd.
The pastor of Assumption who presided over the mass is also the real deal. I remember him from several years ago when he was assigned to the parish my parents belonged to. My parents would speak fondly of his "old car" and his "frayed pants," signs of a real priest. At 70 years old (a fact mentioned in his statement at the end of mass that he would not be retiring until next year), he still seems very down-to-earth, even mentioning that he was anxious to get home to watch the Bengals' football game. I'm not sure if it was a result of that comment or standard operating procedure, but there was no closing song. Just keeping it real.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: 45 minutes
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Assumption. I had never been to Assumption before, but after quickly summarizing the church's interior, I thought I had it all figured out. Clearly, the original church had been smaller than what I was seeing, with the "old" church situated at a right angle to the current set-up. As time went by, a growing parish community undoubtedly forced an expansion. A larger worship space was constructed and the altar moved to its new - and current - location, perpendicular to its original. I had it half right.Checking Assumption's website for the history of the church, I discovered that the original church, built in 1854, was, as I predicted, expanded in 1957. Although the new structure was intended to be temporary until a more appropriate one could be built, at some point, the concept of a new, permanent church faded. Apparently, the parishioners were quite happy with what they had, and as a result, the "temporary" church lasted for almost 30 years. It was what happened next that surprised me. In December of 1978, a fire - later ruled as arson - extensively damaged both Assumption's church and school. The altar and sacristy were a total loss. Why I don't remember this bothers me. I would think it would have been big news, especially among us Catholics. Anyhow, it was at this time, as the church was being rebuilt, that the altar and pews surrounding it were reconfigured. Only eight months after the fire, the current church was dedicated, finally becoming the permanent structure that had been planned many years earlier. I really need to start researching my churches before visiting them. After reading that, I certainly have a new and greater respect for Assumption.
It's a nice enough church. Wooden, beamed ceiling. Several stained glass windows. Nothing fancy, including the people, and I say that as a compliment. Almost all of the people in the congregation at this particular mass - and there were a lot of them - were senior citizens, individuals who have probably seen a lot and been through a lot. No need to put on a show. These people are real. I like that. They've probably been parishioners at Assumption longer than I've been alive. I bet they remember the fire.
An older husband and wife were leading the rosary from their pew before mass began. Another elderly gentleman both played the organ and led the singing. The ushers - all senior gentlemen - wore green jackets (think: "The Masters"). There was no distribution of wine. That one somewhat surprised me. I wasn't sure if the move was a temporary one during cold-and-flu season or an adaptation to meet the preferences of the crowd.
The pastor of Assumption who presided over the mass is also the real deal. I remember him from several years ago when he was assigned to the parish my parents belonged to. My parents would speak fondly of his "old car" and his "frayed pants," signs of a real priest. At 70 years old (a fact mentioned in his statement at the end of mass that he would not be retiring until next year), he still seems very down-to-earth, even mentioning that he was anxious to get home to watch the Bengals' football game. I'm not sure if it was a result of that comment or standard operating procedure, but there was no closing song. Just keeping it real.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: 45 minutes
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Can't-or
Week Twenty - Saint William
3:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. William. Okay, let's talk about the elephant in the room and get it over with. The cantor, who my husband lovingly dubbed "Betty," needed, well . . . let's just say, a little "coaching" in the vocal arts department. Betty. Drawing cats from miles around. Oh, I'm sure her heart was in the right place, God love her, all decked out in her Christmas sweater and freshly set hair, but this big, beautiful church needs a choir and not a Betty. Moving on . . .
I had never been inside of St. William's church before. Expecting to find something remarkable, I wasn't disappointed - St. William's is definitely a Cincinnati gem. From the ridiculously high ceiling to the beautifully detailed frescos over the altar to the huge marble columns (twelve of them - one for each apostle), everything here is good. Impressive stained glass windows each hold their own lit candle. Frames for the stations of the cross are inlaid in stone into the walls (although a small green light underneath each one was definitely unnecessary). A spotlight shines on a crucifix suspended over the center aisle. Countless poinsettias and lit Christmas trees, as well as a large nativity scene, further enhanced the sanctuary. I should have read about the details and history of the interior of the church (on the church's website, http://www.saintwilliam.com/) before going there, but reading about them afterwards was just as interesting.
The congregation was predominantly the senior citizen set, older husbands and wives who more than likely have been parishioners of St. William's for most of their lives, and several aspects of the mass matched their generation: organ accompaniment, genuflection at the reference to the incarnation in the creed, the very traditional and sung "Our Father" (you know the one). Surprisingly, however, the celebrating priest did not match this 100-year old church. He was fairly young and seemed new to the trade. I noticed a few falters in his prayers and couldn't help but notice how very purposefully he referenced the prayer book during the Eucharistic prayer. It was obvious that he wanted to get the words and hand motions just right - even my heathen husband noticed. Kudos for his homily though. His thoughts and insights into the Epiphany and the three wise men were interesting.
What a difference from last week. At St. William's, I saw only one gentleman arrive slightly late. There was no milling about, and the silence before mass was deafening - a whisper would have been too loud. It may have been the difference in generations, but I'm thinking it was more a difference in attitude and respect, a difference in reverence. Here in Price Hill, it's clearly a privilege to be able to belong to St. William's, and should I return to St. William's anytime soon, it would be a privilege to hear Betty.
ATTENDANCE: Two-thirds full
DURATION: 50 minutes
3:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. William. Okay, let's talk about the elephant in the room and get it over with. The cantor, who my husband lovingly dubbed "Betty," needed, well . . . let's just say, a little "coaching" in the vocal arts department. Betty. Drawing cats from miles around. Oh, I'm sure her heart was in the right place, God love her, all decked out in her Christmas sweater and freshly set hair, but this big, beautiful church needs a choir and not a Betty. Moving on . . . I had never been inside of St. William's church before. Expecting to find something remarkable, I wasn't disappointed - St. William's is definitely a Cincinnati gem. From the ridiculously high ceiling to the beautifully detailed frescos over the altar to the huge marble columns (twelve of them - one for each apostle), everything here is good. Impressive stained glass windows each hold their own lit candle. Frames for the stations of the cross are inlaid in stone into the walls (although a small green light underneath each one was definitely unnecessary). A spotlight shines on a crucifix suspended over the center aisle. Countless poinsettias and lit Christmas trees, as well as a large nativity scene, further enhanced the sanctuary. I should have read about the details and history of the interior of the church (on the church's website, http://www.saintwilliam.com/) before going there, but reading about them afterwards was just as interesting.
The congregation was predominantly the senior citizen set, older husbands and wives who more than likely have been parishioners of St. William's for most of their lives, and several aspects of the mass matched their generation: organ accompaniment, genuflection at the reference to the incarnation in the creed, the very traditional and sung "Our Father" (you know the one). Surprisingly, however, the celebrating priest did not match this 100-year old church. He was fairly young and seemed new to the trade. I noticed a few falters in his prayers and couldn't help but notice how very purposefully he referenced the prayer book during the Eucharistic prayer. It was obvious that he wanted to get the words and hand motions just right - even my heathen husband noticed. Kudos for his homily though. His thoughts and insights into the Epiphany and the three wise men were interesting.
What a difference from last week. At St. William's, I saw only one gentleman arrive slightly late. There was no milling about, and the silence before mass was deafening - a whisper would have been too loud. It may have been the difference in generations, but I'm thinking it was more a difference in attitude and respect, a difference in reverence. Here in Price Hill, it's clearly a privilege to be able to belong to St. William's, and should I return to St. William's anytime soon, it would be a privilege to hear Betty.
ATTENDANCE: Two-thirds full
DURATION: 50 minutes
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