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
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