Extra Credit

Week Fifty-Eight - Saint Clare

10:30 Sunday morning mass, St. Clare.  It's a feat just to make it in to St. Clare Church.  The front doors can only be reached via a somewhat imposing trio of concrete steps; the side doors are the same, although not quite as daunting.  The handicapped entrance is a rather utilitarian-looking ramp leading to an elevator straight out of a Hitchcock movie.  Of course, none of the above are really a hindrance to attending mass at St. Clare's, but you have to wonder why the church was built so significantly above street level.  It's not a huge church, but it's still not like you're going to miss it coming down the road.

St. Clare's is a church that probably hasn't changed in decades.  The interior offers very little to look at.  A rather creepy crucifix featuring a golden Jesus is flanked by depictions of Mary and Joseph. It all felt rather . . . Greek Orthodox to me.  Other than a few random banners of non-descript shapes and color, the crucifix behind the altar was, in fact, the only bit of decor in the church.  At least from my vantage point, I could find no statues.  Stained glass windows were notably present but dated in an awkward way.  The stations of the cross were definitely keeping a low profile.

The mass itself was a slow one.  The music group, while quite good, played each song at a coma-inducing tempo, but here's the interesting part:  everyone was singing.  Everywhere I looked, young, old, men, women, the priest, the servers, everyone was singing.  It was so . . . so . . . cool to see everyone with an open hymnal in their hands.  What a nice change.  A warm welcome from a woman greeting everyone as they entered the church as well as a personal welcome from the pastor to each individual in the pews before mass made we think that, of all the churches I've been to, if nothing else, St. Clare's is the most sincere.  Who knew?

Now to the extra credit - which was much more interesting.  After mass, My Husband the Heathen and I headed off to Mount Adams to the original Holy Cross Church. 

Holy Cross Church was built in the 1850's but was deconsecrated in the 1970's.  The abandoned church, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, appears sound on the outside, but the interior looks anything but.  Still, the exposed rafters, the peeling paint, and the vast shell of emptiness create a certain aura which I can only assume is what attracted artist,  Shinji Turner-Yamamoto, to choose this architectural space for his latest work.  Yamamoto's installation at Holy Cross, "Hanging Garden," is part of the Global Tree Project, an international art initiative that includes completed projects in India, Ireland, Japan, Washington, D. C., Mongolia, Finland, and now, Cincinnati.  The installation is both pretty and pretty cool - the roots of an upended dead tree, suspended vertically above the ground, meet the roots of an upright live tree suspended directly above it.  During our visit, a Japanese Buddhist monk had set up shop and was chanting.  Needless to say, the people there were as cool as the exhibit itself. 

The exhibit is open on weekends until October 17th.  Worth the trip?  Yes.  This was definitely something you don't see everyday.        
 
ATTENDANCE:  About half full

DURATION:  65 minutes

A Study in Contrasts

Week Fifty-Seven - St. Benedict (Covington)

4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Benedict.  I like these churches in Northern Kentucky.  More specifically, I like these churches in Covington.  There's so much history in them.  They really make you feel like you're in a church.  This week's outing was to just such a church, St. Benedict's.

St. Benny's sits right on the street, 17th Street to be exact, in the middle of a residential neighborhood.  It always strikes me as funny to see these huge churches as, literally, someone's next door neighbor.  We easily found a parking spot on the street in front of the church, but a parking lot is also available behind the church, off of 16th.

I wasn't surprised to learn that St. Benedict's physical church is over 100 years old (the parish itself is celebrating its 125th anniversary this year - big celebration next week), but I was surprised by its outstanding condition.  I'm not sure how much of the church is original anymore, but I loved it.  The color scheme is gorgeous.  Earth tones of brown, beige, gold, and ivory with just a few touches of green are complemented by marble and beautifully gilded sculptures and adornments.  Nothing strays from these colors - not the stained glass windows, not the painted details, not the wooden or carpeted flooring, not even the tablecloth on the altar.   FINALLY, SOMEONE GOT IT RIGHT, and the result is elegant.  Clean, crisp lines and classy moderation make everything about St. Benedict's simply beautiful.

On the flip side, the mass itself wasn't anything to write home about.  Standard.  Oh, good - another sermon on stewardship, a point stressed so heavily that forms and pencils were distributed before the end of mass for everyone to indicate which activities they would like to participate (or "continue to participate") in at the parish.  Hmmm.  Kind of heavy-handed there, don't you think?  I found the high-pressure sales tactics a bit awkward.  When a little girl collected the still-blank forms from me and My Husband the Heathen, I could see the look of confusion on her face.  Her brief hesitation confirmed what I knew she was thinking: "They didn't fill it out.  What should I do?  Should I tell them?" With my own selfish sigh of relief, she continued on, bless her heart. 

A huge pipe organ loomed in the balcony.  It was used sparingly during mass which was a shame since the woman playing it was much more adept at the organ than she was at the rather rinky-dink piano.  I never understand why, when churches have these amazing instruments at their disposal, they so reluctantly use them.  I don't get it.  Just once I want to hear somebody really let loose and wail on one of these things. 

All in all, it was a pleasant visit on a beautiful day although the ride home wasn't without its share of drama.  I had managed to get us to St. Benedict's with no problem via the main drag, i.e., Madison Avenue.  Mr. Wonderful, on the other hand, managed to take us through the "sketchier" parts of Covington on the way home.  "Uh, honey? . . . Where are we?"  I swear he does it on purpose.      

ATTENDANCE:  One-fourth full

DURATION:  55 minutes

Family Ties

Week Fifty-Six - St. Martin of Tours

11:30 Sunday morning mass, St. Martin. So, I'm in a funk. A church funk. They're all starting to look the same, sound the same, smell the same. Frankly, I'm not sure what to look for anymore, and I sure as hell don't know what to write. Have I seen it all? Have I said it all? To quote Peggy Lee, "Is that all there is?"

Truth be told, I have a sneaking suspicion that this week's visit was a hump that I just needed to get over. No offense, St. Martin's, but I just wasn't looking forward to visiting your church. I feel bad saying that. After all, my parents were married there over 50 years ago. My mother attended St. Martin's grade school, and I have vivid memories of going to mass there with both her and my grandmother when I was a child. Unfortunately, I think that last one is where the problem lies. Those memories recall long, boring masses in a church so big there wasn't even a remote possibility for any warmth in or connection to the liturgy. I don't know. Maybe that was just the way things were back then, especially for a ten-year old. Nonetheless, here I was, 40 years later, dreading that same feeling of distance I had felt so long ago, a feeling of invisibility - and boredom - in a church so large I might as well be a fly on the wall. Wait. Hold on. Shouldn't I be looking forward to the very type of mass I was now actually dreading? Anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows by now that I clearly value my personal space and privacy at mass. Nothing better than having a whole pew to yourself, right? It's a fine line. I like my space, but I still want to feel like I'm both contributing something and receiving something back - in my own private way, of course. I want to be part of the choir . . . just in the back row . . . in a "company role."

Anyways, with no better time than a quiet Sunday morning to get over the hump, I was off to downtown Cheviot to take care of business. Things got off to a rocky start when I arrived for the much-published 11:00 mass, only to find out the correct mass time was 11:30. Shoot. Had I checked the parish website, I would have gotten it right, but The List had been compiled using an alternate source of info . . . and I didn't check. My early arrival turned out to actually be a good thing, however. My first entrance into the church quickly revealed how bitterly cold it was in there. Noooo problem. Pleeeeenty of time to go back to the car to get a sweater . . . and a photograph which I was unable to snag on the first drive-by . . . and a better parking spot. I spent a few more minutes in the car reading the bulletin . . . and warming up.

Second attempt. I just don't know what it is about St. Martin's. It's a big, beautiful church (even after controversial renovations several years ago). There are statues and arches and columns. You can find the entire Apostles' Creed on the ceiling above the altar. Beautiful stained glass windows depict the beatitudes. Impressive. I should like this church, I really should, but echoing my closing sentiments of last week, I think I'm beginning to move beyond the physical. After all these years, something is still remiss at St. Martin's. The music group was doing their best, playing quite well, in fact, but very, very few people in the crowd were singing. I saw only a handful even pick up a hymnal. The run-of-the-mill mass was celebrated by a priest who couldn't quite hold - or capture - my attention. Compounding the problem this week was an additional stewardship appeal. What luck.

St. Martin's strikes me as a cold church - literally and figuratively - and beyond a new thermostat, I'm not sure what the fix is. My memories are probably still clouding my vision, but this week, mass was merely a spectator sport.

ATTENDANCE: Slightly less than half

DURATION: One hour

The Scene of the Crime

Week Fifty-Five - Saint Cecilia

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Cecilia. A big church? Yes. A pretty church? Not so sure. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine remarked to me how "beautiful" St. Cecilia's church was, how I should include St. Cecilia on my short list. Naturally, I had high hopes . . . maybe too high, and maybe that was the problem.

Possibly the tallest church I've been to, St. Cecilia seemed to have all the right stuff. All the pieces were there, but for some reason, it just wasn't clicking. The woodwork behind the altar and a gleaming golden tabernacle were certainly striking, but the dark gray interior (limestone? concrete?), the fairly new (and faux?) wood flooring, and discomfortingly ugly stations of the cross were anything but. Stained glass windows, depicting monotonous patterns, were too small and disproportionate to the size of the church. An odd-looking fully-clothed Jesus with outstretched arms glared out from behind the altar. Was this the crucifix? Thankfully, no, but it was a while before I spotted the actual crucifix suspended from the very high ceiling. Four paintings on either side of Fully-Clothed Jesus were brilliant in color - good, making them oddly out of sync with the rest of the church - bad. I would like to say that the abundance of minute, painted details on the ceiling had some redeeming value, but the choice of colors - baby blue, salmon pink, and ivory - again didn't sit well with me. There was something almost panhellenic . . . or Mayan . . . or harlequin-esque here. There was so much potential within St. Cecilia that the reality of what I was seeing left me disappointed and a little bit sad.

With that said, there were still a few positives at St. Cecilia. Situated in the balcony at the back of the church, I have no doubt that St. Cecilia's huge pipe organ is phenomenal. Even at this particular mass, it was pretty darn good. Also pretty darn good was the celebrating priest. An affable, easy-going guy, it was obvious that he was well-liked. His homily began with the story of his encounter that very morning with copper thieves outside of his window. As featured on the local news just a few days ago, thieves were once again at work, brazenly stealing copper downspouts from the church. He proudly displayed one of the salvaged downspouts which was met with much applause from the congregation. Sadly, however, he and the police were unable to save all of the church's copper fixtures. Other churches on the east side continue to battle the same - and very frustrating - problem.

In spite of its aesthetics - or lack thereof, my visit to St. Cecilia was a good one. It's not exactly convenient for me to attend mass there, but I wouldn't hesitate to visit again, and I think that says a lot about the parish . . . and maybe even about me. Am I finally learning to look beyond the physical?

ATTENDANCE: Half full

DURATION: 50 minutes