Week Sixty-Seven - St. Ignatius Loyola, aka, Home Base
4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Ignatius. The "tour" is becoming more complicated. I've visited almost all of the churches within a reasonable distance from my home. As a result, it's now taking more time, more planning, and more gas to visit those churches remaining on the list. Troubling. In the meantime, the holiday weekend was pulling me in a number of different directions. Therefore, at the request of the fam, it was a quick one minute drive down the road to St. I's for Saturday afternoon mass.
The church was surprisingly full . . . who are these people? Have things really changed that much in one year? It was less than comforting to realize the only people I recognized were "the old fogies" - my friends' parents, my children's friends' parents. Guess the next generation has moved in.
I have to say, with the exception of those beaten-beyond-recognition hymnals, St. I's wasn't looking half-bad this go-round. Something was different. The popular concensus was that the ceiling had been painted. Odd, I know. There was a new cabinet for the holy oils. Wow . . . the things you notice in the church you've spent the last twenty years in.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: One hour
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Deja Vu
Week Sixty-Six - Saint John Neumann (Fairfield)
11:00 Sunday morning mass, St. John Neumann. I've been to St. John Neumann Church before. No, actually, I haven't, but I sure felt like I had. There it was: the ceiling from Sacred Heart, the windows from St. Maximilian, the chairs from St. Ann (sans kneelers). Even the exterior vaguely reminded me of St. Simon. Have I seen it all? Have I really exhausted all of the options on the Catholic church menu? Or did my choice of church this week simply encompass all the highlights (and lowlights) of church design over the past few decades? I'll wager a guess and go with the latter.
St. John Neumann Church is plain. Some might call it "simple," but I'll call it "plain." You can include everything I mentioned above, but you can leave out the statues, the paintings, and the decor - because there are none. The religious wasteland definitely seems to be showing up more and more among the newer churches. I wonder - was the choice to take the barren route a financial decision or a pastoral one, or was it just "the style" at the time of construction? Speaking of construction, it was more than a bit unnerving to feel the floor beneath my feet vibrate and shake with each passerby. I had already tried out two others seats in a desperate attempt to avoid a cold draft (my children would have been mortified), but when the draft became unavoidable, I stopped wandering and resigned myself to the cold . . . and apparently to the suspense of wondering if the floor might give way at any moment as well.
St. John's was the first church I've been to where the congregation turned en masse to face the entrance procession at the beginning of the mass. Yup, I was clearly the new kid, the only one facing front and center. Awkward. There was no crucifix at the altar until it was processed in, so maybe that's the reason behind such a show of respect. A small, unimposing crucifix, it remained at the altar for the duration of mass, leaning awkwardly off-kilter in its holder. I'll give SJN the benefit of the doubt and assume the crucifix does, in fact, reside at the altar during its off-hours. You might have to look for it though. Fun fact: Did you know that a "crucifer" is the person who carries the processional cross at the beginning and end of the mass? This was news to me. I had to look up this ominous-sounding term when one of the candidates for St. John's pastoral council listed "crucifer" as one of his current activities. Who knew?
A four- or five-person guitar group was awkwardly positioned directly behind the altar, something I found very distracting. Most of the songs I had never heard before. The group sounded pleasant enough, but there was a certain twang that made me think they could just as easily have moseyed on up from a tent revival down yonder.
The celebrating priest seemed like an amicable guy. He smiled occasionally during mass which I thought was nice - after all, this is a celebration, right? He had a great tactic for delivering his homily. While speaking (without notes - awesome), he strolled the width and depth of the church, up and down the aisles from front to back. Not only did the "visual" hold your attention, i.e. "Where's he going next?", but listening to a homily delivered from only a few feet away is so much better than listening to a static homily delivered from a lectern waaaay over there. It was genius, I tell ya.
Saint John Neumann Church is located directly across from Smiley Cemetery. The potential for comments on that fact alone is endless, so I'll just stop now.
ATTENDANCE: Half-full
St. John Neumann Church is plain. Some might call it "simple," but I'll call it "plain." You can include everything I mentioned above, but you can leave out the statues, the paintings, and the decor - because there are none. The religious wasteland definitely seems to be showing up more and more among the newer churches. I wonder - was the choice to take the barren route a financial decision or a pastoral one, or was it just "the style" at the time of construction? Speaking of construction, it was more than a bit unnerving to feel the floor beneath my feet vibrate and shake with each passerby. I had already tried out two others seats in a desperate attempt to avoid a cold draft (my children would have been mortified), but when the draft became unavoidable, I stopped wandering and resigned myself to the cold . . . and apparently to the suspense of wondering if the floor might give way at any moment as well.
St. John's was the first church I've been to where the congregation turned en masse to face the entrance procession at the beginning of the mass. Yup, I was clearly the new kid, the only one facing front and center. Awkward. There was no crucifix at the altar until it was processed in, so maybe that's the reason behind such a show of respect. A small, unimposing crucifix, it remained at the altar for the duration of mass, leaning awkwardly off-kilter in its holder. I'll give SJN the benefit of the doubt and assume the crucifix does, in fact, reside at the altar during its off-hours. You might have to look for it though. Fun fact: Did you know that a "crucifer" is the person who carries the processional cross at the beginning and end of the mass? This was news to me. I had to look up this ominous-sounding term when one of the candidates for St. John's pastoral council listed "crucifer" as one of his current activities. Who knew?
A four- or five-person guitar group was awkwardly positioned directly behind the altar, something I found very distracting. Most of the songs I had never heard before. The group sounded pleasant enough, but there was a certain twang that made me think they could just as easily have moseyed on up from a tent revival down yonder.
The celebrating priest seemed like an amicable guy. He smiled occasionally during mass which I thought was nice - after all, this is a celebration, right? He had a great tactic for delivering his homily. While speaking (without notes - awesome), he strolled the width and depth of the church, up and down the aisles from front to back. Not only did the "visual" hold your attention, i.e. "Where's he going next?", but listening to a homily delivered from only a few feet away is so much better than listening to a static homily delivered from a lectern waaaay over there. It was genius, I tell ya.
Saint John Neumann Church is located directly across from Smiley Cemetery. The potential for comments on that fact alone is endless, so I'll just stop now.
ATTENDANCE: Half-full
DURATION: One hour
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
So much to do . . .
Week Sixty-Five - Much-Needed R and R
A brief hiatus this week. Back on the trail next Sunday.
A brief hiatus this week. Back on the trail next Sunday.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Oh By "Gollie"!
Week Sixty-Four - Saint Clement
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Clement. I was hesitant to visit St. Clement. The church sits right on Vine Street in Saint Bernard, and if memory served me correctly, there was no off-street parking. However, with an errand to run in the neighborhood and my husband in the driver's seat, this was the week - time to throw caution to the wind! Well, as it turned out, parking wasn't even remotely an issue, mainly because we arrived with time to spare. We easily found a spot on "Church Street," the side street next to the church, in case you couldn't tell. Had we arrived even a few minutes later, however, it might have been a different story, albeit a story that would have simply required more footwork.
With a history over 150 years old, you would expect St. Clement's to really be something; after all, the history itself is something. When St. Clement's original church was rebuilt in the 1870's, 1,800 church societies took a special train to attend the laying of the cornerstone. They were met by booming cannons and streets spanned by arches of flowers. How cool is that? An online parish history goes into incredible detail recounting the next 100+ years for the parish, including - and, sadly, this is where tragedy derails my expectations - a terrible fire in 1963. The ornate altar, paintings, and stained glass windows were all lost. The cost of restoring the church to its original splendor was prohibitive, but rebuilding began nonetheless. The result was "functional" and "striking in its simplicity." Yes, those words would be accurate, very accurate . . . just as "barren" and "plain" would also be accurate.
There are no stained glass windows at St. Clement's church. There are no paintings. In fact, there is little, if any, decor at all. Pews resembled pine wood bleachers. I thought there was no crucifix until, when receiving communion, I spied a large crucifix off to the side. Why it was off to the side is beyond me because it was beautiful, and what was above the altar was a big, shiny . . . plus sign. The most striking feature - and possibly the one that "garnered praise from architects and design groups" - was the inclusion of exposed rafters. These soaring wooden rafters, the original I presume, are really beautiful, a unique hallmark connecting the present to the past. Kudos on that point.
There were no kneelers at St. Clement. Of course, the absence of kneelers may have been intentional. My husband and I were by far among the youngest people there. Everything moved at a senior pace, including the "helicopter" greeters who hovered to an extreme. Sensible shoes were in abundance - as were a few pairs of sandals! Ah, the Franciscans! It was a delightful surprise to see them running the show, although, in retrospect, not altogether unexpected given the proximity of the church to Roger Bacon High School.
As my husband and I drove away from the church, I pointed out the home of an old college friend who I hadn't seen in almost twenty years . . . and who happened to be standing outside talking with neighbors! After double-takes on both our parts, she jumped in the back seat so we could pull over and catch up for a while. It was an amazing example of perfect timing and a hilarious - and completely random - way to reconnect our own past and present.
Another "extra credit" opportunity presented itself on Sunday afternoon when my husband and I attended the annual "Empty Bowls" event, a fundraiser benefitting the Freestore Foodbank's Kids Cafe program. The event itself was wonderful (I already have my calendar marked for next year), but the location, the Verdin Bell Event Centre, was a bonus. This building in Over-the-Rhine is actually the former Saint Paul Catholic Church, dedicated in 1850. Wikipedia tells me that St. Paul's was a German-speaking parish organized to accomodate members of Old St. Mary's Church who lived east of Clay Street. In 1899, a fire destroyed all but the church walls and stained glass windows (what is it with churches and fire?), but amazingly, the church was rebuilt and rededicated just one year later. In 1974, the church was deconsecrated and the building named to the National Register of Historic Places.
A few years later, the Verdin Company invested a hefty sum to restore the building to its grandeur, and after two and a half years of work, to say the result is grand would be an understatement. Decorated archways, vaulted, ornamented ceilings, marble walls, polished brass, mosaics, hand-painted murals - it's all here. The stained glass windows are breath-taking, not only for their beauty and craftsmanship, but simply for their immense size. Oh my goodness. Now, this is something.
With a history over 150 years old, you would expect St. Clement's to really be something; after all, the history itself is something. When St. Clement's original church was rebuilt in the 1870's, 1,800 church societies took a special train to attend the laying of the cornerstone. They were met by booming cannons and streets spanned by arches of flowers. How cool is that? An online parish history goes into incredible detail recounting the next 100+ years for the parish, including - and, sadly, this is where tragedy derails my expectations - a terrible fire in 1963. The ornate altar, paintings, and stained glass windows were all lost. The cost of restoring the church to its original splendor was prohibitive, but rebuilding began nonetheless. The result was "functional" and "striking in its simplicity." Yes, those words would be accurate, very accurate . . . just as "barren" and "plain" would also be accurate.
There are no stained glass windows at St. Clement's church. There are no paintings. In fact, there is little, if any, decor at all. Pews resembled pine wood bleachers. I thought there was no crucifix until, when receiving communion, I spied a large crucifix off to the side. Why it was off to the side is beyond me because it was beautiful, and what was above the altar was a big, shiny . . . plus sign. The most striking feature - and possibly the one that "garnered praise from architects and design groups" - was the inclusion of exposed rafters. These soaring wooden rafters, the original I presume, are really beautiful, a unique hallmark connecting the present to the past. Kudos on that point.
There were no kneelers at St. Clement. Of course, the absence of kneelers may have been intentional. My husband and I were by far among the youngest people there. Everything moved at a senior pace, including the "helicopter" greeters who hovered to an extreme. Sensible shoes were in abundance - as were a few pairs of sandals! Ah, the Franciscans! It was a delightful surprise to see them running the show, although, in retrospect, not altogether unexpected given the proximity of the church to Roger Bacon High School.
As my husband and I drove away from the church, I pointed out the home of an old college friend who I hadn't seen in almost twenty years . . . and who happened to be standing outside talking with neighbors! After double-takes on both our parts, she jumped in the back seat so we could pull over and catch up for a while. It was an amazing example of perfect timing and a hilarious - and completely random - way to reconnect our own past and present.
Another "extra credit" opportunity presented itself on Sunday afternoon when my husband and I attended the annual "Empty Bowls" event, a fundraiser benefitting the Freestore Foodbank's Kids Cafe program. The event itself was wonderful (I already have my calendar marked for next year), but the location, the Verdin Bell Event Centre, was a bonus. This building in Over-the-Rhine is actually the former Saint Paul Catholic Church, dedicated in 1850. Wikipedia tells me that St. Paul's was a German-speaking parish organized to accomodate members of Old St. Mary's Church who lived east of Clay Street. In 1899, a fire destroyed all but the church walls and stained glass windows (what is it with churches and fire?), but amazingly, the church was rebuilt and rededicated just one year later. In 1974, the church was deconsecrated and the building named to the National Register of Historic Places.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: 50 minutes
Monday, November 1, 2010
Boo Who?
Week Sixty-Three - All Saints
5:30 Sunday afternoon mass, All Saints. I love Halloween. I really do, mainly because I'm a costume fanatic - making them more than wearing them, but trick-or-treating is also something I've always looked forward to, on either side of the front door. That being said, our house isn't exactly prime real estate for little ghouls and goblins seeking treats on Halloween night. Twenty years ago, I think we pulled in a record 22 trick-or-treaters. For the past couple of years, however, we've seen exactly . . . zero. Oh, I still buy the candy bars just in case, and I still turn on the porch light . . . just in case. It was with some sadness then and little hope of dumping my entire bowl of candy into even a single trick-or-treater's pillowcase - as well as a weekend schedule that happened to make the timing just right - that I set out on Halloween night for All Saints Church in Montgomery.
No problem finding All Saints. Go east to the very end of Cross County, take a right, and there it is, right next to Moeller High School. I expected All Saints to be a big church, a big parish, so I was surprised when, after entering the front door, I found a much smaller worshipping space than what I anticipated. My first impressions were also wrong, however - I later discovered that this was just the "main wing," built in 1951. What I couldn't see was the "south wing, " built in 1961 and positioned to the left of the altar, and the "north wing," built in the 1970's and positioned to the right of the altar. The result is a T-shaped church. Oh, no. Flashback to St. Michael's and St. Vivian's. I realize these add-ons are often the best option that expanding churches have, but I always find it odd when the celebrating priest addresses portions of the church that I can't even see - who is he talking to? Personal fault.
I have yet to come up with just the right word to describe All Saints. "European" comes to mind, but I'm not sure that's right . . . or even what it exactly means. A rustic simplicity dominates the church but in an attractive way. Polished stone walls and low-hung stained glass windows create the sense of an intimate chapel more than of a suburban parish. A large painting behind the altar depicts Jesus on a throne, encircled by angels. Below him is a portrait of a large group of - we're goin' literal here, folks - all saints. From my vantage point, I could make out Mary and Joseph, center stage, but beyond that, it was tough identifying anyone else. Men and women, priests and nuns, one man in fairly contemporary clothing. Hmmm. I think I saw my girl, Saint Therese, in there, and a man in green may have been Saint Patrick. It would have been fun to take a closer look.
Of all things, I was impressed by the pews at All Saints. Crafted from a stunning dark wood, the rows of pews were in excellent condition, each beautifully polished . . . and upholstered! Cushioned seats with matching kneelers looked as if they might be fairly new. Actually, the church as a whole appeared to be well kept and in excellent condition. Nice.
This was an odd mass. In the main wing, I was able to take a head count of those in attendance - a whopping 36. As I approached the altar to receive communion, a quick glance confirmed all of three people in the south wing and maybe twenty to thirty in the north wing. Wow. Is every 5:30 Sunday mass like this at All Saints, or did previously scheduled Halloween festivities take their toll on attendance? No one seemed phased by the virtual absence of a congregation, so I don't know. Even the eucharistic ministers and the music ministry were absent. Weird.
The celebrating priest seemed like the nicest man imaginable. Kind and humble, he wasn't the best speaker when it came time for the homily. He even started out by saying, "I'm going to try to give my homily now." Referencing notes on a single folded sheet of paper, he stumbled and hesitated through it, but overall, it was really quite interesting. He just seemed like such a nice man.
I arrived back home at the height of our neighborhood's trick-or-treating hours. Rather than entering through the back door that we usually use, I rang the front door bell and yelled "Trick or Treat" just to give the dog something to think about. It was the highlight of her night. 2010 trick-or-treat count? Zero.
ATTENDANCE: Nearly empty
DURATION: 50 minutes
No problem finding All Saints. Go east to the very end of Cross County, take a right, and there it is, right next to Moeller High School. I expected All Saints to be a big church, a big parish, so I was surprised when, after entering the front door, I found a much smaller worshipping space than what I anticipated. My first impressions were also wrong, however - I later discovered that this was just the "main wing," built in 1951. What I couldn't see was the "south wing, " built in 1961 and positioned to the left of the altar, and the "north wing," built in the 1970's and positioned to the right of the altar. The result is a T-shaped church. Oh, no. Flashback to St. Michael's and St. Vivian's. I realize these add-ons are often the best option that expanding churches have, but I always find it odd when the celebrating priest addresses portions of the church that I can't even see - who is he talking to? Personal fault.
I have yet to come up with just the right word to describe All Saints. "European" comes to mind, but I'm not sure that's right . . . or even what it exactly means. A rustic simplicity dominates the church but in an attractive way. Polished stone walls and low-hung stained glass windows create the sense of an intimate chapel more than of a suburban parish. A large painting behind the altar depicts Jesus on a throne, encircled by angels. Below him is a portrait of a large group of - we're goin' literal here, folks - all saints. From my vantage point, I could make out Mary and Joseph, center stage, but beyond that, it was tough identifying anyone else. Men and women, priests and nuns, one man in fairly contemporary clothing. Hmmm. I think I saw my girl, Saint Therese, in there, and a man in green may have been Saint Patrick. It would have been fun to take a closer look.
Of all things, I was impressed by the pews at All Saints. Crafted from a stunning dark wood, the rows of pews were in excellent condition, each beautifully polished . . . and upholstered! Cushioned seats with matching kneelers looked as if they might be fairly new. Actually, the church as a whole appeared to be well kept and in excellent condition. Nice.
This was an odd mass. In the main wing, I was able to take a head count of those in attendance - a whopping 36. As I approached the altar to receive communion, a quick glance confirmed all of three people in the south wing and maybe twenty to thirty in the north wing. Wow. Is every 5:30 Sunday mass like this at All Saints, or did previously scheduled Halloween festivities take their toll on attendance? No one seemed phased by the virtual absence of a congregation, so I don't know. Even the eucharistic ministers and the music ministry were absent. Weird.
The celebrating priest seemed like the nicest man imaginable. Kind and humble, he wasn't the best speaker when it came time for the homily. He even started out by saying, "I'm going to try to give my homily now." Referencing notes on a single folded sheet of paper, he stumbled and hesitated through it, but overall, it was really quite interesting. He just seemed like such a nice man.
I arrived back home at the height of our neighborhood's trick-or-treating hours. Rather than entering through the back door that we usually use, I rang the front door bell and yelled "Trick or Treat" just to give the dog something to think about. It was the highlight of her night. 2010 trick-or-treat count? Zero.
ATTENDANCE: Nearly empty
DURATION: 50 minutes
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