Sunday, December 9, 2012
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.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Pulling Teeth
Week One Hundred and Sixty-Five - Blessed Sacrament (Fort Mitchell)
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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Holy Smoke
Week One Hundred and Fifty-Eight - Saint Lawrence (Lawrenceburg)
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.
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
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
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
347-1111
Week One Hundred and Forty-Six - San Antonio Chapel
9:00 Sunday morning mass, San Antonio. These are the churches I live for - the unassuming, most sincere, little-known churches that are some of the best kept secrets in Catholic Cincinnati. I had heard of San Antonio but kept finding conflicting reports as to its status. Although I had found online reports of the chapel being closed in 1993, a visit earlier this year to Holy Family Church put my fears to rest when I discovered that San Antonio operates in cooperation with Holy Family. A Saturday evening drive past San Antonio clinched it when I read their sign: "9:00 Sunday mass." Yes.
I wish I could find more about the history of San Antonio Chapel, but I'm limited to "built in 1940." San Antonio has been described as a "historic Italian chapel in the Fairmount, Cumminsville, Millvale, and Lower Price Hill areas," so, no, the neighborhood isn't exactly ideal and certainly not what it was 70 years ago when Cincinnati's Italian population congregated in the area. In spite of the neighborhood, it really is nearly perfect though.
Isn't that the most adorable thing you've ever seen?
It's a small church, not as tiny as Saint Jerome, but definitely small. 15 short pews line either side of the center aisle, but additional seating on the sides of a cruciform design allows for (the possibility of) a larger congregation. Four windows line either side of the church - normal windows with aluminum blinds. You don't see blinds in a church very often, but here, it works. The color tones of the sanctuary are really pretty - deep maroons and golds, as is the dark wooden beamed ceiling. Nothing much beyond that, but it's enough. Don't even get me started on the church bell rung before mass. Suffice it to say that this bell was actually being RUNG by someone - you could hear the rope being pulled up and down. I loved it.
Celebrating priests for the Sunday mass seem to be drawn from a variety of locations. For our visit, we were lucky enough to have a Franciscan priest say the mass . . . and unfortunate enough to get one that was quite ... verbose. Ah well, what can you do.
No surprise that my husband and I were the youngest people at San Antonio. It also came as no surprise that nearly everyone knew everyone else here. Everyone seemed happy for a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary at this mass, and I heard a few sympathetic sighs over the announcement of a death in the parish last week. The Italian names were running rampant, and I jumped at the chance to silently whisper to my husband about the "celebrity" sitting behind us. Highlight of my week: exchanging the Sign of Peace with a well-known and much-loved Italian Cincinnati businessman. Made. My. Day.
Everyone here was so incredibly friendly. Several people said hello to us before mass started, just like we'd known each other for years. One woman cued me in on how communion is distributed - I was kind of thrown for a minute, so the advice was actually a great help. Finally, after mass, a woman behind us asked us if it was our "first time" at San Antonio. She introduced herself and welcomed us. Sure, we stood out like sore thumbs as the newcomers, but we've stood out before in most of our weekly excursions, but this was the first and only time in all of those visits that anyone has taken the initiative and expressed a welcome. I must have been in a good mood because, frankly, I was touched.
Every Sunday after mass, a brief social with refreshments is held in the basement of the church. My husband and I didn't attend, but in our efforts to get to our car, we found ourselves going against the flow and were nearly stampeded by almost everyone else who was attending. There's something at San Antonio. I like it. I'll be back . . . and maybe next time, I'll stay for the refreshments, but until then, let's just keep it our little secret.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: One hour
I wish I could find more about the history of San Antonio Chapel, but I'm limited to "built in 1940." San Antonio has been described as a "historic Italian chapel in the Fairmount, Cumminsville, Millvale, and Lower Price Hill areas," so, no, the neighborhood isn't exactly ideal and certainly not what it was 70 years ago when Cincinnati's Italian population congregated in the area. In spite of the neighborhood, it really is nearly perfect though.
It's a small church, not as tiny as Saint Jerome, but definitely small. 15 short pews line either side of the center aisle, but additional seating on the sides of a cruciform design allows for (the possibility of) a larger congregation. Four windows line either side of the church - normal windows with aluminum blinds. You don't see blinds in a church very often, but here, it works. The color tones of the sanctuary are really pretty - deep maroons and golds, as is the dark wooden beamed ceiling. Nothing much beyond that, but it's enough. Don't even get me started on the church bell rung before mass. Suffice it to say that this bell was actually being RUNG by someone - you could hear the rope being pulled up and down. I loved it.
Celebrating priests for the Sunday mass seem to be drawn from a variety of locations. For our visit, we were lucky enough to have a Franciscan priest say the mass . . . and unfortunate enough to get one that was quite ... verbose. Ah well, what can you do.
No surprise that my husband and I were the youngest people at San Antonio. It also came as no surprise that nearly everyone knew everyone else here. Everyone seemed happy for a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary at this mass, and I heard a few sympathetic sighs over the announcement of a death in the parish last week. The Italian names were running rampant, and I jumped at the chance to silently whisper to my husband about the "celebrity" sitting behind us. Highlight of my week: exchanging the Sign of Peace with a well-known and much-loved Italian Cincinnati businessman. Made. My. Day.
Everyone here was so incredibly friendly. Several people said hello to us before mass started, just like we'd known each other for years. One woman cued me in on how communion is distributed - I was kind of thrown for a minute, so the advice was actually a great help. Finally, after mass, a woman behind us asked us if it was our "first time" at San Antonio. She introduced herself and welcomed us. Sure, we stood out like sore thumbs as the newcomers, but we've stood out before in most of our weekly excursions, but this was the first and only time in all of those visits that anyone has taken the initiative and expressed a welcome. I must have been in a good mood because, frankly, I was touched.
Every Sunday after mass, a brief social with refreshments is held in the basement of the church. My husband and I didn't attend, but in our efforts to get to our car, we found ourselves going against the flow and were nearly stampeded by almost everyone else who was attending. There's something at San Antonio. I like it. I'll be back . . . and maybe next time, I'll stay for the refreshments, but until then, let's just keep it our little secret.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: One hour
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
GET ME A BUTTON!
Week One Hundred and Forty-Four - We Got Spirit. Yes, We Do . . .
There was really only one reason for a return to the 7:30 Sunday mass at St. Ignatius this week. "Spirit Sunday." In the good old days, there were balloons and all sorts of hoopla. These days, the balloons are gone, although there is a parish cook-out which I've never attended - we'll just leave that for the next generation. The one common denominator over the years, however, has been the "spirit button." Corny? Oh yeah. Required? Indubitably. Can't say I have the complete set, having joined the parish after the inaugural button, but I have a few. Somehow my kids have twice as many as me . . . not sure how that happened. Trading on the black market, no doubt.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
M. Night Shyamalan
Week One Hundred and Forty-Three - Saint Aloysius (Shandon)
4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Aloysius. I've found some interesting things - besides churches - on these liturgical outings, and this week I hit the mother lode. After deciding that I wanted to sleep in on my rainy Mother's Day, my daughter and I headed west on Saturday afternoon to Shandon. I wasn't particularly excited about visiting the church there, St. Aloysius, but I always like taking a drive in the country, so I was looking forward to this. What we discovered made it all the better, but more on that later.
St. Aloysius sits on a large flat parcel of land in a quiet section of Butler County, Morgan Township to be exact, and it's pretty much what I expected. I can't recall the exact date on the cornerstone, but I think it's something in the 1980's. I was surprised to see additional information above that cornerstone indicating that the parish had originated in 1878. I can't imagine that many Catholic folks in that area of town back then, but then, I can't imagine that many folks, period, in that area of town back then.
St. Aloysius is a surprisingly large church and a particularly wide one. There is a lot going on there but without a common denominator. There are a few stained glass windows and a few clear paned windows, the clear windows notable because they are on either side of the altar, which provided us with a nice view of the gathering rain clouds outside. A fairly large wooden cross is perched on a rock fountain from which water gurgles and flows. A painting of Mary, rather than a statue, is surrounded by votive candles. Couldn't find Joseph. A large projection screen, thankfully rolled up, hangs to the side of the altar at the ready. This particular weekend, everything was draped in metallic fabric - the crucifix, the altar, the pulpit, a nod to the Easter season, I presume.
What was most noticeable though was the overriding choice of color, GREEN . . . sea foam green. Not sure why you would choose sea foam green for the walls of a church or any walls for that matter, just as I'm not sure why the tabernacle area off to the side was an even more vivid shade of green . . . lime green. Wow.
The young man leading the hymns and playing piano seems like a nice guy, but he might be trying a tad too hard. His vocals were so loud that they were often muffled in the sound system. Take it down a notch, buddy, both in volume and enthusiasm. This isn't a revival.
Now to the good stuff. This was definitely an interesting drive, the highlight being the discovery of what could easily have been the set for "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." No, seriously. . . it looked exactly like it. A desolate intersection a mile or so down the road - another locale that had definitely appeared in a horror flick or two - didn't ease our nerves. Turns out, while we had, in fact, stumbled across a creepy intersection, more importantly, we had also discovered an abandoned Shaker village. Situated on Oxford Road, we passed a Shaker cemetery, two lone Shaker dwellings situated in the middle of nowhere, and additional Shaker buildings farther down the road. It all went by so fast on our way to St. Aloysius that, on the way back, we made a point of slowing down and even stopping to take it all in - along with a few photos!
I came home and immediately started researching. What I found was an abundance of information on the White Water Shaker Village of southwestern Ohio, existing from 1824 - 1916. Today, a faithful group of volunteers are working to restore the buildings, with the intent to offer docent-led tours to the public someday. Apparently, more than twenty original Shaker buildings are still standing in the area. I had no idea that Shakers ever lived in this area, and now, I'm fascinated. Check out www.whitewatervillage.org for more information and additional photos.
Was it creepy? Well, although a random tumbleweed or circling vulture would have really been the icing on the cake, I do remember, at some point, saying, "We . . . aregonnadie," and the overcast skies and subtle breeze definitely set the mood for Blair Witch. But was it fascinating? Without a doubt. With the history of the village now understood, we are even planning a return trip . . . but I think we'll bring Dad along next time.
ATTENDANCE: Almost half full
DURATION: One hour
St. Aloysius sits on a large flat parcel of land in a quiet section of Butler County, Morgan Township to be exact, and it's pretty much what I expected. I can't recall the exact date on the cornerstone, but I think it's something in the 1980's. I was surprised to see additional information above that cornerstone indicating that the parish had originated in 1878. I can't imagine that many Catholic folks in that area of town back then, but then, I can't imagine that many folks, period, in that area of town back then.
St. Aloysius is a surprisingly large church and a particularly wide one. There is a lot going on there but without a common denominator. There are a few stained glass windows and a few clear paned windows, the clear windows notable because they are on either side of the altar, which provided us with a nice view of the gathering rain clouds outside. A fairly large wooden cross is perched on a rock fountain from which water gurgles and flows. A painting of Mary, rather than a statue, is surrounded by votive candles. Couldn't find Joseph. A large projection screen, thankfully rolled up, hangs to the side of the altar at the ready. This particular weekend, everything was draped in metallic fabric - the crucifix, the altar, the pulpit, a nod to the Easter season, I presume.
What was most noticeable though was the overriding choice of color, GREEN . . . sea foam green. Not sure why you would choose sea foam green for the walls of a church or any walls for that matter, just as I'm not sure why the tabernacle area off to the side was an even more vivid shade of green . . . lime green. Wow.
The young man leading the hymns and playing piano seems like a nice guy, but he might be trying a tad too hard. His vocals were so loud that they were often muffled in the sound system. Take it down a notch, buddy, both in volume and enthusiasm. This isn't a revival.
Now to the good stuff. This was definitely an interesting drive, the highlight being the discovery of what could easily have been the set for "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." No, seriously. . . it looked exactly like it. A desolate intersection a mile or so down the road - another locale that had definitely appeared in a horror flick or two - didn't ease our nerves. Turns out, while we had, in fact, stumbled across a creepy intersection, more importantly, we had also discovered an abandoned Shaker village. Situated on Oxford Road, we passed a Shaker cemetery, two lone Shaker dwellings situated in the middle of nowhere, and additional Shaker buildings farther down the road. It all went by so fast on our way to St. Aloysius that, on the way back, we made a point of slowing down and even stopping to take it all in - along with a few photos!
I came home and immediately started researching. What I found was an abundance of information on the White Water Shaker Village of southwestern Ohio, existing from 1824 - 1916. Today, a faithful group of volunteers are working to restore the buildings, with the intent to offer docent-led tours to the public someday. Apparently, more than twenty original Shaker buildings are still standing in the area. I had no idea that Shakers ever lived in this area, and now, I'm fascinated. Check out www.whitewatervillage.org for more information and additional photos.
Was it creepy? Well, although a random tumbleweed or circling vulture would have really been the icing on the cake, I do remember, at some point, saying, "We . . . aregonnadie," and the overcast skies and subtle breeze definitely set the mood for Blair Witch. But was it fascinating? Without a doubt. With the history of the village now understood, we are even planning a return trip . . . but I think we'll bring Dad along next time.
ATTENDANCE: Almost half full
DURATION: One hour
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Six-Pack
Week One Hundred and Forty-Two - Saint John the Evangelist (Deer Park)
11:00 Sunday morning mass, St. John the Evangelist. Happy to report that half of the collegians are home for the summer. This past Sunday morning, with Tonto now in the passenger seat, I set out on Cross County Highway for the booming metropolis of . . . Deer Park. Destination: St. John the Evangelist Church.
We found St. John with no problem but only because of its sign. Take a gander at Ansel Adam's photo up yonder. Seriously, does this look like a Catholic church to you? And is it just me, or is there a jack o'lantern face at the top of that wall? Finding the front door would have been equally as challenging but was accomplished uneventfully via the "Follow the Regulars" rule.
Truthfully, being in the 'burbs and all, I didn't really expect a lot, so I wasn't disappointed in what I found at St. John. There was a lot of St. Vincent (Kenwood) here, courtesy of the stained glass windows of red, orange, and yellow hues flanking the altar. Wood paneled walls concealed an unusually large number of confessionals (What happens in Deer Park stays in Deer Park?), and a semi-circular arrangement of pews hearkened memories of any number of churches I've been to. Speaking of said pews, a quick interjection: I don't like open-backed pews, which these were. There's something too . . . "park bench" about them, something too . . . "tent revival."
Music was a mixed blessing. Two young girls "led" the singing, although their whispered vocals didn't really get 'r done. On the plus side, a trumpeter had me from the get-go. He was excellent and alone made the visit worthwhile . I was most troubled by the servers, two grown men. One of them was sporting gym shoes and bare legs, i.e. he was wearing shorts under his alb. A grown man. When sitting next to the servers' table, he leaned on it like he was sitting at the kitchen table, draped all over it. A grown man. Worst of all, while the celebrating priest was delivering his homily, this GROWN MAN, seated behind the priest in view of the entire church, took the opportunity to peruse the First Communion program that had been distributed to everyone. I. Couldn't. Believe it.
Speaking of First Communion, it's that time of year, so it was no surprise when my daughter and I walked into St. John's only to find just that - a small group, four girls and two boys, dressed to the nines, ready to receive Jesus for the first time. They were put through their paces via a steady stream of somewhat painful participation on their part - the reading of the petitions, the offertory procession, and an uncomfortable performance on the steps of the altar as they struggled to make it through all of the verses of "Let Us Be Bread." At the end of the mass, they also managed to combine their First Communion celebration with a mini-May Crowning as each child placed flowers before a statue of Mary. It was a nice gesture, albeit a rather comical one when the woman in charge brought out the statue - dangling it at arm's length, carrying it by the head. Come on, lady, it's the Blessed Mother.
There was a lot that was awkward at St. John, including several moments in the mass itself. After the Lamb of God, part of the congregation was kneeling, part was standing, and a few were sitting. The same thing happened during the distribution of communion. The final blessing included a prayer sung by the priest and repeated by a fraction of the congregation. Hands were raised, not in the "one-hand-palm-extended" style, but in a two-handed "don't-look-at-me-I-didn't-do-it" style. Granted, there may have been a number of guests in attendance for the First Communion celebration, visitors like myself who weren't familiar with the St. John routine. I'm just not sure there was a routine.
ATTENDANCE: About half full
DURATION: One hour and ten minutes
We found St. John with no problem but only because of its sign. Take a gander at Ansel Adam's photo up yonder. Seriously, does this look like a Catholic church to you? And is it just me, or is there a jack o'lantern face at the top of that wall? Finding the front door would have been equally as challenging but was accomplished uneventfully via the "Follow the Regulars" rule.
Truthfully, being in the 'burbs and all, I didn't really expect a lot, so I wasn't disappointed in what I found at St. John. There was a lot of St. Vincent (Kenwood) here, courtesy of the stained glass windows of red, orange, and yellow hues flanking the altar. Wood paneled walls concealed an unusually large number of confessionals (What happens in Deer Park stays in Deer Park?), and a semi-circular arrangement of pews hearkened memories of any number of churches I've been to. Speaking of said pews, a quick interjection: I don't like open-backed pews, which these were. There's something too . . . "park bench" about them, something too . . . "tent revival."
Music was a mixed blessing. Two young girls "led" the singing, although their whispered vocals didn't really get 'r done. On the plus side, a trumpeter had me from the get-go. He was excellent and alone made the visit worthwhile . I was most troubled by the servers, two grown men. One of them was sporting gym shoes and bare legs, i.e. he was wearing shorts under his alb. A grown man. When sitting next to the servers' table, he leaned on it like he was sitting at the kitchen table, draped all over it. A grown man. Worst of all, while the celebrating priest was delivering his homily, this GROWN MAN, seated behind the priest in view of the entire church, took the opportunity to peruse the First Communion program that had been distributed to everyone. I. Couldn't. Believe it.
Speaking of First Communion, it's that time of year, so it was no surprise when my daughter and I walked into St. John's only to find just that - a small group, four girls and two boys, dressed to the nines, ready to receive Jesus for the first time. They were put through their paces via a steady stream of somewhat painful participation on their part - the reading of the petitions, the offertory procession, and an uncomfortable performance on the steps of the altar as they struggled to make it through all of the verses of "Let Us Be Bread." At the end of the mass, they also managed to combine their First Communion celebration with a mini-May Crowning as each child placed flowers before a statue of Mary. It was a nice gesture, albeit a rather comical one when the woman in charge brought out the statue - dangling it at arm's length, carrying it by the head. Come on, lady, it's the Blessed Mother.
There was a lot that was awkward at St. John, including several moments in the mass itself. After the Lamb of God, part of the congregation was kneeling, part was standing, and a few were sitting. The same thing happened during the distribution of communion. The final blessing included a prayer sung by the priest and repeated by a fraction of the congregation. Hands were raised, not in the "one-hand-palm-extended" style, but in a two-handed "don't-look-at-me-I-didn't-do-it" style. Granted, there may have been a number of guests in attendance for the First Communion celebration, visitors like myself who weren't familiar with the St. John routine. I'm just not sure there was a routine.
ATTENDANCE: About half full
DURATION: One hour and ten minutes
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Well, Shoot . . .
Week One Hundred and Forty-One - In Which I Lose a Church
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Nevermore
Week One Hundred and Forty - Saint Thomas More
12:00 Sunday morning mass, St. Thomas More. Well, if nothing else, now I know where Withamsville is, and it's out there, that's for sure, on the east side of the east side of 275, but no worries - with nothing on the schedule, it was a good day for a drive.
Funny, I expected St. Thomas More to be a small church, not just because of its location but probably because I had never heard of it before. I was wrong. Although the parish was established in 1950, the current church, lovingly dubbed the "Cathedral in the Cornfield" at the time of its construction, was built in 1961. Although I wouldn't call it a cathedral, St. Thomas More is a much larger church than I expected, one clearly built for a growing congregation, but the early 60's? Oh no ...
I've seen this church - or various elements of it - in other churches built around the same time. A wooden ceiling rises to a point above the center aisle, a certain "mustard-toned" hue dominates everything, and there is brick, lots and lots of brick. Unfortunately, the heating registers that line the walls had given off enough exhaust over the years to leave those brick walls with quite a bit of dirt and grime. The stations of the cross are small and inconspicuous and oddly reminded me of the stations of the cross in St. Ann's Church in Groesbeck where I grew up. There are a lot of crosses at St. Thomas More - crosses built into the brick walls, crosses in the linoleum tiles, crosses on the lights, crosses here, crosses there, crosses crosses everywhere. From a distance, the altar looked dated, but I have to admit, that I was more impressed with it as I approached to receive communion. It was much prettier up close. So there is that.
Today, St. Thomas More is a parish of over 1500 families, and quite a few of them were at this mass. It was a mixed crowd - families, singles, older couples, including an older couple in front of us. They seemed nice and, just to clarify, they were very nice, but the woman had a notable steely-eyed glare that she used on quite a few occasions. When her husband did the classic "sit-kneel," she pulled it out, and I had to smile as he quietly assumed a full kneeling position. She took my hand in a death grip at the sign of peace.
A few other members of the congregation had my husband and I talking on the way home. We couldn't help but notice the pick-up truck parked in front of us with the large Nascar sticker on the back window. The Nascar sticker really wasn't the issue - the fairly obscene . . . no, the definitely obscene bumper sticker was. Not sure about the Christian values on that one. As we exited the church to return to our car after mass, another older gentleman was sitting in his car working a wad of tobacco out of a pouch (or would that be a "chaw of tobackey"?). Do people really still do that? I didn't see any cornfields close by, but I can't deny that the stereotypes were running rampant. It's out there, that's for sure.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: One hour
Funny, I expected St. Thomas More to be a small church, not just because of its location but probably because I had never heard of it before. I was wrong. Although the parish was established in 1950, the current church, lovingly dubbed the "Cathedral in the Cornfield" at the time of its construction, was built in 1961. Although I wouldn't call it a cathedral, St. Thomas More is a much larger church than I expected, one clearly built for a growing congregation, but the early 60's? Oh no ...
I've seen this church - or various elements of it - in other churches built around the same time. A wooden ceiling rises to a point above the center aisle, a certain "mustard-toned" hue dominates everything, and there is brick, lots and lots of brick. Unfortunately, the heating registers that line the walls had given off enough exhaust over the years to leave those brick walls with quite a bit of dirt and grime. The stations of the cross are small and inconspicuous and oddly reminded me of the stations of the cross in St. Ann's Church in Groesbeck where I grew up. There are a lot of crosses at St. Thomas More - crosses built into the brick walls, crosses in the linoleum tiles, crosses on the lights, crosses here, crosses there, crosses crosses everywhere. From a distance, the altar looked dated, but I have to admit, that I was more impressed with it as I approached to receive communion. It was much prettier up close. So there is that.
Today, St. Thomas More is a parish of over 1500 families, and quite a few of them were at this mass. It was a mixed crowd - families, singles, older couples, including an older couple in front of us. They seemed nice and, just to clarify, they were very nice, but the woman had a notable steely-eyed glare that she used on quite a few occasions. When her husband did the classic "sit-kneel," she pulled it out, and I had to smile as he quietly assumed a full kneeling position. She took my hand in a death grip at the sign of peace.
A few other members of the congregation had my husband and I talking on the way home. We couldn't help but notice the pick-up truck parked in front of us with the large Nascar sticker on the back window. The Nascar sticker really wasn't the issue - the fairly obscene . . . no, the definitely obscene bumper sticker was. Not sure about the Christian values on that one. As we exited the church to return to our car after mass, another older gentleman was sitting in his car working a wad of tobacco out of a pouch (or would that be a "chaw of tobackey"?). Do people really still do that? I didn't see any cornfields close by, but I can't deny that the stereotypes were running rampant. It's out there, that's for sure.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
DURATION: One hour
Monday, April 16, 2012
De Sales Corner
Week One Hundred and Thirty-Nine - Saint Francis de Sales (Walnut Hills)
11:00 Sunday morning mass, St. Francis de Sales. FINALLY, back on the trail! I had every intention of going to mass on Saturday afternoon, but a string of thunderstorms throughout the day had the dog stuck to me like glue. As a result, things were postponed until the next morning and ultimately included a change in venue from my original plan.
This week, my husband and I ended up in Walnut Hills at St. Francis de Sales Church. This is a good one. Built in 1878 with “gray hill limestone,” St. Francis church is a blend of “middle German and French Gothic” architecture. “Middle German” architecture. Really, must we be so condescending? I love these details . . . and I have no idea what any of them mean. But whatever they mean, the end result is reputedly one of the best examples of Gothic architecture in the city. Shows how much I know. In 1973, the church was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.
The church, including the organ, was completed at a cost of $200,000. Mind-boggling, isn’t it? The history of the church indicates a renovation in 1999. I don’t know what said renovation involved, but I’m happy to see that . . . well . . . I can’t see it. The interior of St. Francis is everything you would expect. A few details, including the color scheme, aren’t exactly to my taste, but it’s all there – the ornate decor, a soaring, ribbed ceiling, incredibly beautiful stained glass windows, and a spired, white marble altar that spans nearly the entire width of the sanctuary. The altar was a gift in 1887 from parishioners, Joseph and Agnes Klein. To recognize their generosity, statues of Saint Joseph and Saint Agnes flank the altar. I didn't actually see Saints Joseph and Agnes, but I do like the story - it definitely speaks to a different time. The stations of the cross are worth a trip alone. These things take the prize for the largest stations in any church I’ve been to, and not only are they HUGE, they’re beautiful. A comment was made during mass that the stations were “finished,” and an invitation was extended to take a look at them. I don’t know what the story is there, but the result is really something. Part painting, part sculpture. I’ve never seen anything like them and had a hard time taking my eyes off of them.
I particularly like the story of St. Francis’ bell, “Big Joe,” a bell we did hear toll several times during our visit. Big Joe got its nickname from Joseph Buddeke, a parishioner and the largest donor to the project. Built in 1895, the cost was between $12,000 and $15,000. The equivalent cost today would be roughly - wait for it - $600,000. Big Joe is the largest church bell in the United States as well as the largest free swinging bell ever poured in the country. (The Millenium Peace Bell in Newport, Kentucky, is larger but was cast in France.) It weighs 35,000 pounds and stands (hangs?) 7 feet tall and 9 feet in diameter. The clapper alone weighs 640 lbs. This is one big-ass bell. Pardon my French Gothic.
“Big Joe” occupies the entire main floor of the church’s 230-foot high stone steeple. History maintains that it took 14 horses to haul the bell up Gilbert Avenue to the church. From the church’s online history, you’ll find this dramatic account:
“It was rung for the first time in early January 1896. Witnesses said its E-flat peal could be heard throughout a 15-mile radius. It rattled nearby buildings and shattered windows in the neighborhood ... It was installed, it swung, and all of Walnut Hills nearly jumped out of its collective skin. The earth trembled, windows nearby broke from the concussion, and tiny bits of cement were seen falling from between the stones of the church tower."
E-flat peal. Kills me. Whether fact or fiction, after just that one ringing, the parish reportedly decided that Big Joe could never swing again. Since then, it has only been rung with a hammer from the outside of the bell. Another great story, but I can't help feeling kind of bad for Big Joe.
The church’s website boasts that St. Francis de Sales is known for its “warmth and welcoming spirit.” Other than the dreaded “meet and greet” at the beginning of mass, I can’t say I exactly felt an exorbitant outpouring of warmth and welcome, but there was definitely a relaxed and comfortable vibe here. The celebrating priest, a likeable man, seemed very casual about the whole affair, but in a good way. I found it interesting that, rather than taking a seat on the altar, he sat in the first pew with the congregation. Because the servers remained seated on the altar, I can’t say it was for a lack of chairs. Rather, I’m theorizing this was a gesture on Father’s part to include himself as part of the congregation, rather than opting for a special “reserved seat.” That’s my theory anyway, and I think it’s a good one, both in concept and in practice.
The neighborhood, although in the midst of a desperate stab at revitalization, is still sketchy at best, so I have to admit, I was surprised by the number of people at this mass. All was well though, and I wouldn’t hesitate to return. Mr. Wonderful, true to form, took me home via the “scenic route.” I swear, it must take him back to his urban city roots or something because he seems to derive some perverse pleasure in consistently choosing the most questionable driving routes. We drove down streets and through neighborhoods that are among the worst in the city. True, he had an ulterior motive, wanting to show me something specific, but seriously, did we have to take the Brush With Death Tour to get there? Next week, I'm thinking of heading out to the country where the most dangerous thing we might run into is a traffic jam at the local Creamy Whip.
ATTENDANCE: About half full
DURATION: One hour and five minutes
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Time Flies
Weeks One Hundred and Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven, and Thirty-Eight And Yes, You Read That Right
Never fear, good people - I’m back! As predicted, The Tour bypassed the month of March (okay, okay – and a bit of April). In that time, however, I was, first and foremost, able to thoroughly enjoy a series of spring breakers returning home from their respective higher institutions of learning. Ironically, I think it’s harder seeing them leave after the short visits than it was seeing them off to college the first time.
Never fear, good people - I’m back! As predicted, The Tour bypassed the month of March (okay, okay – and a bit of April). In that time, however, I was, first and foremost, able to thoroughly enjoy a series of spring breakers returning home from their respective higher institutions of learning. Ironically, I think it’s harder seeing them leave after the short visits than it was seeing them off to college the first time.
Because we weren’t going to be at full complement for Easter, we had our own Easter Sunday celebration a few weeks early. Hey, Easter changes its date on the calendar every year anyway, right? In spite of much initial resistance to my idea, I won out. The whole gang came home, and we enjoyed a day of absolutely beautiful weather, attended mass together, shared Easter baskets, and ate a delicious meal or two, making it one of our best Easters ever.
On the last weekend of March, I had every intention of visiting St. John the Evangelist in Deer Park . . . until I stepped out of the house to leave for mass. There, on our back walkway, stood a perfect Pembroke Welsh Corgi. No ID tags. Now, you have to understand a few things: First, I love animals. Second, I love dogs. Third, I adore corgis, so clearly, this was a win-win-win situation. Our house is well-known in the neighborhood as the Home for Unwanted, Lost, Orphaned, and Injured Animals. I’m sure there’s a “Safe Haven” sign somewhere on our house – one that only animals can see, thankfully. Cats, dogs, even a parakeet have made their way here, so I’m not complaining – finding a lost soul makes my day, but to find a lost corgi on my back step was beyond my wildest dreams. Any plans for mass went out the window, and before you knew it, this little guy was making himself at home in our living room, even helping himself to our own dog’s toys. Oh, of course, I knew I couldn’t keep him, and after a few hours and several dozen phone calls, I was able to reunite dog with owner . . . reluctantly – and I say that on behalf of my own sentiments as well as the dog’s welfare. Sigh. More recently, with the possibilities for our “real” Easter Sunday mass wide open, I opted out of the carnival atmosphere found on the home turf for the most sincere church I could remember, and I think I succeeded – St. Anthony Friary. As you may or may not recall, this wasn’t my first visit to St. Anthony (“St. Francis is my Hero,” October, 2010), and frankly, this week definitely wasn’t my last. I like this little church. The Franciscans run a clean, well-kept establishment, and, as mentioned in my previous post, it’s hard to ignore the fact that the individuals who attend mass here want to attend mass here. It makes a difference, and it’s nice.
It was SRO at St. Anthony on this Easter Sunday, but no one seemed to mind. Everyone seemed happy and polite, and the weather was ideal. It was close to perfect leaving mass, as the bells tolled the “good news” of Easter Sunday. Easter has always been my favorite holiday, and it’s moments like this that remind my why.
It was SRO at St. Anthony on this Easter Sunday, but no one seemed to mind. Everyone seemed happy and polite, and the weather was ideal. It was close to perfect leaving mass, as the bells tolled the “good news” of Easter Sunday. Easter has always been my favorite holiday, and it’s moments like this that remind my why.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Seriously?
Week One Hundred and Thirty-Two - In which I substitute an art exhibit for mass . . .
How is it even possible that I'm sick AGAIN. I haven't had a cold in years, and now, in a span of a few short weeks, I've become a virtual virus magnet. Shoot me. Just shoot me. And you can all thank me for not sharing my new-found viral wealth with anyone in church this weekend. Sigh.
In a desperate attempt to will myself well, however, I did make it to the College of Mt. St. Joseph before the closing of an exhibit there, a print exhibition of several reproduced pages from The Saint John's Bible, "the only handwritten and illuminated Bible commissioned by a Benedictine monastery since the advent of the printing press more than 500 years ago." I had heard about the exhibit earlier but only took an interest after hearing several glowing reviews from other visitors to the gallery. They were right. Crafted from all traditional materials - calfskin vellum, natural inks and handmade pigments, hand-cut feather quills, gold leaf, and more - the result is truly amazing. Over 1,100 pages long and over 165 pounds in weight, the Bible took 13 years to complete. Frankly, after seeing the exhibit, I would have expected much longer. This is a beautiful accomplishment. It really is, one that I'm still fascinated by. I'm so glad I hauled myself over there to see it. If you didn't have a chance to see the exhibit, check out www.saintjohnsbible.org.
In other news, this weekend begins the series of spring break arrivals and departures. Sure wish everyone was arriving and departing at the same time. Suffice it to say that The Tour might bypass March entirely. Who knows. For now, just pass me some of that amoxicillin . . .
In a desperate attempt to will myself well, however, I did make it to the College of Mt. St. Joseph before the closing of an exhibit there, a print exhibition of several reproduced pages from The Saint John's Bible, "the only handwritten and illuminated Bible commissioned by a Benedictine monastery since the advent of the printing press more than 500 years ago." I had heard about the exhibit earlier but only took an interest after hearing several glowing reviews from other visitors to the gallery. They were right. Crafted from all traditional materials - calfskin vellum, natural inks and handmade pigments, hand-cut feather quills, gold leaf, and more - the result is truly amazing. Over 1,100 pages long and over 165 pounds in weight, the Bible took 13 years to complete. Frankly, after seeing the exhibit, I would have expected much longer. This is a beautiful accomplishment. It really is, one that I'm still fascinated by. I'm so glad I hauled myself over there to see it. If you didn't have a chance to see the exhibit, check out www.saintjohnsbible.org.
In other news, this weekend begins the series of spring break arrivals and departures. Sure wish everyone was arriving and departing at the same time. Suffice it to say that The Tour might bypass March entirely. Who knows. For now, just pass me some of that amoxicillin . . .
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Gesundheit
Week One Hundred and Thirty-One - Saint Louis (Batesville)
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5:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Louis. The schedule was empty, the weather was clear, and the tank was full. Time for a road trip. Batesville isn't exactly around the corner, so I think this may be the westernmost edge of The Tour. It was a pleasant drive though, and the church was easy to locate - another small town landmark.
St. Louis Parish dates back to 1868. Today, it is one of the largest and most influential parishes in the Archdiocese of Indianapolis. There's a lot of history in-between there, and it would appear that most, if not all, of it is documented on the church's website. I'm sure it's fascinating if you want to take the time going through it. I didn't, but I couldn't resist skimming for highlights - and there were a lot of them. German was the spoken language in the church and school until 1887, when a gradual - and what was surely considered radical - conversion was made to English. Pot-bellied stoves were replaced with a furnace in 1894. I particularly liked this bit of information about the "sitz versteigerung" or "pew auction":
"A quaint custom that was retained during these years was the so-called "Sitz Versteigerung" or "Pew Auction." On the appointed day, usually right after Christmas, the church bells would be rung and the parishioners would gather to claim a seat or seats at a price. Certain places in church were more desirable, especially the middle aisle from the center on back Side aisle pews were lower on the scale. It was a matter of prestige to advance, if possible, from the side aisle to the middle aisle. One's standing in the community was measured by how much was bid to obtain .a certain seat. Rivalry could develop about holding on to your place or bettering it if possible. Spirited bidding often resulted, or someone with a bit of impishness in them could "run the price up" on a seat they did not want but which they knew someone else desired very much." (www.stlouis-batesville.org)
St. Louis Parish dates back to 1868. Today, it is one of the largest and most influential parishes in the Archdiocese of Indianapolis. There's a lot of history in-between there, and it would appear that most, if not all, of it is documented on the church's website. I'm sure it's fascinating if you want to take the time going through it. I didn't, but I couldn't resist skimming for highlights - and there were a lot of them. German was the spoken language in the church and school until 1887, when a gradual - and what was surely considered radical - conversion was made to English. Pot-bellied stoves were replaced with a furnace in 1894. I particularly liked this bit of information about the "sitz versteigerung" or "pew auction":
"A quaint custom that was retained during these years was the so-called "Sitz Versteigerung" or "Pew Auction." On the appointed day, usually right after Christmas, the church bells would be rung and the parishioners would gather to claim a seat or seats at a price. Certain places in church were more desirable, especially the middle aisle from the center on back Side aisle pews were lower on the scale. It was a matter of prestige to advance, if possible, from the side aisle to the middle aisle. One's standing in the community was measured by how much was bid to obtain .a certain seat. Rivalry could develop about holding on to your place or bettering it if possible. Spirited bidding often resulted, or someone with a bit of impishness in them could "run the price up" on a seat they did not want but which they knew someone else desired very much." (www.stlouis-batesville.org)
How can you not love that? I had never heard of such a custom, but it explains a lot about the brass numbers I've seen on pews so often, including this weekend, at St. Louis. What I didn't love was reading about the church renovation in 1962. You know this church had to be a looker in her day, so I found it sad to see the results of that "renovation" - a ceiling covered with acoustical tiles, walnut paneling lining the entire nave, concealed lighting. I like a church that looks like a church, not a family room.
Truth is, there really isn't a whole lot to look at at St. Louis. Things are pretty . . . beige . . . and boring. Thankfully, someone had the sense not to mess with the altar, however, because this one is a beauty. A soaring white and occasionally-gilded monster, it includes a number of statues fitted into small alcoves worked in among the spires. Among all the goings-on of the altar is also the tabernacle, a small white nondescript door. It's like a secret compartment. Interesting.
The house was full for this mass, but apparently singing doesn't run in the Hoosier blood. Granted, the two or three individuals leading the congregation didn't exactly whip the crowd into a frenzy - who knew "How Great Thou Art?" could be sung as a dirge - but it was deafeningly silent during the hymns, one might even say borderline embarrassing. The "choir" had such promise too in their nice blue robes. They were trying, so I'll give them credit for that. It just would have been nice if everyone else in this "large and influential" parish tried just as hard.
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Barnum and Bailey
Week One Hundred and Thirty - Saint Henry (Elsmere)
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Henry. First thing my husband says as we're leaving St. Henry's church? "Those kids behind us were SO BAD!" He had a point, a point I can't wait to elaborate on, but since this blog is called "So Many Churches . . .", I suppose a few words about the church are in order . . . although the whole visit was really overshadowed by the demons behind us. They really were SO BAD. Focus. Focus . . . God knows I couldn't focus IN CHURCH.
Deep breath.
Elsmere, Kentucky. Can't say I've ever been there. Seems nice enough, but I can't say I'll go back either, only because I don't foresee a reason to return, including a return visit to the local Catholic church, St. Henry. St. Henry seems to be quite the landmark in Elsmere, located curbside on Dixie Highway. You can't miss it. A decent-sized church, this one was built in 1936 to accomodate a growing congregation. The parish itself dates back to 1890, the history of which includes the ubiquitous church building that burned to the ground, this one, in 1899.
The exterior has a good look to it, but the interior is whole 'notha story. There's a lot of yellow here. Lemon yellow . . . an odd contrast to the purple painted around the windows. True, the purple nicely complements the the stained glass it surrounds, but add to that a large wall of deep salmon behind the altar, and, well, things get a little weird. This salmon-colored addition comprises the third wall of what my husband called "the box." The church has a nice domed sanctuary going for it, and, for some reason, this three-sided "box" was constructed right in the middle of it. The majority of the open space around the altar was lost. It's not attractive, and, as far as I could tell, although it does support a large crucifix, it serves no purpose. Not sure why the original walls didn't suffice. My husband didn't get it, and neither did I.
It was a good-sized crowd at this particular mass, and it became readily apparent that nearly everyone there knew everyone else. There was a lot of waving going on. Cute. I'm gonna go out on a limb, however, and say the celebrating priest wasn't a local. This young man, as he even mentioned in his homily, was from South India. His heavy accent was exotic enough to keep me mildly intrigued, but the additional syllable in every word also caused me to miss a lot of what he said. The big question though - how does a young man from South India wind up as a Catholic priest . . . in Elsmere, Kentucky?
Ok. Now then. I love kids. I really do. I highly recommend them. I have a few of my own. However, the kids in the pew behind us at this mass nearly sent me, my husband, and, I dare say, everyone around us over the edge. When the circus rolled in during the second reading, I immediately knew we were in trouble. Frankly, I don't even know what exactly was behind us. It started with a constant hum (and "hum" really seems too mild of a word) of whispers and giggles but quickly progressed to chatter and laughter. The movement was non-stop. One of the younger ones dropped a Hot Wheels toy on the floor TEN times. I counted. My husband later confessed that, had it fallen his way, he had plans to kick it to the other side of the church. I love him.
The hymnals were a constant source of entertainment; in fact, for some reason, judging by the outbursts of laughter, they were a RIOT. Who knew? When I knelt, my feet were kicked I-don't-know-how-many times. At one point, a spitting contest was brewing. Yes, you read that right. Spitting. Wish someone would have told me St. Henry had a splatter zone; I would have brought my rain slicker. Where were the parents, you ask? Oh, they were there, laughing and playing and talking. After communion, dad was engaged in a full-volume conversation with someone behind him that lasted until the end of mass.
Call me an old grump, but it really was ridiculous. This family got nothing out of the mass, and neither did those around them. I suppose sitting in the back of a church has its risks - "lively" children, being one of them, but this weekend's fiasco was inexcusable. Two words, people: Why. Bother.
DURATION: One hour
Monday, February 6, 2012
The Happiest Place on Earth
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Nine - No Place Like Home
Saturday morning - Make big breakfast.
Saturday afternoon - Make big lunch.
Saturday night - Make big dinner.
Sunday morning - Make big breakfast.
Yeah, the kids were home.
Monday, January 30, 2012
East Side West Side
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Eight - Resurrection (Price Hill)
4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Resurrection. This week's church visit was something of a milestone for The Tour. For one, I actually made it to mass this weekend, but more so, it completed my visits to all of the Catholic churches in Cincinnati's Saint Lawrence Deanery. For all practical purposes, that means absolutely nothing, but it does give one a sense of accomplishment. Unfortunately, finishing the Saint Lawrence leg at Resurrection Church in Price Hill was also about as anticlimactic as they come.
Resurrection Church is deceiving. The outside of the church looks quite new, prompting my husband to say just that: "What's this new church doing in the middle of Price Hill?" Well, while we were definitely in the middle of Price Hill (we arrived to find a Cincinnati policeman questioning someone in the church parking lot), there was nothing new about this church, except maybe the brick facade of the building. I still don't get it, and I can't find an explanation anywhere, but the first hint that this wasn't a new church came quickly - at the front doors. They've seen better days . . . and so has the rest of the church. The tiled floor is broken and stained. Paint is peeling. Water damage is evident. Looking up to the balcony after receiving communion, I noticed a large gouge in a wall. Not sure what happened there. Complicating matters, the decor - what little there is - is awkwardly dated. Scuffed wood paneling lines the walls. Lighting resembles . . . drum set high hats. And behind the altar is a floor to ceiling painting of Jesus, staff in hand, wearing a multi-colored caftan . . . to match the multi-colored wall surrounding him. Sigh.
I counted total attendance at no more than 40 individuals, several of whom served in various capacities during the mass - lector, eucharistic minister. Amazingly, I recognized one of those in attendance as a former parishioner of St. Ignatius. Small world. Music was . . . off-key . . . consistently. And the celebrating priest was . . . unique. I'll stop there.
While I like to root for the underdog, I have to wonder why a church like Resurrection is still operating. They even have a parish school, although I can't imagine what the student enrollment is. Saint William and Saint Lawrence are within walking distance of Resurrection, as is Holy Family Church, which lies the same distance on the west side of Glenway Avenue as Resurrection lies on the east side. Hmmm. Is that the issue? Is Glenway Avenue some unknown, unspoken "great divide" in Price Hill that I don't know about?
I think that's the problem - I don't know what's going on at Resurrection. Maybe if I did, my feelings would change, but for now, the whole experience was, to put it bluntly, unnerving, and as much as I hate to say it, I don't plan on returning any time soon. To be honest, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
ATTENDANCE: Almost non-existent
DURATION: 55 minutes
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Nope
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Seven - Are You Kidding Me?! . . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rog8ou-ZepE&ob=av2e
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rog8ou-ZepE&ob=av2e
Monday, January 16, 2012
At the Post
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Six - 99.44%
Well, at least, I'm healthy again. At least, healthier. Not 100%, but well enough to make it up the street this week to St. I's 4:30 Saturday afternoon mass. Truth is, I probably could have hopped on The Tour bus and made it farther, but an unscheduled trip home from one of the collegians threw me off. Apparently, every other parishioner had their schedules thrown off too for whatever reason because the mass was unusually crowded. Odd. Who are these people?
I'll never have any great affinity for St. I's Saturday afternoon liturgy, but truth be told, I'm feeling a strange attraction to the ol' stomping grounds these days. I'd like to blame it on the convenience of going to a church less than two minutes away, but honestly, I'm not sure that's it. Oh lord . . . this can't be happening . . .
Well, at least, I'm healthy again. At least, healthier. Not 100%, but well enough to make it up the street this week to St. I's 4:30 Saturday afternoon mass. Truth is, I probably could have hopped on The Tour bus and made it farther, but an unscheduled trip home from one of the collegians threw me off. Apparently, every other parishioner had their schedules thrown off too for whatever reason because the mass was unusually crowded. Odd. Who are these people?
I'll never have any great affinity for St. I's Saturday afternoon liturgy, but truth be told, I'm feeling a strange attraction to the ol' stomping grounds these days. I'd like to blame it on the convenience of going to a church less than two minutes away, but honestly, I'm not sure that's it. Oh lord . . . this can't be happening . . .
Monday, January 9, 2012
More of the Same. Don't Even Bother
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Five - See Previous Week
Maybe I'm allergic to 2012.
Maybe I'm allergic to 2012.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Happy (sniff) New (cough) Year (moan)
Week One Hundred and Twenty-Four - Not the Souvenir I Wanted
Sniff. Sniff. Cough. Hack. Sniff. *blow nose* Cough. Moan. Repeat.
Sniff. Sniff. Cough. Hack. Sniff. *blow nose* Cough. Moan. Repeat.
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