To be called to serve Mass for Monseigneur was an honor that, on Sundays, usually went to the older altar boys. But noon Mass in the summer gave the younger kids a shot. The pastor was an awe-inspiring figure of authority and gravitas in our parish. He rarely interacted with school kids, except once a semester when he reviewed and passed out report cards, giving a short verbal jolt of approval or disapproval to each child. A short man, his power emanated from his exalted age (near seventy), his cool reserve and his habit of waltzing without warning into our classroom. With time and particle, some men learn to project their presence. Some men never master the art. But Monseigneur was born with it. His augustness frightened us slightly when we served for him, putting us on our very best behavior. Our prayer responses were timely and well-enunciated, our genuflections and liturgical movements precise and economical.
Sad story and insightful. I’d not thought of it that way. Would that all men of the cloth had resigned themselves to such small and, in the scheme of things inconsequential satisfactions. I fear that many were unable. Thank you for sharing a personal and sympathetic perspective. It all seems so foreign to a Protestant-raised naïf like myself.
Poignant, beautifully written and compassionate.
Oh Jean, What a gorgeous, powerful and sad story, well told!
Sad story and insightful. I’d not thought of it that way. Would that all men of the cloth had resigned themselves to such small and, in the scheme of things inconsequential satisfactions. I fear that many were unable. Thank you for sharing a personal and sympathetic perspective. It all seems so foreign to a Protestant-raised naïf like myself.