All Aboard!

I saw a piece on television featuring an Anglican priest standing outside a train Station on Ash Wednesday in Toronto.  Several people aware that it was the start of lent, approached him as he was holding ashes.  He was stunned by the traffic that came his way as he applied the grey dust on those that requested it. I later discovered it is known as “Ashes to Go.”  The fast food ritual for the soul. What an excellent idea, I thought, that this priest left the church and went to where the people were. With declining attendance in parishes, and people sourcing out alternative ways to satisfy that spiritual hunger, this was a progressive act.

Having been raised in a strict Catholic home, I have an unconventional take on faith. My dad didn’t practice religion. He had immunity by having my mom carry that load for the both of them. A miracle I could not summon. She had all the accessories and accoutrements. Rosaries scapulars, prayer books, crucifixes and religious iconology.  Going to bed at night required the same observance as going to mass. Nothing like instilling holy fear in a kid before bed followed by “sleep well.”  

I attended what use to be St. Peter’s school in the early sixties.  It had an army of nuns and schoolyards segregated by gender. True to the faith, even in junior grades, fun was considered a sin.

The nuns were something else with a skill set that you might find in a martial arts film rather than a school. They used their rosaries like they were some form of ninja warrior beads.  You could be standing in the furthest corner of the classroom, and they would whip those beads across the room with such skilled precision and force it was like they were auditioning for a Chuck Norris film.  Next thing you know you’re flat on the ground semi-conscious wondering what happened.  When what looks like a black spinnaker hovers over you.  A pointer aimed at your heart like a sawed-off shotgun, in the shadow of a religious Cornette. Leather biker jackets with skulls on the back was more fitting attire and better aligned to their actions. 

Sister Bernadette (not her real name) was my nemesis.  Linda Blair in full out demonic possession was kinder and gentler than Sister Bernadette and had more neck flexibility.   She was ridiculously mean, hardened and looked like Charles Bronson on a bad day. I’ll bet money underneath her religious Cornette, and black dress was combat gear. She was the perfect James Bond adversary.  So strict and still was her classroom you could hear a fly fart.  She put the fear of God in all of us.  I’m sure she put the fear of God in God.  She often spoke about the pledge the sisters made to be wed to God and the church.  Familiar with all of them, I wasn’t keen on meeting the rest of the family.  

She seated her favourite kids at the front of the class and those she openly despised at the back. Common practice in those days. It pleased me that I sat in the furthest back corner.  The vantage point provided at least a minuscule opportunity for horseplay.  Our entire back row was filled with miniature delinquents better suited to be cast in the Disney version of ‘To Sir, With Love.’  We were every bit as tough as the seniors who attended the innercity tech institute across the street even though we were only seven years old.

I don’t know what the school budget was back then, but they had to be flush with cash because we went through pointers every other day as Sister Bernadette, smashed the shit out them.  Each room was equipped with one as well as a yardstick, strap, which I knew too well, and an abundance of soap to wash out our mouths.  Not to mention the handheld school bell the nuns rang to signify the end of recess and occasionally deployed as a weapon upside one’s head.   How they missed the waterboarding, I’ll never know. The strap was as pedestrian as the chalk.  The entire environment was counter-intuitive to raising compassionate and loving children. Surrounded by taboos and everything desirable being off limits, unbeknownst to us, we were being groomed for sex, drugs and rock’n roll.  It was a religious war zone given birth in faith and rooted in shame, guilt, and fear. I’m sure they operated with a different version of the Bible than the rest of us. Fortunately, our resilience transcended the negatives.  We became masterful in laughter and comedy.  There was way too much fodder to indulge in as we became adept in the art of puncturing sacred cows. Our detachment from the sisters necessary to discover who we were. 

Masterful in dodging corporal punishment, it gave us ‘game.’  We also questioned our faith despite the fact that we stared each day at a crucifix so large that only a construction crew with a crane could have hung it up.

A weekly confession was mandatory as a child.  You had to learn to commit a crime, so you had creative ammunition for forgiveness. The irony slays me to this day.  Petty theft was common for some but profanity always won for me.  With a litany of words that would make George Carlin blush, it covered me for at least a couple of months for dispensation until I had to repeat the entire oratorio once again. With English as a second language, for so many kids in our downtown neighbourhood, the priest was particularly accommodating. It was the most consistent violation with the least amount of penance, so we used it. 

Sundays had me in my best.  White gloves, a hat with a pinching elastic chin band and a dress with a starched lace collar that was itchier than the fleas of a thousand camels. I was resentful my dad was at home enjoying his coffee and newspaper.  I had a little purse filled with a hanky, a prayer book, a rosary, and coins to buy candles to light for dead people I didn’t even know.  Anything left over went towards the collection basket.  Unique round hampers overflowing with money that I imagined could have been better spent on Lola’s, candy and chips. I sat through high masses at Easter and Christmas entirely recited in Latin. Kill me now. I will never get that time back.  Over fifty years later and I still recall those ceremonies feeling like they lasted the entire week of creation.  

What have I learned after my stern religious upbringing?  That I’m a C&E church goer – Christmas and Easter. Religious institutions do not have the monopoly on love, or own, what Led Zeppelin calls the “Stairway to Heaven.” No one does.  If someone wants to have a meditative practice outside the church that brings them joy, peace, and love, go for it. I’ll get my blessings anywhere I can. If I happened to have been at the station where the priest was handing out ashes, and he ran out with only a black sharpie in hand, I’d take it. I’ll be the first to admit that I find comfort in rituals because it brings people together and for me, that is the meaning of life.  My belief system is rooted in love and laughter. That’s pure joy for me, and no one is adverse to either.  

We’re currently running a massive deficit of peace on this planet.  Meditation and prayers far exceed what some religious organizations provide, and certainly exceed what big pharma might be peddling to ease one’s pain.  People want the real deal, not the illusion. They are looking for something that resonates, inspires and provides skills to endure the difficult times. Sitting in nature, meditating, praying, painting and being in gratitude, all have aspects of introspection in them.  

Organized religion for me has missed the train on what I believe they are supposed to be about, especially at this time in our existence. Out-of-date belief systems, enveloped in judgment created during antiquated times that encourage separation are not in line with serving the journeys that exist today for so many of us. We need to create a practice for the greater good of humanity.  This Anglican priest was spot on to be where he was.  He and his ashes were on the right train.  Time for the others in faith-based organizations to get on board.

2 thoughts on “All Aboard!

  1. Ailsa says:

    Catholicism, ah, yes…mmmm

    Met my first Catholic when we moved next door to a family with a girl my age. She was very strange….dressed like some miniature bride once a week with the shiniest shoes, lace around her anklet socks and lace around her white gloves. A while later I started helping my big brother with his paper route and that took me to the Catholic School. A nasty person in starched white and black clothes, covered from head to toe and frightening answered the door when we had to ask for payment. This apparition always refused to pay for the paper and would throw the empty payment envelope at us and say in a very stern voice that this was a holy place and shouldn’t be asked for money. Eventually, my Mum came with us. When the nun opened the door, it was like sparks flew, in hindsight, I realize the nun could tell my Mother wasn’t scared of her. The nun humphed a lot and shook her head but eventually found some coins. Every week we had to do the same thing and the nun would refuse to pay. For that year, my Mum would come with us every few weeks. She would stand at the road, close enough for the nun to see that we got paid.
    Later in high school, I experimented with many different religions, including Catholic. I didn’t get very far into it. I didn’t get why females were lesser than males and why if you muttered a bunch of phrases and names you would be “unguilty” of something. The religion was a giant machine that took riches from people in exchange for protecting them from the unknown. There were other rituals far less harmful that could supply the comfort and need for rhythm in life.
    I realize now that some feel the need to speak of things they are ashamed of and be listened to and forgiven. Some also need the structure and strictness to keep their lives in check. For many, obeisance to a higher power provides a meaning and a shield against death. Religion and even organized religion have noble purposes but historically they are used to enslave and are excuses for war and cruelty.
    Not a fan of organized religion. Love the music at Christmas Mass though!

  2. Julie Cork says:

    This post was brilliant! I remember the nuns too – were there any happy ones?
    Loved the look back – and remembering some of my own moments!

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