I don’t believe in God and I haven’t been to church to praise Him in years. The
last time I attended Mass was last month for Easter, at the behest of my
mother. All these Capital Letters and Proper Nouns. I really, really didn’t
want to go. I feel sacrilegious entering a church and partaking of its
services. I don’t feel this way because I’m a God-hater or devil-worshiper, but
because I feel that it isn’t fair to the people who put time and effort into
their religion. I feel like an imposter; a faker. But it made my
mom happy and actually, I really enjoy being in my little church.
Lafferty is a small town with a decently tight community. Though I no
longer regularly attend church services, I did really enjoy them when I went
and I liked the community projects and catechisms on Sundays. I love the
people who go there and even though I don’t always remember their names, I
recognize them in public and “the people who live in my town/go to my church.”
They’re good people. They’re nice and caring and though some of the
ladies gossip, I’m sure, they’re not uber-Christian holy rollers. I like them a
lot.
Even though I’ve been a non-believer (free, as I like to call it) for some
years now, I was still very comfortable in my church. I’ve been to some
other Catholic services since I stopped believing and though they are all
almost exactly the same, I was just the most comfortable in my small little
church. I knew all the words to all the prayers, knew in which order they
were spoken, knew the melodies to all the hymns, and knew the
“peace-be-with-you” ceremony wouldn’t be awkward or strange because I knew
everyone there.
I walked to the church from my house and listened to my Harry Potter audio book
on the way. When I got to Jordan Street, however, I turned it off. I
didn’t want my first sight of this beloved old church to have a Harry Potter
soundtrack. It was so beautiful outside. Walking up the hill was strange
because I couldn’t see the bell tower peaking over the houses. I glanced at the
sign that pointed newcomers on towards St. Mary’s church and realized sadly
that it would have to be taken down. There wouldn’t be a church at the end of
it’s arrow anymore.
It really was like a funeral. I was curious to see the church but I really
didn’t want to go. I knew it would be sad and I wasn’t sure I wanted to
see it. I really hate change no matter how much I want to move around the
furniture in my room or cut my hair, and I really didn’t want to think about
not seeing it from the hills on the other side of town and not hearing it’s
bell tower from my house during church services.
I knew I wouldn’t get to have my Last Moments in private because so many other
people would be driving and walking by to see. It was so, so sad when I walked
up. Although outwardly more of the church remained than was burned, the
entire roof and bell tower were now missing, with only thin, dead toothpicks
left of the corner supports. The top of it reminded me of a tiny burnt
forest. It seemed quiet and lifeless instead of happy and shining, as it
had seemed to me previously. The recently re-finished exterior was almost
unmarred. All of the doors were open, the beautiful stained glass windows
blown out. All but one, towards the front. I felt bad that I couldn’t
remember which it had been. Parts of the plaster were melted and hanging over
the top. Through some of the windows you could see the sky where the roof
had gone. Through others you could see only the roof where it had burned
away and parts of it had folded down into the church. I realized then that
I had forgotten there was the little upstairs area with the organ and extra
pews where the choir would sing. The organ wonld have burned up too, of
course.
I don’t know a whole lot about fires and
their aftermath and I’d never seen a big one put out. I walked around the
front of the church where someone had placed a small white statue of Jesus
amongst the soggy dirt and rubble spilled along the front stairs. I
stupidly wondered why there was debris so far away from the church when I realized
that I already knew the answer. Once my neighbor’s roof had been on fire
and I told my mom immediately, who called 911. I was terrified. The
fire department came and put it out in minutes. I remember them talking
later about the damage that the water had done and how they’d had to have it
cleaned up. Obviously the large amount of water used to put out the
flames would have flowed through the church. The door were probably
opened so that it could all flow into the street. So many other undamaged
things would have been ruined, then. I thought about the water flowing
down the stairs in the room off the altar, down into the basement area where
there was a full kitchen and seating areas where I used to have church lock-ins
with my friends.
I could smell the burned wood from the street. I walked up closer to the
yellow tape that completely surrounded the church. I heard one woman say
that the police said that the church would probably fall by morning.
Another agreed and said that it was creaking badly. I walked around
taking pictures of all angles of the church and eventually came upon some
burned paper lying dry on the grass. It was a St. Mary’s Church bulletin
that had floated out of the burning building. I briefly considered taking
it home with me but decided to leave it there on the ground. It was odd
and somehow perfect.
I walked up further to where there was a bit of a cement patio surrounding the
back door of the church, closest to the altar. Here I was hit with an
overwhelming urge to cry. It was like getting your turn at the casket
during a funeral. I really wanted to see the burned altar but at the same
time it seemed the hardest part. That was the heart of the church.
The Bible, the tabernacle, the lacquered cross bearing Jesus, the hand-painted
fresco on the back of the altar, the beautiful statue of the Madonna holding an
infant Jesus. All would be gone.
As I drew nearer I could smell it. Church incense. Of course the lot of
it would have burned up. All my life I wondered what they had used in the
incensor because I loved the smell. I once saw that it looked like little
pebbles. The kind that go on the bottom of fish tanks. I wanted to
pocket a handful of them and try to burn them in the back yard but that was
stealing.
I tried to peer in the door but all I could see was roofing. From every
angle into the church all that could be seen was the roof and upper walls, as
if they had folded in to cover the doors and windows and prevent anyone from
seeing anything too unpleasant. Here too there was a lot of soot and
debris that had washed right out of the open door.
I continued around the back of the church which looked almost untouched.
On the opposite side was the door at the top of the outside stairs that led up
to the room off of the right of the altar. I had never been up those
stairs. At the bottom of them was the side door that led into the
basement area where after church activities were held. I stood there for
a minute before I heard the sound of running water, like a waterfall. I
was immediately reminded of my neighbor’s house, and the water within.
The basement would have been untouched by the flames. The damage here was
from the torrent of water that would have rushed down the stairs behind the
altar and from the ceiling. I looked in to see those old tables and
chairs all set up with their neat white tablecloths, rain pouring down on
them. I could see water sloshing around on the floor and remembered when
we slept on that floor during our sleepovers. It really upset me.
Back around the front I looked in the front door of the basement, where I could
see the white tablecloths and objects floating around in the water. I
remembered that there was a little step down to get into the basement and that
it would hold three or four inches of water. I heard a muffled banging
noise and realized that it must be the loose bathroom door being manipulated by
the water.
On this corner of the church there was a lot of heavier debris. I saw
some childrens’ toys that must have washed out of the basement, as well as
calking guns and tools that the roofers must have been using right before the
roof caught fire. On the patio between the priest’s quarters and the
church there was a bench on which someone had placed a pack of Pall Malls and a
lighter.
Once I got all the way back to the front of the church I just stood there for a
while. My heart broke for tall the people that went there every week,
sometimes several nights a week. My heart broke for my grandmother, who
was there every chance she got. I felt so bad for all the times I wasn’t
around to move my car so she could get out and go to church. I knew she’d
have to find another church to attend and wondered if there were any close
enough to which she could even drive. I thought about all the times I’d
been in that church and how sad it was that I was only there now to see it
burned. I thought about my mom’s friend’s daughter who was supposed to
get married there, and about my catechism teacher who had been the fifth
generation of her family to attend, and her son the 6th. I
thought about the little old ladies who sang in the choir and how I had been
thinking for months that I should start going so I could sing. I
remembered the one time I did sing the responsorial psalm and how I had to go
in and practice, and how nervous I was.
The thing that really, really blows about this whole thing is that several
years ago there were rumors that the diocese planned to shut down our little
church. Father Pabin, the priest at the time, was running around to two
or three different churches to hold services because there just weren’t enough
priests, or money to pay them, to attend to the needs of all the small town
churches in the area. Whatever happened our small community church
managed to remain open for several more years, even though the diocese
constantly threatened to shut it down. I always thought of what a waste
it would be since the church was so small and beautiful, and almost a century
old. I wondered, too, how the fuck The Church could collect so much of
your fucking money and still not have enough to pay priests so that churches in
small, close communities like Lafferty could stay open.
In any case it’s just all sad and ironic that the church managed to remain open
all these years, only to be burned down. I think it was a cigarette from
one of the guys working on the roof but I have a sneaking suspicion that God,
in his Mysterious Way, said, “Well, if you want to keep threatening to close
this church, I’ll do it for you.”
-Z
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