Ash Wednesday Irreverence

It seems I'm quite lost this liturgical year without a church to consider myself in charge of.

No matter.

One more thing to love about these months I'm spending at home in St. Petersburg, Florida: the proximity of St. Jude's Cathedral, an enormous and ornate locus of Catholicism, whence originate the daily Masses that are broadcast on local radio. The place reminds me of VU's Chapel of the Resurrection for two reasons -- similarities both architectural and liturgical, each of them quaint, neither of them prepared to lend themselves to quick summary.

I attended Mass at St. Jude's today to get smudged, just like I would have done if I were back in Valparaiso, except that I rode my bike around midday through balmy weather to get there, as opposed to trudging across campus, icy wind under the collar, just after sunrise. The readings, though, were just as I would have heard them in Valpo -- complete with a portion of Joel that inspired a truly delightful Chapel drama last year about a Dangerous Dan, Adventure Man action figure and just what we give up for Lent and why.

Maybe it was because I started thinking of Valpo that I queued for communion without even thinking. Other times I've worshipped at St. Jude's I've hung back, uncertain. But it's not like they card there, as it turns out. I approached the woman with paten and wafers, and crossed myself as she ministered to the person in front of me -- ending with simultaneously stepping forward and cupping hands together to receive the host. All was going well, but she didn't catch the expertly executed subtlety, and went to feed me directly. I bit her (by accident, not retaliation), and she apologized.

It all reminded me of a passage early in Colm Toibin's memoir The Sign of the Cross: Travels in Catholic Europe, where he describes the cathedral in his own home town:

"I was an altar boy there and I accompanied the priest with a patten as he gave out communion to the faithful. And thus I got to see everyone's tongue at close range. Some stuck it out with great force as though it was a leather strap; others were timid about sticking it out as though it was an intimate part of their body which they preferred to keep hidden... Some people had trouble keeping their tongue stuck out, despite their best intentions, and would draw it back in, as though someone was going to commit some offence against it, and the priest would stand and wait until it ventured out again. And I would stand there too, watching."