Going Home

I believe it was Thomas Wolfe who warned You can't go home again. Thomas Wolfe was right. Once we leave that proverbial nest, it's never the same when coming back.  But we still try, don't we?  My own most recent attempt was last week-end, a trip to my old parish church.  I attended Christ the King until I moved out of state a few years after I married.  So many important life events were celebrated in that little church, so it's no wonder that I have longed for many years to visit it once again.  When I was growing up, my parents were always heavily invested in their faith.  Missing mass was never an option, even in bad weather or tough times.  When the church burned and mass was moved to a nearby mission church, we traveled the extra 15 miles each way, even though the mission church had no heat and snow was on the ground for most of that winter.  Rosary rallies, Holy Name Society, spaghetti suppers, Altar Society, choir practice, church picnic, CYO, Bible school, baptisms, funerals, weddings.  The Church had us covered--spiritually, physically, and intellectually.  And we were always ready to give back.  Mom sewed curtains, drove us to CYO, prepared meals, and taught CCD classes.  She did it all while taking excellent care of four growing and demanding daughters. Dad's job was to raise money for projects, set up chairs and tables for all celebrations, organize the Church picnic, pass out the bags of fruits, nuts, and candy to all the kids at Christmas, take up the collection at mass, and do just about any other job that he was asked to do.  Their friends had surnames like Zando and Kappa, second generation immigrants from Europe who had originally come to work in the coal mines or in other industry.  We learned the old ways--no meat on Friday, fasting before Communion, and prayers on hard, wooden kneelers.  We prayed the rosary and chanted Latin verses that we didn't understand.  When I left that small Catholic community in the early 1970s, there were two Sunday masses and one mass on Saturday.  Almost 40 years later, there is one priest shared by four parishes.  One mass is celebrated on Sunday for  fewer than 30 faithful, and there is serious talk of closing Christ the King permanently.  At one time, the Church fed us, consoled us, and educated us.  Now there is the distinct possibility that the little church will disappear completely.  Its influence, its high moral standards, its beacon of hope.  All will pass away.  Like burned votive candles in an empty church.