Stealing from Jesus

Stealing from Jesus felt guilty. But I wanted the ice cream, and I wanted the candy, and I wanted Ralph to like me.

And « more than all of that, I wanted to not get caught. I slid the quarter across the counter as I had for the past several Sunday mornings, and I accepted my hot fudge sundae in return. It was not a fair trade—my soul for a few ounces of sweetened, frozen milk. The money was stolen and, to make it an even bigger sin, I’d stolen it from Jesus himself.

I was so worried about offending God and Jesus—not to mention that I was terrified of my mother finding out—that somehow the ice cream didn’t taste very good. I was eight years old. I’’d recently moved to a new town, and Ralph was the only friend I had. In fact, there had been many recent changes in my life.

My parents had divorced, and my mother had dragged me and my four year-old sister, Katie, back to Pennsylvania from the only home we’d known in sunny southern California. Then, just as we were settling in to our new lives, she remarried and moved us again.

It was only a thirty-mile distance, but to me it seemed like a different universe. In less than two years, I’d gone from a trailer 139 140 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD park in Long Beach to my grandparents’ suburban Pitts- burgh home to a small Mayberry-like western Pennsyl- vania town. I’d attended three schools in two grades, and I felt very much alone. To the chagrin of my jealous little sister, I “got” to attend catechism every Saturday morning in our new parish.

My mother was a devout Catholic, and we never missed a Sunday service, either. Her new husband was a lapsed Catholic, and he had no interest in attending _ with us. My mother would walk Katie and me from our house to Mass every Sunday. She was pregnant with my second sister, Alice, and making the walk became more difficult for her with every passing week.

She was a small woman and Alice was a big baby. By the time school let out for the summer, Mom was so big (and uncomfortable) that she could no longer walk to church. I didn’t mind at all; I thought I’d get the sum- mer off, but my mother was determined that I’d get my spiritual guidance without her.

After Mass one Sunday, my mother talked to. Father Brian about her expected absences from services and plans for the soon-to-be-born baby’s baptism. Father Brian asked who would be bringing Katie and me to Mass when my mother had to stay home.

Mom told him that there was no one available, that she was afraid that we’d have to miss services as well. LITTLE CHERUBS AND TEENS 141 “Benny is a big boy now, Mrs. Snow. He can walk by himself,” was the priest’s simple solution.

Mom was uncertain, but then Father Brian sealed the deal by reminding her that I was already walking to catechism by myself every Saturday. “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “we’ll keep a special eye on him.”

And thus my fate was sealed. I’d have to go to Mass every Sunday morning while my snotty little sister got to stay home and play with friends. After trying to figure out every possible way I could change my fate, I finally gave up and resigned myself to being a good Catholic boy.

But fate, in the form of Ralph, intervened. Ralph was a rough-and-tumble kid who lived on top of the hill above the church. I’d seen him at school, but it was at catechism where we became friends.

At Holy Fam- ily Church, catechism was held in a small room in the basement. The only window, at the top of the wall just under the ceiling, was at street level. The room was oppressively hot, and the nun was oppressively strict. I hated going to catechism.

There are too many fun things for eight-year-old boys to do on summer Sat- urday mornings. Being glowered at by a cranky nun didn’t even begin make it onto my list of fun things to do over summer vacation. And it turned out that I had a kindred spirit in Ralph. Like me, Ralph was a smart-alecky, fun-loving boy.

Neither of us could sit still during the instruction, and the exasperated nun was always sending us to Father Brian to be “straightened out.” For an eight-year-old boy, being sent to the priest was as frightening as being sent to the principal’s office in regular school. She may as well have threatened us with the penitentiary. We heeded the threats at first, but, after repeated warn- ings resulted in no punishment, we began to ignore them.

Eventually though, Sister Catherine tired of our shenanigans and sent us to the priest. It turned out that _we didn’t have to fear Father Brian. The kindly priest was gentle with us, and, instead of punishing us, he tried to appeal to our better natures. He didn’t yell at us, or threaten us, or punish as good Sister did.

Father Brian didn’t use a ruler, and he didn’t make us write an apology hundreds of times. He spoke to us kindly about responsibility, and manners, and polite behavior. He was sympathetic. After all, he’d been an eight-year- old boy one summer, too!

He kept us in line for a while, but neither Ralph nor I could resist misbehaving for the scowling nun, and eventually we exhausted Father Brian’s patience. After one particularly trying incident, Father Brian resorted to parental involvement.

He gave us notes to take to our parents, and he admonished us to not return to catechism or Mass until he’d heard from our parents. I was terrified. My mother was strict and my new step- father was unforgiving. If they knew I’d been misbe- LITTLE.CHERUBS AND TEENS 143 having in church, my summer would be ruined—they’d punish me for weeks!

I left the rectory on the verge of tears. Ralph, though, was completely unaffected by the dilemma. He skipped across the parking lot, laughing and whistling. He was acting as if Father Brian had given us letters of commendation to take home.

When he noticed that I was near tears, Ralph asked me what was wrong. “They’re gonna kill me,” was all I could choke out. “Don’t worry, Pal, they’re not even gonna know,” and with that, Ralph opened the sealed envelope and began to read the letter out loud. “Oh, my old man’s never gonna see this,“ he told me as he ripped up the letter, throwing it into the storm drain.

Before I could protest, Ralph plucked my letter from my hands and deposited it in the storm drain with his. Then he told me his plan: he and I would meet at the bottom of the hill from the church, then we’d kill time until Mass let out and walk home as if we’d been at the service.

Every Sunday morning Ralph and I would meet at the corner of East Main Street and Second Street, but, instead of walking up the hill to church, we’d walk down the hill to the Five and Dime. The best solution we could find for the collection plate money that our mothers gave us every week was to spend it! So Ralph and I began skipping church. We’d eat ice cream sundaes and penny candy, and we’d walk down to the bridge to throw rocks into the Youghiogheny River while we told each other that we weren’t afraid of being caught.

Around 11:45 am we’d amble back up the hill to wait for the crowd—the people leaving the 10:45 am Mass at Holy Family Catholic Church— the Mass Ralph and I were supposed to be attending— the Mass both of our parents thought we were attending. Ralph and I would bid each other farewell, and I’d walk up the hill alone and prepare myself for my moth- er’s inevitable questions. How was Mass? Fine, Ma.

“What did the Father talk about today? Not to sin, Ma. As a last resort I would pretend that I didn’t understand the sermon. I was, after all, only eight years old.

But I managed to pull it off for the whole summer. Labor Day came and went, and Ralph and I went back to school. We only saw each other occasionally at recess and on Sunday mornings. I began to relax.

Ice cream and penny candy became the norm. I no longer wor- ried about getting caught. I hadn’t factored Alice’s baptism into my plan. In late September, my parents took little Alice to the church to arrange it.

At the end of their meeting, Father Brian asked, “So I guess you decided not to send Benny back to church until you returned?” I was busted. I did get punished, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be.

In the end I was given a choice: I could go to church on Sundays, or I could stay home—it was entirely up to me. I chose to stay home and play—what eight-year-old wouldn’t? And I was happy until somewhere around Thanksgiving. With every passing Sunday, I’d think about what I was miss- ing.

By mid-December I was back at Mass—volunitarily! Forty years later, I’m still attending Mass every Sun- day.

What I didn’t realize when I was eight years old (and stealing the collection money) was that I was stealing from God—stealing opportunities to help oth- ers less fortunate than myself. Believe me, now that I’m adding to the collection basket, ice cream sundaes and penny candy taste much better!