I CATHOLIC

Wednesday 20 July 2005

When I was 12 years old I was an alter boy at Saint Roch's Church, Glen Iris. The first Parish Priest I served was a Father Murtor. He was a cantankerous fellow, very serious and not to be trifled with. There were several duties an alter boy had to perform. Lighting and extinguishing the candles, bringing the large wooden gospel book holder to the priest and then transporting, fetching and retrieving other sacred objects of the alter, all at a precise time. Being a nervous lad and in constant fear of the good Father, I was successful in stuffing up most or all of these duties. This was often displayed in full view of the dear brethren and the Presentation nuns. These purse-lipped Brides of Christ would prompt me from the front pews with harsh whispers of "Quickly! The book! The book!" Instead I sat stage right, like a stunned mullet, cold and half asleep at the 6.30am weekday Mass. The exasperated priest stormed over, ripped the gospel holder from my hands, then stumbled back to the alter. Another time, at a 10am morning mass, I was entrusted with a key to the presbytery. "Do you see this key, boy? Please do not lose it!"

You know what?

I lost it.

The maze of false pockets in my holy vestments were to blame. All Father Murtor could do was give me a look of quiet fury. He died twelve months later.

Father Hilton Deakin (now Bishop at Saint Pat's Cathedral, Melbourne) was the next Parish Priest of St Rochs. He was like a sunny day compared to the previous dark night. This priest was patient and kind. My nerves instantly settled. No more did I fiddle fart upon the altar like Mr Bean. My "altar ship" took off overnight, culminating with the altar boys picnic at Hanging Rock. I heard my mother mention the word "priesthood" signaling towards me, while chatting with an aged female parishioner who was wearing a hideous boxer hat. I beamed back towards them both, all saintly and devout.

Though, it was not to be. While walking with my mother back from church one cold winter's Sunday evening, I asked her,

"Mum, are we rich, or poor?"

"Poor"

Sadness dealt me a crushing blow. I was just starting to identify myself within the community. Now this!

Visions of the St Vincent De Paul van rolling up with boxes of can food terrified my days. I felt no wish to be part of anyone's sacrificial giving. Attendance at church was by force alone. The interior of the little Spanish-themed chapel became a dreary and insipid place, populated by grey drifting ghosts with doilies on their heads. The sermons sounded like so much groaning and moaning, it may as well have been the language of an alien from some distant planet. Not only that, I had Edmund Rice's Christian Brothers to contend with.

The Presentation nuns had warned me:

"If you think we are bad, wait until the Brothers get hold of you, they'll thrash you, by God they will thrash you, son"

My only real thrashing days were from grades four to grade six. I had the usual string of psychotic and deranged Brothers and lay teachers, equally violent as each other. I was only terrorized from forms one to four and already adept at dodging the most violent and craziest of them all.

Brother Moore.

He would virtually liquidate anyone who said or did the wrong thing on one of his "bad days". The biggest tell-tale sign of Brother Moore's mood was a set look and violent-red face. If a boy as so much breathed the wrong way, there would be a severe price to pay. This usually took the form of being flung around the room like a rag doll, then being last seen in mid-air sailing out the door head-first. Angry fathers of these poor unfortunates would turn up at the Brothers residence demanding an explanation of, "young Kevin's black eye" or, "the huge bruises on his arms and legs". Occasionally a "Dad" would take a more direct approach and punch seven types of living shit out of Brother Moore.

I left school very early on in the piece. "Got an apprenticeship". At eighteen I was diagnosed with a rare form of arthritis. It was at that stage of my life this ECONOMY CLASS carriage jumped the rails. I was angry and depressed, if there was a God, surely he would come down and help me now. Though no one, (including my parents) ever did. My faith left me for a very long time, too many memories of angry men in black robes, and an empty feeling when faced by the dead bloke on a wooden cross.

At thirty five I heard whispers of angels carried by sea winds from across the Aegean. My life took a momentous turn for the better. Self-prophecy in the form of a girl materialised before my eyes. Miracles do happen.

It was not the first time there had been a hint of divine intervention. Many times in my life I have felt an unseen hand that has pushed me out of harm's way.

Since the accident , I have reminisced on the many occassions when I faced mortal danger, each time the course of events could have been so much worse.

I have reflected on some of the harder lessons life has dealt me, and think of them impassively and without emotion. If I find myself dwelling, I quickly turn the page and move on.

My reassessment of faith and a return to the Catholic fold has given me belief. What ever that is, still confuses me and probably always will. When I go to church it's for peace and calm. The parish priest mentioned "having the burden lifted" I cannot think of anything more apt.

My current physical woes can best be described as a test of faith. St Peter wrote,

“These trials only test your faith to see whether or not it is strong and pure. Your faith is being tested as fire tests gold and purifies it, and your faith is far more precious to the Lord than pure gold; so if your faith remains strong after being tested, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor.”

So, as Nan Nagel, Edmund Rice and Cornelius Jansen sit on the front pew pointing accusingly at me..........

I will smile.

Turn,

and walk on down the road.

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