The Saints Come Marching In

I've always felt a sign of a healthy marriage is robust theological debate.

My wife and I are both Catholic...we're on the same team, which makes debating relatively unoffensive, but nonetheless we can often find areas of disagreement within our own faith. It's fun. We both seem to enjoy it.

One such area of debate is prayer. Laurie grew up on priveleged (and expensive) Catholic schooling, so she is well versed in the concept of praying to Patron Saints. It doesn't matter the problem, she knows she is always one Google search away from finding the proper prayer channel. An engine malfunction indicator light on the car dashboard? No problem, just Google the Patron Saint of Automobiles and instantly prayers can be expedited for a speedy, uncostly repair job. Turns out it was just a loose gas cap...$8.99 at Auto Zone. A big math test for our math-challenged oldest son? No problem, just Google the Patron Saint of Students (Thomas Aquinas) and instantly she knows someone is looking out for him, filling his brain with math knowledge. He got an 88 on the test, thanks Tom! Can't find the car keys? St. Anthony will turn your house inside out to find them. And when Google fails to find a specific patron Saint, there's always the fallback, Saint Jude, the Patron Saint of Lost Causes and Hopeless Cases. Laurie has abused poor Saint Jude over the years. He must roll his eyes anytime he gets a call from my wife, and whisper to the other Saints, "Hmmm...looks like yet another Lost Cause for the Galucki family...BIG surprise!". Some people think Laurie's frequent calling upon Saint Jude inspired the Beatles classic hit, "Hey Jude". It didn't...Laurie was 3 months old when that song came out. Fortunately the Saints have not unionized yet, otherwise their rates would be off the charts, considering weekends, holidays and time-and-a-half. Of course, Laurie doesn't limit herself to merely reaching out to the Saints. She calls on Mary for the big stuff, like when she needs nice weather for a big event, often hanging a Rosary in a tree outside. Our non-Catholic friends think we're crazy. We find ourselves constantly explaining ourselves.

Whereas I grew up on secular (and cheap) public schooling, so my prayer philoshophy is less complicated. I've never been comfortable with the idea of bothering the Saints with all my petty problems. I've always felt that as long as I have a roof over my head, food for my family, and good health...I really don't have anything to pray for. It's not that I don't think my prayers would be answered, it's more about the fact that I'm a guy, and guys don't like asking for help...just like we don't like asking for directions. It's in our DNA. And besides that, it gets confusing. When do you call on the Saints versus, you know, The Big Cheese, Mr. Head Honcho? Where does Mary fall into all this? If you're praying for someone to have a safe trip, is it better to call on St. Christopher, Patron Saint of Travelers, or go directly to God? Would God feel slighted if you didn't go directly to the top? Would he wonder, "What Am I, Chopped Liver?" Is there some sort of Prayer Quota? If it's exceeded, what happens? The confusion of it all can be discouraging.

And then last weekend the Saints won the Super Bowl. Just when I was about to give up on the whole "praying to the Saints" thing, my faith was restored. If the Saints can do that for New Orleans, what CAN"T they do for the rest of us? Now I'm back on the Saints bandwagon. Since I'm travelling this weekend and will be away from my wife on that famous Hallmark holiday, I guess my next visit is with St. Valentine. And if that doesn't work out well for me, next month I'll probably raise a toast to St. Patrick!

Apostles of the Modern Age

I'm a believer that every married couple should have a "Band". For me and Laurie it's U2. I have personal favorite bands...the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Springsteen; and Laurie has her own favorites...Bon Jovi, Loverboy, Honeymoon Suite (snicker, snicker). But when we combine our marital forces, our #1 Band is unquestionably U2. They were there when we first fell in love, and they've seen us through the good and the bad ever since.

Last night, amongst 70,000 uninvited guests, we renewed our communal relationship with Bono, The Edge, Adam and Larry. It was, as it always seems to be, an uplifting experience for the six of us. Bono poured out his soul to us, while also informing us of the latest global injustice we need to be aware of. When it comes to Bono, I've always felt he has complete liberty to preach to me about whatever he wants. I trust his research, I trust his judgement, and I believe in his cause. There are very few modern men I would nominate for Sainthood, but Bono stands near the top of that list. If Jesus had revealed Himself to us as a rock star as opposed to a carpenter, Bono is who he would look like. The guy simply never allows his conscience to rest. If he sees something wrong with the world, no matter the scale, he takes it out on tour with the band and works tirelessly to address it. And he doesn't just sing about it. When U2 is not touring, Bono spends his free time meeting with US Presidents and begging for more aid to the global needy; visiting and studying poverty-stricken African nations; and influencing powerful men and women who can make a difference. It can be argued that Bono and U2 have done more to raise the Global conscience and awareness level than any group of people since the Apostles. The only difference, instead of speaking in tongues, they speak in Rock n' Roll. It is for all these reasons I've always felt purchasing a ticket to a U2 concert should be a charitable tax write-off. In spending $100 for a ticket, I'm basically telling Bono, "Here's my money. This is my support for you to help you keep doing what you're doing. Feed the hungry. Give medicine to the sick. Expose the tyrants. Save the planet. I support you wholeheartedly. Just sing me a couple songs before you leave".

The concert itself was as intimate as a concert can be when played in front of 70,000 people in a monstrosity of a dome. The circular stage consisted of bridges and tunnels and sidestreets and alleyways to help connect Bono to more people than ever before possible. And hovering over the stage on four legs was a menacing beast of machinery with brilliant lights for its eyes, massive sub-woofers for its mouth, and a dangling, expandable projection screen capable of stretching all the way down from the belly of the beast to the stage itself. Like most U2 concerts, the "show" was as good as, if not better than, the concert itself. But this is by design. While bombarding our senses with searing guitars and a barrage of visual eye candy, Bono's lyrics always manage to counter-balance the experience with poignant intimacy. In their classic hymn "One", Bono reminds us that "Love is the Temple, Love the Higher Law", and little by little the grandeur of the spectacle was reduced. Early in the show, Bono claimed they built the alien mothership stage to help them get closer to their people. But he boldly predicted by the end of the show all that would be left standing would be U2 and me. And you know what? He was right. After two-plus hours of spiritual cleansing through songs like "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For", "Where the Streets Have No Name", "With Or Without You", "Walk On", and "Beautiful Day", U2 made good on Bono's promise. Miraculously the menacing beast was destroyed while Bono fed the masses.

Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, but for me it also reminds me of a person from my past. The name says it all. Augie Gerwitz. He looked and acted just like his name sounds. Picture a perpetual 66 year old, chain-smoking, used-car salesman from Buffalo, with a mixture of black and gray curly or greased-back hair and one lazy (or glass?) eye, which was never in sync with the other. That’s Augie, the man who replaced my Grandfather I never knew. Grandpa died in late ’67 and Grandma remarried in ’72.
Augie was a good enough man...minus the short temper, the Playboy calendars which graced Grandma’s bedroom walls, and his devastating ability to tickle me and my brothers till we coughed blood. Everybody has a relative, near or distant, who simply cannot converse with, relate to, or otherwise understand small children; and these are the likely relatives who try to supplant conversation and relationship building with good, old-fashioned tickling. When it comes to tickling, there are those who have mastered the art and know precisely when to pull back and enjoy the moment, and there are those who push the tickling envelope and inevitably go too far. Augie was such a man. To this day I can still feel his vice-like grip on my side or my thigh, initially causing laughter, yes, but finally causing tremendous discomfort and screaming. Augie lacked the finesse to be an excellent tickler, never fully understanding that brute force and tickling do not go hand in hand.
Visits from Grandma and Augie started with the usual warm pleasantries, but Augie was not a man for in-depth conversations, unless they occurred around a card table or bowling alley. And even then they barely qualified as conversation, usually just boisterous retorts of disagreement. Without a card game breaking out, he would make his way to the couch by the TV and then the sinister game for me and my brothers would begin. To walk past Augie was an amazing contest of skill, perception, and random luck. But we needed to get past him to make it to the Atari machine...it had to be done. The initial challenge was to determine whether or not he was awake. Often slouching in the couch, with his glass eye staring menacingly ahead, it was near impossible to gauge his level of alertness. Was it the glass eye or the real eye peering out at you? The half-burned cigarette with the ash longer than the butt was never a leading indicator, for it was seemingly attached to his hand whether awake or asleep. In fact, we often thought of it as his sixth appendage. My brother, in a bold, damn-the-torpedoes maneuver, took a running start and sailed high past Augie without even generating a flinch. Obviously he was sound asleep, but I took no chances. Tip-toeing closer, closer until suddenly, with cat-like reflexes, his pincer-like claw lunges out until it makes contact with whatever part of your body it can. In Augie’s world every inch of the human anatomy could be ticklish, by willpower alone. Once locked on, the torturous tickle-fest begins. My brother sets the Atari machine to a 1-player game, while my struggles to escape begin…no help coming from him. I laugh in an attempt to appease Augie, but it doesn’t work. He doesn’t want laughter, he wants screaming and anguish. The others in the room laugh with amusement. Even Augie appears amused as he develops a smoke-choked cackle from deep within and a devilish grin transforms his face. And he’s just warming up. His ability to sustain the tickling is shocking every time you witness it. To maintain the onslaught, the cigarette with the long ash is deftly placed in the bottom corner of his crooked grin while both claws go to work on the victim. There are a few awkward pauses and you sense perhaps he wants to start a conversation, but then you realize he probably doesn’t even know which brother you are and he resumes. And then, as if sensing the precise moment before blood is coughed, the victim is released. The room is silenced, all except the low, rumbling chuckle, sounding like Jabba the Hut with lung cancer. Augie’s chuckle slowly turns to its own deathly cough which lasts for close to ten minutes, building and building until he takes a drag from his cigarette, like others might gulp water, and order is restored. Within minutes he will return to his state of quasi-alertness and the game begins anew. Augie always left our house with a trail of ashes in his wake. These are my memories of Augie. I knew him for some 23 years, yet I didn’t know him. We may very well have never conversed in all those years. An occasional, tone-deaf, “HOW’S SCHOOL?” was about all the conversation I can recall, yet I had little expectations of Augie, therefore he never disappointed me. He was cremated upon dying in ’95, which seemed oddly appropriate. He left this world with a trail of ashes in his wake, too. A good man, nonetheless, ashes to ashes.

Views From the Pews - No. 3 "Confession"

Having addressed two of the more pressing issues facing Prince of Peace (Finding a Seat and Length of Mass), I’ve decided to lighten things up a little bit. So this VFTP will focus on the highly overlooked sacrament of Confession…call it the “ugly duckling of the 7 Sacraments”. All the other sacraments come in the form of beautiful ceremonies and pageantry, while confession comes down to old fashioned soul searching and humbleness.
My oldest son, Alex, made his first Communion last year, and with that he first had to confess his 8+ years of backlogged sins. Due to the regulations of HIPAA and the patient/doctor privacy act, I have no knowledge as to how well this procedure went for Alex. However, I can tell you within 5 minutes of Penance the pressure of a clean slate was too much for him and he began a new list of sins the first chance he got.
So Lent rolled around this year, and my wife mentioned to me the importance of keeping Alex on a semi-regular Confession schedule. In other words, Alex’s Sin Tank was not full, but it might be a good idea to flush it clean before Easter. It seems the older kids get, the faster they find ways to fill that tank. So on a beautiful Spring Saturday morning with lots of wonderful temptations around us, my wife and I packed the kids in the car and headed to POP for some sort of “group therapy” intervention with dozens of Priests scattered throughout the church. I myself had planned to get caught up on the Saturday AJC in the parking lot while Alex went inside to face the music…poor kid. When suddenly my wife began strongly suggesting to me the importance of setting a good example for the kids by going to Confession with them. And she said all this with a straight face. In a sudden turn of events, she hopped out of the car with Alex and headed inside with him. The initial relief that Laurie had decided to “take one for the team” (instead of me) passed quickly. I knew in my heart, I also had to confess. I headed inside, and began trying to remember the last time I had been to confession. I had narrowed it down to sometime during the “Reagan Years”.
The scene inside the church that day reminded me of the New York Stock Exchange, only much quieter. With so many priests on hand acting as sin brokers, the sins were being traded at breakneck speed. It became impossible to decipher the casual conversations from the confessions, but like Wall St., the chaotic system seemed to be working.
Confession has changed somewhat since the Reagan Years…face-to-face dialog has replaced the closet with the identity-concealing black curtain. (This was news to me, though it’s probably been around since the Clinton years). I debated going to an unfamiliar priest with a short line, but I felt I needed more time to prepare my sins so I stood in a long line for one of our local priests. Waiting in line, the old familiar wave of panic began to fill my mind. What sins should I confess? How bad do I want to make myself look? I will avoid the candid (and sordid) details of my confession other than to say it started normal…you know, “Bless me Father for I have sinned…it’s been 4 Presidents since my last confession and some of those were 2-terms”. But by the end, it felt different than I had ever remembered. The face-to-face format helped make the process feel more like a conversation than a confession. I just had to remember to occasionally slip in a few of my shortcomings in the midst of our friendly chatting. The random insertion of sins made for unusual conversation twists and turns, but in the end it felt right.
All this got me thinking about my real shortcoming, my failure to go to confession more than once every 20 years. To take the blame off myself, I came up with a couple ideas the Catholic Church should consider in trying to appeal to the modern sinner. One is e-Confession. Drop your priest an e-mail listing all your sins and then sit back and wait for the response, “You’ve Got Penance!” This would be one surefire way to get teenagers excited about sinning again.
The more realistic idea is Drive-thru Confession. Americans hate getting out of their cars if they don’t have to. Set up a drive-thru lane that wraps around the church. The driver would speak into a speaker board listing the combo-penance value packs (ex: Combo 1 – 5 Our Father’s / 3 Hail Mary’s and a bottle of Holy Water). The priest on the other end would listen in, offer words of encouragement (that hopefully can be heard through those annoying drive-thru speakers), and then pick the appropriate combo-penance value pack. He would also ask if they would like to “super-size” their penance, or if they would like a hot apple pie at the window. This format would restore the “secret identity” confessionals many old-school Catholics seem to miss, at least until Father Fred begins recognizing and linking automobile models with families.
Until Vatican III convenes to discuss these possibilities, however, I have made it my personal goal to avoid sinning altogether. I also have a slightly more realistic goal of practicing the sacrament of confession more frequently than White House tenant changes. It really is a beautiful sacrament, and unlike the others, it’s not a one-time deal. Confession is available to us at all times.
But deep down I’m hoping it’s not too late for the Building Committee to configure our new church with a drive-thru lane.

Views From the Pews - No. 2 "Length of Mass"

If you’re a northern Catholic transplant like me, you may have noticed that Prince of Peace masses run a little longer than you’re probably used to. I have done extensive research to discover where those extra minutes come from. I’m from Buffalo, New York myself…a Polish-Catholic haven, and unofficial home of the “45 Minute Mass”. In Buffalo they believe in the “get ‘em in, and get ‘em out” school of thought. Much of this is rooted in the fact that, for most of the year, a large percentage of Buffalo’s population goes to church wearing Buffalo Bills articles of clothing…sweatshirts, ski caps, scarves, and winter coats. These articles of clothing serve two functions…one is to stay warm during the frigid winter months of August through June; and the other, more importantly, is to subtly remind their priests of the need for speed during mass, in order for the congregation to make it to the stadium or their TV sets in time for kickoff. To expedite mass, priests have been known to offer up 2-minute homilies that segue immediately into the creed…with no dramatic pause for reflection. On big game days, this can knock off up to 10 minutes of mass time.

Another shortcut can be found in the songs. One or two verses are sung at most. It’s not uncommon for the organ player to announce, “Hymn number 228, verses 1 and 3 only”. They actually skip verses. At one minute per song, this saves 3-5 minutes easily.

Communion in Buffalo is a streamlined process of maximum efficiency. Granted, churches in Buffalo do not deal with the same volume of people that Prince of Peace deals with, but nonetheless Buffalo churches can knock out communion wafer distribution with incredible speed. They really have it down to a science. Much of this can be attributed to the ushers. Buffalo church ushers are a unique lot. Being an usher in Buffalo is equivalent to being a member of the mafia. It takes years and years to get in, and the only way out is death. They huddle in the back of church in their matching dark blue blazers and completely control the ebb and flow of every mass. They collect the offerings with stealth-like precision. Baskets are not passed from hand to hand…too many hands slow down the process. Instead, ushers stalk from pew to pew with one basket on a long stick. It looks kind of like lacrosse, but instead of scooping a ball around they’re scooping cash. There’s nothing that can make you reach for your wallet quicker than a menacing blue blazer usher sticking a basket under your nose. Intimidating ushers can reduce the length of mass by 5-7 minutes easily, and probably produce larger offerings to boot.

So there you have it…that extra 15-20 minutes. And that’s not even considering baptisms, which typically are not a public ceremony in Buffalo.

The bottom line…that extra 15-20 minutes we spend each week at Prince of Peace is time well spent. The extra verses of every song, the warm and friendly church ushers, and the inspiring homilies are worth the extra 15-20 minutes. Prince of Peace is truly blessed to have such gifted orators who skillfully draw us in each week with their well-crafted words. And they don’t just stand at a pulpit and preach to us, they actually walk around amongst us and speak to us. A really good homily can make your week.

So the next time you’re at POP and you notice someone checking their watch halfway through mass, try not to get too annoyed with them. It’s probably a relative of mine visiting from Buffalo. Just pat them on the shoulder and say, “Go Bills”.
Next subject: Confession

Views From the Pews - No. 1 "8 AM Switch"

My family has made the switch. We used to be “10 AM'ers” and now we’re

“8 AM'ers”. Judging by the increasing size of the 8 AM crowd, I have a feeling we’re not alone in making this switch. The 10 AM mass simply became too stressful. We would arrive at 9:39 (9:40 is too late to secure 5 seats together), which means we leave our house at 9:25. Even then we’re cutting it close. Will we make that green light on Buford Hwy? One slow car in front of us on Hamilton Mill Road is the difference between comfortable seats or an hour and a half of helping to support the church walls from collapsing. As we pull into the parking lot, a few last minute instructions for the wife and kids: “Do not make eye contact with anybody until we’re in our seats”. One pleasant exchange in the parking lot or church lobby means 10-15 lost seats inside, easily. With 3 little kids depending on me, the pressure was unbearable. Experienced “10 AM'ers” know their chances for a seat at first glance of the parking lot. But, just when you feel safe, there’s the last variable you didn’t count on: a baptism. One well-dressed, relaxed family in the parking lot is always a sign of trouble. Most likely, they’re well dressed for a baptism, and they’re relaxed because they know their seats are reserved. A baptism equates to 2-4 less pews to sit in, minimum. Double baptism? Forget it. You may as well be on the Titanic looking for a lifeboat. Adding insult to injury, baptisms add at least 10 minutes to your wall-supporting time. I love a good baptism and all, and there’s no denying the beauty of the sacrament, but I found myself looking at the babies as nothing more than another person to compete with for seats. Sometimes I swear those babies make eye contact with me and they seem to be saying, “I’m coming after your seat, big guy”. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
That’s when I knew I had a problem. The first step, of course, is to admit the problem: “My name is Todd Galucki and I am a “10 AM pew seeker”. My therapist (also called “my wife”) recommended I make the switch. We made the switch. Those first few weeks were incredible. Sure our kids were zonked out from having to wake up so early, but now with the extra room in the pews they could actually sleep horizontally instead of upright. 8 AM mass is really the exiled version of 10 AM. Just call us “10 AM Refugees”. And the donuts are just as good. Already, though, I see the signs of trouble at 8 AM. Suddenly my kids are being propped upright instead of sleeping comfortably sideways. Suddenly the parking lot is filling up earlier and earlier. Luckily, because of our extensive 10 AM experience, we’re still way ahead of the learning curve. There are a lot of “8 AM’ers” who are woefully unprepared for the coming surge. One of my great pleasures of the 8 AM experience, besides the elbow space, heartwarming service and wonderful homilies from Fr. Fred and Fr. Eric of course, is to walk outside after mass and witness the early signs of chaos as the “10 AMers” begin to arrive. I know it’s just a matter of time before those “10 AMers” start lining up, wrapped around the church for advance seating. Perhaps they’ll establish a lottery system for securing seats. Who knows how bad it will get? Thank goodness I got out when I did. But deep down I know we’re just holding on at 8 AM till the new church is built. Each week more and more “10 AM Refugees” are learning to wake up early on Sunday morning. The bags under their eyes are a dead giveaway. Hang in there 8 AM, just one more year to go.
Maybe at the new church we could implement one of my pure church fantasies: season tickets. Put me down for lower level, pew 3, seats 1-5. It’s always been a dream of mine to walk up to a family in church and say, “Excuse me, I believe you’re sitting in my pew”. On weeks that I can’t attend, I could scalp my tickets in the parking lot. Maybe there should be Communion vendors, too, so we don’t have to leave our seats. And I’ve always believed there should be a halftime, with entertainment. But I’ll leave that argument for another time.
Next topic: length of mass