A BOOMER’S JOURNAL……..

Let Me Be Your Servant, Too

A few months ago, I was cleaning out my top drawer, something that was sorely needed. I found a small prayerbook, published in 1952, that had the Catholic prayers in both English and Latin. I know it came from my mom, who was a world-class saver. After she died and we were going through her ‘stuff’ in her apartment, I swear the closet was 30×30 there was so much to find. I am not as bad, but have been known to save a few ‘old things.’ In any case, this prayerbook brought back memories of my days serving at Mass.
We had to memorize all the responses to the priests prayers, in Latin, and we also had lots of other very important duties. Lighting the six huge candles, moving the Gospel book from one side of the altar to the other, presenting the water and cloth and the wine, ringing the bells. That was my favorite job of all. We had this rig with four great ringers on it, and a guy could give it quite a workout if he had a mind to. And the priests didn’t let you mumble the prayers either. Had to know them spot on.
Finding that little book has prompted me to relearn many of them in the original Latin. It is a language of ancient origins, going back to the Greeks and Phoenicians, and being popularized by the Romans, who thus took it to the world. The Catholic Church pretty much made it the official language, giving it universality for all nations. The big change came in the early 1960’s when it was allowed to say the Mass in the native language of the country. They called it ‘using the vernacular.’
Praying in English made serving a lot easier, but by then, my days in cassock and surplice were all but over.
But back to the Latin translations.
I find myself saying the prayers now when I go to church, like The Our Father, the Holy, Holy, Holy, and others in Latin. I don’t pray loudly, but follow the rhythm of the priest. It just seems to have more meaning to me, for some very superficial reason, I suppose. Maybe it is because I have fond memories of being a ‘little altar boy.’ It was really ‘neat’ to be part of the faith practices of my religion, and to participate in a deeper way in the special services during Advent and Lent.
I recall carrying the tall, clanking red lamps down the aisle, six of us… solemnly, slowly moving to the sound of the organ. And like I said, doing the bells at the Consecration was cool. But it was not without its lighter moments. My partner, Terry, was known to sneak a sip or two of the wine from the cabinet in the priest’s sacristy. I was always too fearful of being caught. Our pastor, who was a crotchety old buzzard on his good days, made us wear black socks so our feet didn’t stand out as we knelt in front of the altar. We always brought along some white sweat socks, the style of the day, to change into later.
Then there was the time in eighth grade, before one of the Lenten services, when Teddy caught his cassock on fire trying to light the incense. Lucky for him, there were three other guys in the server’s room, and we were able to throw some holy water on him. We snuck it out          afterward into the trash. Father was none the wiser. It was funny and frightening all at the same time.
But the best was one Holy Thursday when Johnny tripped while moving the book, not going up the steps to the altar, but coming down. He sprawled out over the 4 marble steps, the book flying through the door into the server’s room. He yelped out with a rather unusual vulgarity for the times, and we all nearly lost it for the rest of the service, not being able to make eye-contact for an hour and a half of ‘solemn Lenten Prayer.’ Ha… good times.
So, the Latin, yeah, it brings back the memories.
Both holy… and hilarious.

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