I would like to say that growing up Catholic in the 50’s brought me peace, comfort and joy. It did not. Many things about the church have changed, I think, but I cannot judge since I am no longer a part of it. The Catholic God they tried to give me is not the God I needed.
In the Catholic Church of the 50’s, women and girls wore dresses and hats or scarves because their bare heads were somehow sinfull, I guess. Men and boys wore dress shirts (white was best), and dress slacks. No jeans, sneakers, shorts or t-shirts.
Once you entered church, you only talked to God through prayer. You did not talk to anyone else until you left the building. Only the choir sang. The congregation listened. The priest did his magic turning the bread and wine to Jesus’s body and blood. The congregation got the bread. The priest drank the wine. Catholic priests were not preachers, so sermons were usually short and uninspiring. On a good day you could be in and out in 35-40 minutes.
I will confess that I never bothered to learn when I should stand, kneel, sit, heal, or whatever during mass. I just did what everybody else did. God forbid I would be the only person in the first pew.
My family attended church every Sunday. Since my dad liked to get it over with, we went to the 6 AM mass. God was probably sleeping through most of that. Like most Catholics, we owned a bible, but we didn’t read it. Owning it was the important thing. Even though we attended church every week, we were not particularly religious. Never weekday church, no holy days of obligation, not even midnight mass on Christmas, no grace before meals. Just Sunday church and catechism once a week during the school year. It was more than enough.
My mom had a childhood of catholicism. My dad converted when he got married and stuck with it until the kids were mostly grown. Neither of them were teachers, so what I learned about the mass and the rituals and prayers came from catechism and observation. My mom prayed the rosary. Even though I owned several, I never learned much about it except that it was very tedious and repetitive.
The real horror of the Catholic Church came at 6 years old with first communion. That was when I learned what a sinner I was, and if I died without confessing my sins, I would go to hell. At six, I did not curse, steal, kill, or covet or hate. I was a good kid. But if a nun says you will go to hell, you believe it. And confession was part of the deal. No confession, no wafer. I even made up a few sins to cover my bases. I wasn’t going to take any chances, because hell was both horrible and forever.
I bought into all of the indoctrination for more than twenty years. The Catholic guilt lasted more than 50 years. I often referred to myself as a “bad Catholic”. I never really was a Catholic at all.
BRAINFARTSNFLOWERS 
Leave a comment