The rubble beyond the bell is all that remains of the church of my childhood. I visited the site today. I kept putting it off. I didn't want to see it destroyed.
Here I was baptized, made my First Confession and First Communion and Confirmation. In this church I celebrated my "first Mass" after I was ordained 51 years ago.
I might have been three or four when my mother pointed to the altar and told me that Jesus was in the altar. Even then I could tell from the crucifix that he was dead, so I presumed that she meant that he was buried in the altar. I felt proud that of all the churches in the world Jesus was buried in our church.
One of the most secure feelings in my life was coming out of Christmas midnight Mass, with snow falling, and parishioners wishing each other "Merry Christmas," and knowing that this was where I belonged. A five year old's taste of faith community.
One of the reasons I'm a priest.
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