Sorry Father I went to Temple
When I went to parochial school, the nuns threatened us with damnation if we stepped into any place of worship other than a Catholic one.
Growing up in the mill city of Lowell, Massachusetts, my father told me that his mother and aunt used to spit when passing a Protestant church. (Remember, they protested against the Catholics.) He asked them why they did it. They replied that’s what they were supposed to do.
Once as a young boy, I went to a Protestant church next to my church. It wasn’t a service, some kind of after-school activity with a friend. I was nine or 10 and feared for my soul. The nuns warned us against setting foot in any kind of holy place that wasn’t Catholic. My mother assured me it wasn’t a mortal sin.
Years later, I actually missed Mass when I went to a synagogue. I worked
as a campaign coordinator for Congressman Joe Moakley. His aide Paul
and I accompanied Joe to a breakfast at the local temple. The three
goyim had to wear yarmulkes.
Moakley’s speech was well-received, and we sat down to some kind of breakfast. Later it dawned on me that three Irish guys wearing black yarmulkes missed Mass.
Did we get partial credit because Jesus was Jewish and we went into a House of God?
About 15 years ago, I sat in our church on a warm afternoon. Our pastor, a quiet man in his 60's gave his sermon.
I can’t remember the message, but he talked about his workload. At the time, I think he was alone in our rambling 19th-century rectory. I remembered the first Mass of his I attended. He told the congregation that he waited to become a priest because he liked girls.
Good for you, Father, I thought. I like girls, too.
On this Saturday, his office seemed to wear on him.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I did seven Masses this week.”
His remarks sounded more as-a-matter-of-fact, not a whine. I sat there thinking it was too bad he had no help. When we moved to our current parish, two priests usually were on hand plus a chaplain who worked at the nearby state mental hospital. In the 90s, the parish would be reduced to a sole full-timer. An occasional priest might slip in for a weekend to help out.
Wouldn’t it be nice if a second priest would be added? What if someone impersonated a priest to help the church?
That’s crazy. No one could pull that off. But there have been con men from the start of the planet.
I remembered the Tony Curtis picture, “The Great Imposter,” where Ferdinand DeMara posed as several different people, including a surgeon.
Okay, maybe someone could pull it off. How could someone provide bogus credentials and establish credentials as a working priest?
That’s all I had. I already had written two novels by then. One was a newspaper novel, the other a coming-of-age fiction. Of course, both were budding New York Times bestsellers collecting dust in a file cabinet.
The germ tickled my head for months. I collected bits of plot ideas and possible characters. I worked on other books.
Now in the 21st century Begin With Me has become a reality. Like any book, it’s a labor of love, and I hope you love it