Hostess

I went to church last Sunday for Easter service. I’m one of those Easter/Christmas Christians – the kind that priests like to lecture and try to shame. I went for the sake of Mrs. Wife and the two daughters but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really pay attention to the proceedings. I spent my time either meditating or looking at the stained glass windows (I’ve seen better). As a child I attended a parochial school but it never really “took.” I bailed out on Christianity a long time ago. Do you really think that women came from a rib? I can’t imagine.

When I was in second grade and was introduced to the sacrament of communion, I didn’t understand what the words “symbolism” or “metaphor” meant. I honestly thought that the communion host, the Body of Christ, was precisely that – small white wafers of pressed human flesh. And don’t get me started on the Blood of Christ! I still remember watching Fr. Tully lift the chalice to his mouth, take a drink and seeing a red drop trickle down his chin. I thought it was blood! I came to believe that all priests were cannibals and vampires. It turns out that I wasn’t too far off the mark.

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