Well, that could have gone better.

My dad was a super-devout Catholic who went to church every morning for most of his life, so there was no question that we would have a mass for him, eventually. Thanks to COVID, it was delayed until this past weekend. Thanks to the church I grew up attending, it was a shitshow. 

My mom wanted this service, and wanted it to take place at the parish they attended for over 40 years, in Long Island. My dad loved that church. Me, not so much. But this wasn’t about me, was it? It was about my mom, who’s been desperately seeking closure and believed this would bring it. I don’t believe in closure. But again, not about me. If it were up to me and my siblings, we would have had some drinks in his honor and called it a day. My dad also loved Scotch! 

At any rate, we trekked out to Long Island this Saturday to visit our ancestral homeland—the village of Bayville, specifically, which is now home to an attraction called the “Bayville Scream Park.” I tried to convince my mom to scatter my dad’s ashes there, maybe toss them at an actor in the haunted house (“Father so loved Bloodworth Mansion” I insisted) but she thought I was “joking.” Instead we dutifully lined up in St. Gertrude’s, the church of my childhood. (In case you’re wondering, St. Gertrude is the patron saint of gardeners, travelers, widows, the recently deceased, the sick, the poor, the mentally ill, and cats. We fit at least five of those categories.) 

The priest came out and right away I knew we weren’t going to be in great hands. He was annoyed that we were milling around, that people were still showing up. He had things to do, apparently, and we weren’t going to waste his time. Once we were seated, he said “Good afternoon,” and when we didn’t reply forcefully enough, he said, “Let’s try that again. You don’t need to sound so sad, you know, he died a year ago.” 

And we were off! 

He continued in that vein for the entire mass. He addressed us directly, and made it clear that he found us wanting. He could tell by our general confusion that we weren’t Catholic enough for his tastes (which, fair) and he demanded that we all start attending church more often (or ever). Instead of talking about my father, he made us the focus of his sermon. He got down from his pulpit and stood in front of the family row, which, unfortunately, included me. 
“What’s your name?” he demanded (of me!), “And you’re his daughter? Don’t you want to go to Heaven to see your father? Promise me that you’ll go to church tomorrow! And who’s this?” He pointed at Scott. 
“That’s my husband,” I said. 
“Oh, I see,” he said, and laughed. He did not add “a Jew” to the end of that, but everyone got the point. 
He then went on to harangue my mother. During the mass that should have been in honor of my dad, he took the time to lecture my mom (who goes to church, for heaven’s sake—literally!), and all of us, on how we need to be good Catholics. 

Some people who attended were friends of the family who—get this—weren’t even Catholic! It turns out that’s allowed, Father! 

By the way: we were told in advance that we weren’t allowed to eulogize my dad, or even give readings. This priest wanted it to be the Him Show. So there was no relief from his onslaught. It went on and on and on. At some point my spirit had left my body and was floating between the nave and the apse, two church parts I remember from art history. 

“Don’t be mad at me,” the priest whined at the end of the service. “Are you mad at me?” 

“I’m going to write such a bad Yelp review,” my nephew muttered. 

I sat there the whole fucking time with a pained smile plastered on my face. I just wanted it to stop, I wanted him to move on to talk about my dad, or anything else, really. Talk about the weather, about sports. I was entertaining fantasies of standing up and walking out, or telling him off, but my face wouldn’t move out of its affixed smile/grimace. I didn’t want to make a scene, but the more I think about it, a scene is what the occasion warranted. 

Instead I wrote an angry letter to the parish. I would be shocked if I get any kind of reply. And anyway, what would satisfy me? “I’m so sorry. Allow us to travel back in time so that you and your family were never humiliated in that surprising and specific fashion. This time we’ll get you a good priest, promise. Or just head over to the Scream Park—we hear that Uncle Needle's Funhouse of Fear is surprisingly contemplative." 

My sister wrote a letter as well, and it kicked ass. In it, she wrote, “Didn’t the lesson of the prodigal son teach us that you kill the fatted calf and celebrate when the son returns? Not yell at him and chastise?” Amen, sister. A-fucking-men.