Every time my Holiness friends said Join us?,
I did. At their Sunday service, there was joyous
singing, clapping, stomping, all the hugging.
Arms swayed overhead, faces shone heavenward,
and everyone prayed out loud. They babbled in tongues
I mistook for Latin—I was so young—and someone
always got the interpretation. Shouts of Amen
and Praise the Lord riddled the sermon
with exclamations. At the Holiness church,
they knew scripture. They had no fear
of Revelation, they looked forward
to the rapture, they were right
with God. Come communion time, they passed
saltines and Welch’s grape juice in Dixie Cups.
I licked cracker crumbs from my lips and took
my swig. Here, they served symbols, not Christ
transubstantiated from coin-shaped wafers
and sweet wine like at Sacred Heart.
The day my friends came to mass, there was
the usual pomp and ritual, heads bowed to follow
in the missal, silent prayer and mumbled creed
and unfamiliar hymns droned off-key, the priest’s
impenetrable homily, all that restless choreography
of standing and sitting and standing and kneeling,
kneelers creaking up and down repeatedly, repeatedly
making the sign of the cross, and our primly offered
handshake of peace: fingertips lightly pinching, Peace
be with you, and quick release. My friends did their best
to keep up. Come communion time, I broke the news.
They had to stay in the pew because they didn’t believe
we Catholics were partaking of the real body and blood.
Here, reducing Jesus to a symbol was sacrilege. They
looked stung as I stepped into line, fingers laced
reverently at my waist, and inched forward to receive
my weekly bite and sip of Christ. Important not to chew,
important not to tear him with my teeth. I slid back
into the pew past my seated friends, their eyes slit
in rebuke, and knelt to pray in silence while Jesus
dissolved to nothing on my tongue.
