The west-side Chicago neighborhood where I grew up was a lot like Ireland.
Well, there weren’t many Irishmen there — mostly Germans and Italians. But there were Protestants and Catholics.
But the Protestants and Catholics weren’t separated as they were in Ireland — they lived peacefully intermingled on the same block. And there were no explosions, unless the Protestant and Catholic kids were blowing up a garbage can together with cherry bombs.
So, come to think of it, it wasn’t a bit like Ireland.
But still, there were Protestants and Catholics.
Now, I was a Protestant — a Methodist, to be exact, like most of my German neighbors. My buddy Joe Pellegrino was a Catholic, like most of our Italian neighbors.
And it wasn’t a problem, except in the teasing sort of way that makes two boys best friends. He would stand outside my public school window and wave to me on Catholic holidays when he was sprung for the day. And whenever Lent rolled around, I would gorge on whatever he had begrudgingly sworn to deny himself.
So, you see, it was a boyhood match made in Heaven.
But it was Heaven that came between us one day when we were about ten years old and Joe invited me up to his room to see something secret, something special.
“What is it?” I asked when he produced a small aspirin bottle filled with a clear liquid.
“It’s holy water,” he whispered. “I stole it from church.”
And so saying, he splashed the water in my face, waved his hand in the air, and started speaking in tongues. Latin, I think. Maybe Klingon. At ten, it’s hard to tell.
I spluttered and wiped the water from my eyes. “Why’d you do that?” I snapped.
He stood back to admire his handiwork. “I just made you a Catholic,” he said.
“You what?!??” I cried. Panic rose in my chest as visions of Lenten weeks without Hershey bars danced before my eyes. “Why would you do a fool thing like that?”
“Now you can go to Heaven with me when you die,” he said. “This way, we can play together for all eternity.”
“But I don’t want to be a Catholic,” I wailed. “I’m a Methodist. My parents are Methodist. I want to go to Methodist Heaven. I don’t want to go to Catholic Heaven.”
Joe shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said in deference to my family. “That’s the only Heaven there is. They told us so in church.”
I was furious, and I didn’t know why. It might have been that I was already missing my parents, who would go wherever it was that German Methodists ended up while I went to live with eternal Italians.
It might have been anger at the Methodist church, which had withheld a pretty important nugget of divine information—that only Catholics went to Heaven. Of course, it would be hard to blame them, right? You could hardly expect a Methodist minister to say, “Just for your information, it’s only the Catholics down the block who will be in Heaven. But thanks for coming all the same! Stick around for cookies after today’s service.” Yeah, that would put a dent into church attendance, wouldn’t it?
But most of all, I was furious with Joe, who had ambushed me. Despite his good intentions, I wasn’t thrilled about being the victim of a drive-by baptism.
Well, I said to myself, if it’s a holy war he wants, then it’s a holy war he shall have.
“You want us to play forever in Catholic Heaven?” I snarled at him. “Well, it won’t do you any good. You won’t be there, because you stole the holy water from church!”
His eyes shot wide with tragic realization, and he cursed aloud—a good ripper of a curse for a ten-year-old—which surely iced the deal. After all, although I was new to this business of being a Catholic, I figured that Catholic God must have some sort of rule about a ten-year-old boy cursing while his fingers dripped with stolen holy water. Commandment 13 or 14, maybe. Somewhere around there.
Joe was doomed, and I drew a dark delight at giving him the news.
But that was a long time ago, and my anger has cooled since then. In fact, I rather enjoy being both Methodist and Catholic.
Call me a Metholic, and proud of it.
The way I see it, being a Metholic is sort of like having dual citizenship, and I’m bringing both passports to the Pearly Gates when my time comes.
Joe may have been right about all that celestial selectiveness, or maybe he wasn’t. In any case, I’m keeping all my options open to find the shortest line through that holy customs station.
And when they stamp the back of my passport and ask if I have anything to declare, I’ll put in a good word for my doomed buddy Joe.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com
