Matt Mercier - The Final Word Is Love

 

 

So, it's Sunday morning in the Mercier household. My brother and I are pulling on our corduroy pants, our nice dress shirts, steeling ourselves for the walk around the block to the gray and dreary confines of St. Mary's Catholic Church. Like all good Catholic boys, we know Sundays are really for sleeping in, Sunday comics, maybe a little TV. 

 

But first, we have to get through this early morning hour of pain, in which we're told that we're sinners and that our sins make Jesus cry. [audience laughter] But on this Sunday, my father shows up in the bedroom, still wearing his pajamas. He says, “Boys, I think we're going to have Mass at home today. Meet me in the kitchen in 10 minutes.” My brother and I look at each other. “Mass at home? That's a thing? You can do that?” Okay. 

 

10 minutes later, we're in the kitchen. There's my mother and father at the table. And in the middle of the table is a plate with a single slice of Wonder Bread and a chalice of Carlo Rossi red wine, $15 a gallon. I sit at the table. My father welcomes us, tells us what day it is in the Christian calendar and then he gives me the Bible. I do the first reading. I give the Bible to my brother. He does the second reading. He give the Bible back to my dad. He gives reads from the gospels and performs the homily. But instead of the fire and brimstone, it's a little bit warmer, there's more love and it's nice. But the whole time I'm staring at the bread and the wine. 

 

Now, I'm 10 years old. I've made my first communion. I know what these symbolize. I just don't know how my father is going to play this. And he picks up the bread and he says, In the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, breaks it into four pieces. And this is the body of Christ. Picks up the chalice of Carlo Rossi, In the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, bam, blood of Christ. We eat the body, drink the blood, the mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord. Amen. 15 minutes is all that takes compared to the hour that we get. 

 

My brother and I go back to our rooms and we’re like, “What was that? Catholic cosplay. He's a social worker. How do you pull that off?” We don't know. We don't really care, because now I know what to ask for. So, the following Sunday, “Dad, can we have Mass at home?” “Nope, get your clothes on. We're going to St. Mary's.” “Oh, come on. But you're so good at saying Mass at home.” Now, that's a 10-year-old trying to get their way. 

 

But as the year goes on, we have Mass at home at least once a month. I enjoy it not simply because of the brevity, but because my father tells stories. He makes connections. He tells us why Paul is writing to the Romans, and we understand the context. His homilies are full of love and forgiveness. And he says, “You see, boys. This is what Jesus means. Love God, love your brother. It's that simple. All right, time for football.” [audience laughter] 

 

It's become so normal that I begin to feel sorry for the other families that haven't figured this out, because having Mass at home is clearly superior than dragging yourself to a drafty church every Sunday. So, the year goes on, and we're going into catechism, trying to learn how to be good Catholics. And our teacher, Mrs. Simon, eventually drops that chestnut that “In order, you must keep holy the Sabbath. Go to Mass every Sunday at a church.” I raised my hand, I said, “Mrs. Simon, what if you say Mass at home instead? Does that count?” And boy, she looks at me like if I just said, I worship Satan. And she's like, “Matthew, no. Only Protestants can say Mass at home. Are you baptized Catholic? No, you cannot say Mass at home.” 

 

So I go back to dad, confused. Since as a general rule, my father is not a rule breaker. And I said, dad, are we Protestant? And we're Irish Catholics. He's like, “What? No.” Am I baptized? “Of course, you're baptized. Where is this coming from?” And I said, well-- He's like, “Oh, look, son, I should have told you. You can't tell anyone that we do that, all right? That's our little secret.” I was like, “Okay, I like secrets, but you seem to know what you're doing. What's the story here?” He nods in that way that parents do when the jig is up. He goes to get a photo album. It's dusty. He cracks it open, and there he is as a young man. 

 

I've never seen pictures of my father as a baby or a teenager, so this is a bit of a shock. He's narrating, he's like, “Yeah, eight years in seminary, and then eight years with my own congregation on the Upper West Side, Our Lady of Esperanza. I said mass in Spanish because I had a Dominican population.” And there he is in the black robe and the clerical collar of a priest. 

 

Now, the masses at home had been going on for some time, so this wasn't a huge shock. I had suspected. What was a shock was the sense of pride that I felt. I thought, this is some nifty history. This is where I come from. This is my dad. And then, I asked the next logical question. I was like, “How does an ordained priest meet a single woman?” [audience laughter] He shuts the book, “That's complicated. Go ask your mother.” [chuckles] So, I go to mom. 

 

And by now, I'm a preteen. I'm a little blunter. I'm like, “Mom, dad was a priest.” And she's like, “Yeah, honey, I know.” I'm like, “Well, what did you do to him?” [audience laughter] And she’s like, “I didn't do anything. We fell in love.” I'm like, “Okay. But how? He won't tell me.” And she's like, “Well, you have to understand, Matt, that was a very painful time in your dad's life. His family's Irish Catholic. Having a priest in the family is like a status symbol. So, when he left for me, his mother ripped up all his baby pictures, which is why you haven't seen any, and disowned him, said, ‘You're not our son.’ They called me the Italian hussy from Long Island who was stealing your father away from God. But they were also just pretty scandalized by my profession.” I said, you're a teacher. What's so bad about that?” She said, “No, no, my other profession.” 

 

Then she goes to get her photo album, [audience laughter] takes it down, opens it up and there she is as a young woman. And she lets out a sigh. She's like, “Now, you have to understand. I hadn't taken final vows yet. I was a novitiate, so it was easier for me to leave.” And there she is in the black robe and the habit. And now, the shock has this Catholic double whammy. I'm like, “You were a nun?” She's like, “Yeah, Sister of Mercy.” And his parents just-- That was extra scandalous. Not only was he in love, but that she was a nun in love with a priest. Well, their Irish Catholic heads just [makes explosive sound], that was it, as is my head exploding now. 

 

And she's like, “Well, you have to understand, Matt. This is the early 1970s,” which means nothing to an 11-year-old. And then, she tries to explain Vatican II, which is equally complex. But the takeaway [laughs] is that the windows of the church, metaphorically, were now open and that there was a greater liberating spirit and a lot of clergy were leaving. They felt the freedom to leave. And priests and nuns, nuns and nuns were falling in love and leaving the church two by two. It was like Noah's Ark in reverse. [audience laughter] Everyone was abandoning ship. 

 

My mother says, “Well, you know, we're not alone in this, Matt. A lot of our friends are ex-clergy.” I'm like, “Really?” “Yeah, you know the Newnham boys, their parents, Mike and Marybeth? Priest, nun.” I said, you're kidding. “No, Mary Wootton. Mary was a nun. She’s a nun. Her partner, Patsy, nun. And your godmother, Kathy McLeod. She's my best friend in the convent.” And I was like, “What about Jim and Grace O'Malley?” “Oh, no, they were just pseudo hippies. [audience laughter] They were very supportive friends,” but no, nothing. And the people she's listening are amazing. They're peace activists and anti-nuclear activists, some of they come out as gay and lesbian. It's like a Justice League for Christ. [audience laughter] 

 

These people left the church to do the work of the church, sometimes better than the church itself. And now that pride, that swelling pride is coming back. I've never been so happy. And so now, I'm like, “Well, why can't priests get married?” She's like, “Well, that's a very good question. Your father asked that in his resignation letter.” So, I'll go back to my father. I'm like, “Resignation letter?” He's like, “Yeah, I had to write a letter to the Vatican.” I was like, “Can I see it?” “Ah, I'll show you sometime.” No, fat chance. I don't see it at all. 

 

But now, going into my teenage years, this pride is like and this history is like overwhelming. All the shame and guilt that I got at St. Mary's, it's like running off my back now, like, this is the real thing. This is what I've got. And so, now in high school, when people ask me what my parents do, I was like, “Yeah, priest and a nun.” [audience laughter] They ask stories about what were my parents like? 

 

I asked questions of my godmother, and she's like, “Well, your mother took in homeless people. And oh, the best thing we did was, your mother and I, we wrote a letter to the local bishop demanding that he sell his rings to feed them poor, because that's the work of the gospels.” And so, that pride, that just continued on and the stories just kept going and going. 

 

And then years later, after my mother dies, my father finally shows me the resignation letter. And then, he says, “I'm in love with a nun. We're leaving. We wish we could stay, but we can't. If we do stay, we'll be well taken care of with shelter and food and finance. But now that we are entering secular life, we feel that we'll be taking our true vow of poverty, humility and service.” 

 

That letter is my North Star. It means as much to me, if not more than any Bible verse. I think about it when I'm in church. I think about it when I'm not in church, which, as my wife likes to remind me, is not a lot of the time. [audience laughter] But my church is no longer that large, drafty cathedral where I was told to hate myself and hate others who didn't have my faith. My church is that humble kitchen table with that piece of bread, and that Carlo Rossi and those two people who taught me about service and community and above all about love.