I was baptised into the Catholic Church fresh out of the womb, when I was too young to
have a say in it. They get you when you’re a helpless baby so you can’t run away when
the priest pours the holy water on your head. Many babies wee on the priest to let their
feelings be known, but that’s about the extent of their ability to protest at that age.
Once in the club I took my new religion very seriously. I did my best to be a good Catholic
girl. The most exciting thing to happen to me in my youth was my First Holy Communion. It
was much more interesting than Confession, a.k.a Reconciliation, which came first. That
was just confusing, because the priest would get you to tell him all your sins and, when
you couldn’t think of any, you’d just make them up or say something you’d done that you
knew was naughty but might or might not have been an actual sin.
“Um, I fought with my brother.” Or, “I put a doll’s dress on my cat.”
It seemed like a pointless exercise. Then you’d have to say ten Hail Mary’s and five Our
Fathers and God would forgive you. Which made me think if I ever did want to commit a
sin, like stealing some lollies from the supermarket, all I would have to do was say some
Hail Marys and Our Fathers and I’d still get into heaven. That was the gist of Confession, it
didn’t make a lot of sense to a kid and there was a distinct lack of public fanfare.
Holy Communion, on the other hand, had all the melodrama of a wedding. At least for five
year-old little me, who felt proud as punch dressed up like a miniature bride in a white
dress and veil. It was all about the outfit for me. Being poor, we couldn’t afford a really frilly
dress, but the floaty gauze veil and shiny white shoes made up for it.
It was pretty exciting finally being allowed to see what the Body of Christ tasted like. For
years I’d sat in Mass watching the adults get that round white bikkie put on their tongues
and I wanted to have a turn.
It also meant I’d be allowed to get out of the pew and actually do something during Mass,
which I found excrutiatingly boring. That hour on a Sunday morning seemed to last forever,
so being able to get up and have a little wander down the aisle while checking out which
cute boys were in Mass added a bit of variety to having to listen to the priest drone on and
sing the daggy songs.
Hymns. While they weren’t my kind of music, they were needed to mix up the Mass and
stop people falling asleep. I especially liked the one that was really upbeat and joyous with
the words “Eat his body, drink his blood, and we’ll sing a song of love,
Halleluj...Halleluj...Halleluj...Hallelujiah!” It had the kind of gore in it that appealed to kids.
The one Mass I never forgot happened when I was a prepubescent, mischievous 12-year-
old and my brother and I were altar servers. I thought it was pretty cool that the Catholic
church in Katoomba allowed girls to be altar servers, and I figured if I had to be there every
Sunday, I may as well be doing something useful.
Our tasks included setting up the church with candles, flowers and hymn books, filling the
chalice with holy wine and Eucharists, and holding the Holy Bible for the priest while he
read from it. My brother and I had to sit at the side of the altar holding candles for most of
the Mass, which was just as boring as being in the congregation, except that we had to
wear white robes and were on display in front of about 300 people. To liven things up we
used to pour the hot wax on each other’s hands, punch each other and then just quietly
peel the wax off while we waited for our turn to hold up the Bible. (Peeling hot candle wax
off your skin gets almost meditative after a while. You should try it.)
Early one frisky Sunday morning my brother and I, alone in the church an hour before
Mass, decided to sample the Holy Wine. To be more correct, we actually dared each other.
To our surprise and delight, it tasted quite yummy. It was sweet and smooth, and we found
ourselves drinking a little more than we’d planned. We finished the bottle and had to open
another one to fill the priest’s chalice.
The full effects of the wine surging through my young bloodstream at 7am on a Sunday
morning didn’t fully kick in until right at the point where I was standing at the altar in front of
a packed congregation, proudly holding the white leather Bible for the priest. I started to
feel a little dizzy, a little nauseous, and then a little wobbly. Before I knew it I had fainted at
the altar in front of the whole Mass.
I woke up with the priest, my mum and a bunch of old ladies swarming around me offering
various theories as to why I’d fainted.
“This sometimes happens to girls of THAT age,” said one.
“She mustn’t have had a good enough breakfast,” said another.
“She’s tied her robe on too tightly, the poor girl can’t breath,” chimed in a third.
My mother asked me what had happened.
Of course I decided almost instantly to lie, even though I was sprawled at the altar of the
Lord our God and supposed that he was listening to everything. But to be honest, I was
more afraid of my mum than God, so there was no way I was telling the truth.
“I think it’s these pantyhose I have to wear under my robe, they make me too hot,” I said.
“Oh yes, yes, that must be it,” chorused the old ducks.
I was whisked away to a bed in the back of the church and fussed over for the rest of the
Mass. I caught sight of my brother as they carried me off. He did a slitting-the-throat action
with his index finger to let me know I was dead once we got home. In other words, he
would use this against me at the first opportunity unless I agreed to become his slave for a
few weeks.
I can’t remember exactly when I decided to excommunicate myself from the Catholic
Church, but I think it was around 15. It seemed that one minute I was kneeling by my
bedside saying my evening prayers, totally buying the whole bullshit story. The next minute
I was reading about the atrocities committed by the Catholic Church in the name of God
through the centuries.
But it was probably the point where my friend and I got fondled by the local priest who was
later arrested for child abuse and shamed into leaving town. From that point on I decided
never to trust anyone who purported to speak for God ever again.