When Is A Church Not A Church?

Prior to joining the Air Force, 98% of the times I attended church, I went to a Baptist church. The rest were occasional visits to Methodist churches. I didn’t even go to the Presbyterian Church and we lived beside it for several years.

So when the time finally came in basic training that I could go to church, off I went without even considering where I was going. After all, most churches were Baptist, right? In what was undoubtedly my first “country boy in the big city” moment, I walked right into that church without batting an eye and sat down on the end of a pew about half way up the main aisle. If I had bothered to take more than a glance at the sign outside, I would have noted that military churches are used by all denominations, but all I checked was the time of the next service.

Everything seemed fine as I watched people come in. It was nice to see families again. It had only been two weeks but it seemed like a lot longer. Nothing seemed odd until the service began. The music started and everyone stood up, which seemed normal to me, but as the procession walked pass I did a double take at the two young boys in robes carrying candles. Okay, I shrugged, so maybe they do things a little different in Texas. Next the preacher walked by in a robe too. Well, preacher was what I was used to calling them, but this one didn’t look like any preacher I had ever seen.

When the music stopped, I knew I was in the wrong place. The preacher was no preacher at all, he was a priest! I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know what was going on when he said, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit”, and made the sign of the cross, as everybody around me did too. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “How in the world are you going to get out of this?”

My only experience with a Catholic in Loudon was one Sunday morning when all the smokers gathered out in front of church, catching a last smoke before the service started. As we stood there a man walked up the street in front of the church, and two of the older men on the stoop were talking about him and one said, “He’s a good man, but he’s Catholic.” Up until then I didn’t know there were any Catholics in Loudon.

Anyway, as I sat there I could see there was no way out, so I stayed. I could have gotten up and walked out, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. The congregation participated a lot more than I was used to, and the kneeling was a major adjustment, but I made it through. At the end, I did not go up for communion. I saw several people hanging back, so I did too. It’s a good thing too, because the sacramental wine would have really thrown me for a loop.

That was 40 years ago, and looking back it sounds a little like one of Andy Griffith’s early album cuts. The most ironic thing about it, is now I am Catholic. Go figure.