Tantum Ergo: Church and the Age of Reason

How important is church in your life?

Though I was baptized at Holy Ghost Church, I attended Blessed Sacrament for everything else; where I received instructions for two sacraments, and where I collected a knapsack full of wonderful memories.

Blessed Sacrament Church

Most of my friends went to the Catholic school while I attended public schools: Putnam, Academy and George J. West. I envied the Catholic kids because they had homework every night, which I did not; they were exempt from after school religious instructions, which I was not, and they were allowed to be altar or choir boys; roles closed to me.

I felt like an outsider: no homework, no choir, no altar service, and reduced playtime. It bothered me that I wasn’t a “Catholic school Catholic.” Instead, I felt somewhat blemished, someone who required remedial religious instruction every week.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed it as it became part of me.

The Baltimore Catechism was my bible.

“Who made the world?” I knew.

“Why did God make you?” I knew.

“Why did God make me?” I had to pause on that one.

I knew that book, not just well enough to receive sacraments, but well enough, I believed, to go directly to heaven, skipping Limbo and Purgatory (Read Elizabeth Kaeton’s fun piece) where wayward souls were parked.

The classes could be frustrating. One nun called me Edward I-tool-ee-ay. “Where do you see a “t” in my name, Mother?”

“Oh, yes, right,” she replied. It didn’t matter to her.

During one class, the Pastor said a miracle occurred when water came through the glass on a hot day. I questioned him about condensation (I loved science). He was angry enough to smash his fist on my desk and exclaim, “It’s a miracle!”

OK, it’s a miracle

But those classes were worth it. On First Communion day, the day I reached the age of reason, I walked down the center aisle with pride in front of all the parents.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows and bounced off the dark marble. Yellows predominated. Bronzes, reds and blues were not far behind. I felt like a child saint waiting for the angels to sing.

I was dressed in a dark blue suit, black shoes, white shirt and tie, hands held chest high and tied together by black rosary beads. A new prayer book was tucked in my pocket. A scapula was tucked under my shirt.

Yup, it’s me

After the ceremony, there was a party at our house, and I received gifts. I loved parties and gifts.

It was exciting when I was confirmed and became a “soldier of Christ,” personally anointed by a bishop who carried a tall, curved stick, sported a large ring which people kissed, and wore a towering mitre. He gave me a “blow” on the cheek to welcome me into the corps. When I looked down, I noticed he was wearing slippers. No matter. I had another new suit and a party with gifts, and I was getting closer to heaven by the minute.

I loved the Church’s high vaulted ceilings and long center aisle bracketed by polished and slippery mahogany pews. The floor plan was a Latin cross. The aisles steered us to a magnificent marble altar whose decorated dome of whites and blues, accented by flying doves, reached to God.

Massive, unadorned columns at the side aisles stretched to a roof supported by arches of might. Real candles adorned the racks at the side altars and aided by ethereal lights, glittered like stars.

Adjacent to and fronting the main altar was Jesus on the cross and above it a small inscription that read “INRI.” My eyes moved to it when I glanced up from the kneeler. I thought it meant “In Rhode Island.” Lucky us. He was present.

Most of the time church was fun, but it could bring out the worst in me. Scattered along the rear of the pews were buttons for hats and gloves; buttons strong enough to catch a finger. They emitted a smart snap when stretched out and let go and snap away we did.

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I was never much for sitting stagnant through slow sermons. That’s when Dan and I started “the cough” to see how many in church would follow. He coughed, I coughed, and then we waited for the sequence from the congregation who never failed us, at which point we broke into uncontrollable, urge-to-urinate laughter.

And most often, we didn’t need a prank to break into hysterics. A simple look would do it. And there was always the pervasive fart to bring down the house. The fun stopped with the glare of a nun on patrol.

Church was important to us, so important that we visited seven of them on Holy Thursday, not knowing why but having fun.

Palms were important. We shopped the church that gave the most on Palm Sunday. Our Pastor was frugal.

The Church basement was our theater for the yearly minstrel show, and the headquarters where Father McGovern ran the CYO, and the room where the Boy Scouts met.

The Church was where I had my throat blessed, ashes pressed into my forehead though I wasn’t entirely sure why, and where I was once anointed with oil, again not sure why.

The Church was a meeting place. “I’ll meet you in front of the Church.”

The Church steps were where we found money thrown at the brides.

The Church was where my friend had a burial mass.

I never failed to bow my head and make the sign of the cross when I passed the Church.

The Church schoolyard was our arena for stickball, basketball and hopscotch.

It all was so important.

When unoccupied and absent the ceremonial incense, the church was cool and damp with a stale, mousy smell.

Incense meant a special ceremony like the annual weeknight retreats. Pomp and circumstance attracted me.

The Latin songs of Benediction were beautiful; Tantum Ergo my favorite. It didn’t matter that I did not comprehend. What mattered was that I memorized mesmerizing melodies whose lyrics fit so well.

Tantum ergo sacramentu

Veneremur cernui

Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui;

Praestet fides supplementum

Sensuum defectui

Genitori genitoque

Laus et jubilatio,

Salus, honor, virtus quoque,

Sit et benedictio;

Procedenti ab utroqu

Compar sit laudatio.

Tantum Ergo Translation

Lovely.

For confession, I sought out the lenient priests; those who dealt out light penances. I rarely knew what to confess and often had to think of “bad” stuff. What do I say when I had no mortal sins to declare?

“I glanced sideways at my grandmother when she sent me to the store for bread.” Oops.

“I stole a walnut from Mr. Francesconi’s.” Oops.

“I swore ten times, or was that twenty? Oops.

“I called a kid a jerk?” Oops.

“I had bad thoughts twice last week.” What exactly was a bad thought? Was it disliking the nun who called me Edward I-tool-ee-ay?

The priest sent me to the rail . . . “Five Our Fathers, five Hail Mary’s and one Act Of Contrition.” I didn’t know the Act of Contrition, so I made it up. Uh, oh, another sin.

What special memories. What luck.

Nuns, priests, education, games, worship, joy, laughter, pomp and circumstance. I loved them all.

Tantum ergo, Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui….

© April 2026