committed a doozy of a sin to get what looks like a major penance. I heard he likes go-go dancers, a bad habit for a married father of nine.
Taking a deep breath I approach the booth, yank the heavy velvet curtain back, close it behind me, and kneel down.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I begin. “You know what? Forget that. These words of penance that have meant so much to me all of my life suddenly sound like a lie. I am not here to ask for forgiveness.
You
have sinned.”
“I beg your pardon?” a stunned Father Porporino whispers back.
“What do you take me for?”
“Bartolomeo?”
“How dare you hire Patton and Persky, those . . . those preppy Main Line Presbyterians! This is
my
church,
my
community. I worship here! I was baptized in the marble font, took my First Communion kneeling at the railing, took my confirmation and the holy oil from the bishop. I’ve been here all my life—twenty years longer than you!”
“I’m sorry if you feel bad—”
“Bad? I don’t feel bad, I am humiliated. Do you know the Latin root of the word ‘humiliation,’ Father?” He tries to interrupt again, but I steamroll right over him. “The root is ‘humility.’ The ability to be humble in the eyes of God. What do you think my devotion to this church meant to me? Everything!”
“You should do good works for the satisfaction it brings others, not for acclaim.”
“I’m not asking for fame, Father. I’m not Joey Heatherton looking to headline at the Sands after years of being an opening act. I deserved the job! Nobody has loved this church more than me. You took away my dream and handed it off to some second-rate Philly talent like it never mattered in the first place.”
“They’ve won awards,” Father says meekly.
“What does
that
mean to the heart and soul of this congregation? Most of them have never heard of Philadelphia outside of cheesesteaks and football—it is hardly the epicenter of interior design.” I begin to feel better and stronger, not afraid of Father Porporino anymore. My self-confidence rises like a tidal wave. “It would be one thing if you had democratically opened up the job to bids. Then at least I could believe that you were watching the purse strings. But to simply ignore, to deliberately insult, any local talent—”
“But you
are
the local talent. You are the
only
decorator in town.”
“Then your job was even easier! All you had to do was give me a call, or stop me on the steps after Mass and give me the heads-up that you were going elsewhere. Instead, I read about it in the bulletin! You seem to find time to single me out when you need me to raise money for the Bishop’s Annual Appeal. That’s what I’m good for—going door-to-door like a Fuller Brush man, can in hand, begging for the diocese. Well, listen to this, Padre, and listen hard; I am done with you and your cans and your fiefdom. You run your church with arrogance. A local boy is not good enough for your grand visions. No, you have to go to the big city to find a big name. You’re buying for the label, not the craftsmanship.”
“They’re quite good, and I liked their portfolio.” Father bristles.
“We’ll see if Patton and Persky support this church as I have all these years. Will they come at dawn on Saint Lucy’s feast day in the freezing cold and haul out the man-sized crèche figurines and string lights in the outdoor manger until their fingers bleed? Will they organize the pancake breakfast for the retarded and set the tables with festive linens because even retarded people deserve ambience? Tell me: Will they give up four weekends in a row to make gravy to freeze for the spaghetti supper to finance the new roof for the rectory so you won’t sleep in a draft and die of consumption? I think we know the answer. You’ve got a lot of crust, Father. A lot of crust!”
“Are you finished?” Father Porporino seethes.
I press my nose so close to the screen I taste metal. “In more
Taking a deep breath I approach the booth, yank the heavy velvet curtain back, close it behind me, and kneel down.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I begin. “You know what? Forget that. These words of penance that have meant so much to me all of my life suddenly sound like a lie. I am not here to ask for forgiveness.
You
have sinned.”
“I beg your pardon?” a stunned Father Porporino whispers back.
“What do you take me for?”
“Bartolomeo?”
“How dare you hire Patton and Persky, those . . . those preppy Main Line Presbyterians! This is
my
church,
my
community. I worship here! I was baptized in the marble font, took my First Communion kneeling at the railing, took my confirmation and the holy oil from the bishop. I’ve been here all my life—twenty years longer than you!”
“I’m sorry if you feel bad—”
“Bad? I don’t feel bad, I am humiliated. Do you know the Latin root of the word ‘humiliation,’ Father?” He tries to interrupt again, but I steamroll right over him. “The root is ‘humility.’ The ability to be humble in the eyes of God. What do you think my devotion to this church meant to me? Everything!”
“You should do good works for the satisfaction it brings others, not for acclaim.”
“I’m not asking for fame, Father. I’m not Joey Heatherton looking to headline at the Sands after years of being an opening act. I deserved the job! Nobody has loved this church more than me. You took away my dream and handed it off to some second-rate Philly talent like it never mattered in the first place.”
“They’ve won awards,” Father says meekly.
“What does
that
mean to the heart and soul of this congregation? Most of them have never heard of Philadelphia outside of cheesesteaks and football—it is hardly the epicenter of interior design.” I begin to feel better and stronger, not afraid of Father Porporino anymore. My self-confidence rises like a tidal wave. “It would be one thing if you had democratically opened up the job to bids. Then at least I could believe that you were watching the purse strings. But to simply ignore, to deliberately insult, any local talent—”
“But you
are
the local talent. You are the
only
decorator in town.”
“Then your job was even easier! All you had to do was give me a call, or stop me on the steps after Mass and give me the heads-up that you were going elsewhere. Instead, I read about it in the bulletin! You seem to find time to single me out when you need me to raise money for the Bishop’s Annual Appeal. That’s what I’m good for—going door-to-door like a Fuller Brush man, can in hand, begging for the diocese. Well, listen to this, Padre, and listen hard; I am done with you and your cans and your fiefdom. You run your church with arrogance. A local boy is not good enough for your grand visions. No, you have to go to the big city to find a big name. You’re buying for the label, not the craftsmanship.”
“They’re quite good, and I liked their portfolio.” Father bristles.
“We’ll see if Patton and Persky support this church as I have all these years. Will they come at dawn on Saint Lucy’s feast day in the freezing cold and haul out the man-sized crèche figurines and string lights in the outdoor manger until their fingers bleed? Will they organize the pancake breakfast for the retarded and set the tables with festive linens because even retarded people deserve ambience? Tell me: Will they give up four weekends in a row to make gravy to freeze for the spaghetti supper to finance the new roof for the rectory so you won’t sleep in a draft and die of consumption? I think we know the answer. You’ve got a lot of crust, Father. A lot of crust!”
“Are you finished?” Father Porporino seethes.
I press my nose so close to the screen I taste metal. “In more
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