I’m Catholic, always have been, always will be. I guess it could be said that since my mother was born in Italy, my father was born in Ireland, and my wife’s ancestors come from Spain and Mexico, I’m an industrial-strength Catholic. But I don’t see it that way. I’m simply as Catholic as I can be and I’m not going to get Catholic-er.
One of the problems that I’ve always had as a Catholic is that there is always somebody who thinks that they’re more Catholic than you. When we’re all singing in church, they hold onto a note just a little bit longer than everybody else. They make a scene while receiving Communion. And they give me crap for not drinking the sacramental wine.
I plan on going my entire life without ever consuming even a drop of alcohol. It doesn’t make me better than anyone, just different. The “better” Catholics admonish me, “You have to drink the wine. It’s the blood of Christ.”
No, it’s wine…and it comes with a cracker. Forgive me, Father.
There’s that scene in the Albert Brooks movie, “Modern Romance” where Brooks’ character tells his girlfriend that their romance is a “no-win situation.” When the woman says that she doesn’t understand, Brooks says, “You know, a no-win situation. Vietnam…this.”
That’s me with the Catholic Church. When asked what I hate about it, my response is “The Inquisition…JD Vance.”
It is said that there is no zealot like a convert. JD Vance, who came to the Catholic Church late in life (and wildly incorrectly) has zoomed way past zealot all the way to full-blown bitch. He reads some obscure works by people who don’t like dark skin and tries to conflate false theology with vulgar immigration policy.
Plus, Vance killed Pope Francis. I mean, he didn’t really kill him. He just showed up all bitch smug and everything and Pope Francis thought, “This is what’s passing as a Catholic these days?! I’m out.”
I was an altar boy for many years and I got yelled at a lot. Our parish priest was Father Matic. He was Eastern European of some kind and he had a thick accent. He got me and my friend, Bobby, to serve Mass even though we didn’t go to the Catholic school.
One Sunday, Bobby and I sat facing each other during the sermon. I started making faces at Bobby to see if I could give him a case of the giggles. It finally worked and after a few seconds of futility trying to stifle the giggles, Father Matic turned around and slapped Bobby across the face. The entire congregation gasped, but Father Matic went right back to his sermon.
I looked at Bobby, who was holding his cheek and fighting back tears. So, I started making faces again. Hey, you don’t cut funny. Plus, God has a sense of humor. He made Marjorie Taylor Greene, didn’t he?
Even though Bobby’s family and mine occupied a duplex in The Projects, I went home by a different route that day. See, Bobby’s last name was Chacon and he would go on to win the Super Featherweight boxing championship of the world. And even back then, he had a temper.
Bobby and I used to serve funeral Mass because you would usually get a tip, sometimes as much as $5, which was a king’s ransom back then. We would go to the cemetery in Father Matic’s car and sometimes the father would pull out of the funeral procession and drive through Jack-in-the-Box.
One time, we got to the gravesite and Father Matic was listening to a broadcast of the Dodgers, who were playing a day game somewhere back east. It was pouring rain, but Father Matic made everybody wait in the weather until the end of the inning before we got out of the car.
Bobby eventually stopped serving, so I was on my own. I got stuck doing the 7 a.m. Mass on Sunday, which meant that I couldn’t sleep in like all my friends. But it was cool because the only people who were at 7 a.m. Mass were the nuns and the Nanas. When it came time for the sermon, Father Matic would look out at the gathering of women, each of them with one foot already in Heaven, and say, “Keep up the good work.”
Mass lasted, like, 20 minutes. I would go home, read the voluminous Sunday Los Angeles Times after my early-rising dad was done with each section, and wait for my friends to get up so we could go play ball.
I’ve tried to be a good Catholic my whole life. I still go to Mass every weekend. I obey the Ten Commandments; I don’t think that I’ve ever coveted my neighbor’s goods. (“Man, look at his hedge trimmer!”) I still give up fried foods for 47 grueling days during Lent every year. It’s a weird myth that it’s 40 days. You (and my stomach) can count. It’s 47. I even taught religion classes at my church for a few years.
The unholy alliance of MAGA and right-wing Catholics is troubling. But now we have an American pope who appears willing to smack down the heathen Trump and his heretic sidekick. This might be fun.
This article appears in May 8-15, 2025.