They Put Hot Rod Flames In My Church!

St. John the Evangelist Church and School

My first spiritual home in the Catholic Church was St. John the Evangelist in Beverly, MA during the 1970s and 80s.  It was a neighborhood parish located far from the downtown in a box-like building attached to a Catholic elementary school complex all of which was constructed during the late 1950s.  In fact, the church itself should have been the school's gymnasium but original plans for a separate house of worship on the complex's grounds had been scrapped.  My older brother went to school here for a couple of years but my only experiences with the building's classrooms were the occasional craft fair and CCD (a.k.a. Sunday school).  I found it to be a fascinating place with "secret" rooms along dark hallways, a fallout shelter in the basement cafeteria and a set of locked doors at the top of the main staircase that supposedly led to an abandoned convent.

Since my father was raised Orthodox, he rarely accompanied us to church but his absence never bothered us or seemed out of place.  As a small child, I didn't have much of an understanding of the Mass.  You sat in a pew and kept yourself entertained while the boring grown-ups yammered on.  I loved placing money in the basket and looked forward to the part where everyone shook hands.  When people went up to get communion I knew Mass would soon be over but wondered what the host tasted like.  Back then, going to Church was just something you had to sit through but you never questioned going.  It was part of the Sunday morning routine and after Mass my mother might get a box of Munchkins at Dunkin' Donuts.

Over the years I had some very thoughtful CCD teachers and they helped me gain a better understanding of my faith.  Soon I was joining in on all those verses the grown-ups had yammered on about.  Following in the footsteps of my brother, I eventually became an altar boy.  While some of St. John's priests faded into the haze of distant memories, a few were unforgettable.  Our longtime pastor was the sometimes soft-spoken and sometimes gruff, Fr. George Everard.  He could get so worked up during passionate sermons it wasn't uncommon for him to thump the pulpit.  Fr. John Kiley was a master at playing the organ and often added his own intricate embellishments to the music.  He was also in charge of training the altar boys and treated us to an annual trip to Canobie Lake Park.  These were truly innocent times and we had such a high regard for our priests, they almost seemed otherworldly.

As my teenage years approached, doubt started to creep in.  It's only natural to ask the big questions:  Why do bad things happen to innocent people?  Is God really out there?  Where is my place in the world?  At a time when I needed consistency, guidance and fellowship there wasn't much at St. John's geared toward helping young people find their way.  I started to look at the aging population of our parish and was troubled by their overwhelming numbers.  To make matters worse, Fr. Kiley got transferred to a different parish in 1987 and Fr. Everard passed away the following year.  Their replacements left much to be desired.  One priest was so elderly and forgetful, his sermons just rambled on and on.  Our new pastor was very aloof and I no longer put these priests on the same pedestal as their predecessors.  This wasn't the only unwelcome change at St. John's, however.

For a box that was supposed to be a gym, the Church building itself had always been nicely decorated but for some reason it was decided that an extensive cosmetic renovation was needed.  A fundraising campaign was launched and before long workmen were tearing up beautiful woodwork and subdued purple draperies.  What we got after the renovation boggled the mind.  The wall behind the altar was painted in a sloppy crosshatching that looked like it was done by the 5th grade art class.  The sanctuary was now a semi-circle with a prominent raised section emerging from the ceiling.  On it they painted what was supposed to be the burning bush but the depiction was barely noticeable and resembled tumbleweed instead.  Taking up most of the space on this surface were several plumes of fire that were awful looking.  My brother said they resembled the flames you'd see painted on a hot rod.  After all the hype, our once beautiful church was laughable.

This was my first introduction to a twisted logic that seems to pervade the Catholic Church.  Instead of focusing on the things that really matter like fellowship, evangelization, or helping the poor, people convince themselves that painting a wall or replacing light fixtures will strengthen a parish.  I would argue these costly renovations ultimately do very little to attract people to the Catholic Church.  What I saw on display at St. John's was a complete waste of time.  Rather than an expression of God's love, it seemed to reflect someone's ambition.  The Bible says to give anonymously yet so often when these renovations occur, a commemorative plaque is installed in a prominent place so everyone can see all the donors' names.

If I suffered from a little bit of doubt a few years ago, it was now magnified many times over as a result of these disappointing changes.  Our church saw yet another new pastor but his most defining trait was constantly asking his parishioners for more money.  There was always some pet project that needed funding but very little was done to increase our faith.  My family was so fed up we eventually decided to give that big church downtown a try and it quickly became our new spiritual home.  I haven't set foot in St. John's since but a recent look at their website revealed those terrible renovations have been painted over with more subdued colors and accents in purple.  Seems like the church already had that a long time ago.