3-13-03

I got the letter on Thursday, and saw immediately that I got second billing. This was, in a way, partial success, because at least my name was shown as an important one. On the form letter was a hand-written note directly to me. “Phillip,” it stated, “I’ll call everyone and have the books on the first day.” The message was transparent, and the meaning, a different thing, was almost as clear. “I’m in control of the situation, don’t try to be a hero.”

I have always made mental notes of the power-plays intricately woven by the Director of Religious Education (DRE) at my Parish. Slowly, over time, I realized that the Pastor had little control over many things that go on. One day in a Sponsor’s meeting he wandered into the room like a man who had just been hit on the head and sheepishly asked, “What’s going on in here?” The moderator replied, “A Sponsor’s meeting, Father.” He mumbled and walked out. The fact that he lives in the same building in which we were having our meeting really drove home the point that certain parts of the Church run completely autonomously right under his nose.

I was standing in the back of the Church this past Advent, as incense drifted through the air. The DRE was across the way making small talk, working the crowd as they came into the Church. An apparent old friend of his came in, a younger man in a T-shirt and jeans. The acquaintance tapped him on the shoulder. His reaction was jubilant and they embraced. The man said, “So this is your Church?” The DRE replied, “Yes, this is my Church, you should start coming here!” The exchange continued but I moved on having gotten the information that I needed. Suddenly all the talk I heard him give about The Church belonging to the people of God as opposed to a Pope, Bishop, or priestly caste, faded away. Apparently the “new theology” is that the Church belongs to the DRE.

I fanned myself slowly with the letter. The touch of its wind brought to mind the circumstances under which I was put in such a low place. My brother always called it my, “Communist Bible Group” and it was there that I called the old lady a heretic to her face. Not a polite thing to do to someone in their own home, especially a matriarch of the parish. But as I have explained countless times, she had it coming for her Manichaean views. As the leader of the group, no one protested my authority to my face, but slowly the attendance dwindled, and only Bill Reeves, my right hand man, stayed for the whole.

The letter stated that the group was to meet in The Parish Center. The groups leaders were spelled out underneath, on top, our beloved DRE and below, my name. Of course it would be in The Parish Center, the seat of the DRE’s authority. If it were in someone’s house, like my Communist Bible Group, then the group might be more egalitarian, not that mine was. The last meeting I had at The Parish Center was the Liturgy and Formation Comity meeting, or as I call it, The Central Comity Meeting. I was there with the DRE as well as The Matriarch and a few others. We sat close in the stifling room as the DRE went over all his ideas. Little was interjected by the rest of the “comity” as he babbled away. Only one lady, notably not the Matriarch, really took him to task. She was aged as well, and apparently an accountant. She began her rant when he brought up a small financial matter. She ruthlessly reminded him that the parish does not let the parishioners see the books, and that this is not the way an institution should be run. Throughout the meeting she was on his case with a type of rudeness that only comes with extreme age, and the realization that death is near, so do what is needed and who cares about the rest. The DRE’s constant response to this was to roll his eyes in an overly dramatic way, so as to dismiss her. I made a note to try to get her on my side as swiftly as possible, someone so full of fire might be useful. It was at that meeting that we sorted out the groups for the Lenten Bible Study. Do to the chance of people’s schedules I was put in the Wednesday evening pile, which was exceptionally large. I was there with The Matriarch and because of this, I assumed that we would meet at her house, given that she doesn’t drive well at night. Also in the large stack was the DRE, with his year-round Bible Study group. I started my political machinations by trying to divide the stack into two distinct groups, the DRE’s Weekly Syndicate, meeting at The Parish Center, and My Communist Bible Group, meeting at The Matriarch’s house.

I scanned the cards to see if I could get The Accountant into my group, but she was signed up for a different night. Also, much to my chagrin, Bill Reeves, my right-hand man, was in for another night. Noticing this, I glanced over at the DRE. Apparently he had all of his ducks in a row. It was then that the Dance Teacher spoke up, “Maybe we should make two groups on Wednesday,” she stated. Aha! One in my corner! The DRE faltered a bit, now for good reason. He could not have some maverick, who thought that the beloved “Holy Name” should be called “The Church of The Most” leading his own group and drawing support away from the central authority. After all, how long had it taken him to break the priest?

Yes . . . Why not have two groups? It was obvious that there were enough, and the Teologia de Comunidades de Base that was the model for the structure was built around small groups. Sweat gleamed from his white forehead, only slightly balder than my own. I met his gaze and he stammered, “Well, I think it would be easier to have one group, then everybody could meet in the same place.” A poor argument, to say the least. Obviously the DRE cared little for the dimming eyes of The Matriarch, and risking her fair health was only a small price for keeping a tight rein.

“But Phillip signed up to be a leader. He could lead a second group if you thought we needed it.” The Dance Teacher! Maybe Bill Reeves could play second fiddle to her. If she made her way into my group she would advance through the ranks like she was paying graft.

“I think one’s enough. Besides there will be a few times I have to miss and someone will need to fill in for me while I’m gone, maybe Jane.” There was a murmur of contentment with nodding heads as a single eye of each of the other comity members looked to the hour hand rapidly approaching nine.

“Sheep!” was all I could muster in my mind for an instant. I had noted that the name of the fill-in did not correspond to my own and in no way answered The Dance Teacher’s point. But the time I took to process the information and come up with a credible counter argument was too long.

“Where did you get that sweater?” The Matriarch asked The Accountant. What proceeded was a fiasco for my Communist Bible Group. A long involved tale of a certain store in Metairie where they “even sell old lady underwear” rapidly supplanted my movement and adjourned the meeting all in one fell swoop. The only thing not resolved was what exactly “old lady underwear” is and for my part, I was glad of that.

I placed the letter in my activist file, knowing I had to bide my time. There’s always next year. I put a post-it on the letter as a reminder to do a little investigating about The Weekly Syndicate as well as where my supporters are next year in advance of Lent, so as to consolidate my power. Apparently the DRE did his homework far in advance of me this year and in doing so, brought down my Communist Bible Group. We’ll see if that’s the case next year.

Phillip G.

Literature