Suffer the Little Children(Gerald R Gioglio) I sat in the church dressed in full First Holy Communion regalia; blue suit, white shirt, black bowtie. Seven-years-old, I came escorted by my pious, proud and persistent mother. Her piety came from a centuries-old tradition of German Catholicism, now to be passed down one more generation; the pride vivid in gentle eyes as she witnessed the physical and spiritual growth of her young boy; her persistence making sure this holy deed was to be done—in full communion garb--even without the pomp and ceremony that normally surrounds such a communal rite of passage. Just the two of us; something far short of a Madonna tableau to be sure, yet there it was: mother and child at “the Supper of the Lamb.”

This was one week after every other seven-year-old ‘baby-boomer’ in Sacred Heart Parish, New Brunswick, New Jersey celebrated First Communion. The Church of the Sacred Heart was one of the earliest Catholic churches built in the city with a cornerstone that read “1883.” It was originally funded and constructed by Irish-American families in that neighborhood. The soaring red-brick exterior towered over our Second Ward neighborhood. The interior featured several immense columns spaced among the pews; luminous stained-glass windows depicting miraculous events graced the tall windows. As I recall, a handsome marble altar (or kneeling) rail for receiving Communion formed an open semi-circle in front of the altar; decades of burnt wax candles and a hint of incense often kissed the air. All of this beauty delighted the senses, pulling one deeper into the mystery.

Sitting there, I could imagine the scene from the prior week: cute little girls in white dresses and veils, squirrely pintsize boys in blue, some smiling mischievously, most attempting piety, hands folded chest-high, fingers akimbo, like so many jagged church steeples; the relieved and smiling nuns, proud parents, amused families.

But that day I was home sick with the measles, spotted, droopy and more worried sick about returning to school than recovering from measles. I was dead meat. I mean the good Sisters of Charity insisted, “You are only allowed to miss First Holy Communion if you are dead.” Ahh, I survived the measles…not dead yet. But what next? The Inquisition? Stretched by the Rack? Told to sit next to Florence Farnsworth, the little girl whose smile left me feeling goofy, nervous and for some reason made me think I no longer wanted to be a priest when I grew up? The Rack…that might be better.

But at this point, there I was with mom, perfectly alive, albeit more than a bit apprehensive. I was also dying of hunger. In those days receiving Communion required one to fast overnight so I was missing my morning bowl of Rice Krispies, with milk, and strawberries, maybe sliced bananas. ‘Fasting,’ something about ‘mor-ti-fi-ca-tion’…whatever that was.

Kneeling at the rail, we waited for the priest to administer the sacramental body and blood of Christ. A scary, mindboggling thought that -- whether you abide with the mind of a child or struggle to wrap your head around it as an adult.

These were the pre-Vatican II days, the services were mostly in Latin, unapproachable and mysterious. What singing there was arrived as a haunting, yet soothing chant, pious, ancient and hypnotic. Hey, it wasn’t Doo-Wop or the early Rock n Roll, but it could move you. Other medieval traditions reigned; for example, there was minimal lay participation, there were no women on the altar and Catholics received Communion only on the tongue. This latter was a big deal. The Sisters reminded us no chewing was allowed, one was supposed to let the wafer soften or dissolve, then swallow. So, a lot of kids practiced with candy ‘Necco Wafers.’ Now this was the kind of rote, repetitive behavior I could get into. I’m like, ’Oh yeah, alright, I got this.’

Suddenly, an altar boy, not much older than me, reached down over the kneeling rail and slid a gold-plated Paten under my chin, ready to catch Communion hosts that might drop. No problem here, I believed I had the mechanics down perfectly; besides, what kid didn’t like to stick his tongue out whenever the opportunity presented itself? In this, my first experience, I received the much larger-than-expected Communion wafer flawlessly and mom and I headed back to the pews.

But something was terribly wrong; the host felt huge; it was not sugar-sweet like those candy wafers! It took forever to dissolve and I started to panic. I tried to swallow but couldn’t and then I started to choke. Mom, without words of reproach or criticism, pulled out a tissue and put it to my mouth. Christ swaddled yet again, 1954 years later.

After Mass what remained of the host was brought to the sacristy where a surprised Reverend Eugene V. Davis, our pastor, took possession from a visibly humble, apologetic mother and her broken, hangdog child.

Now, in the best of situations, this Reverend Davis was a stern-looking fellow; a ‘man’s man’ to be sure, a huge football fan, one of those men with a perpetual 5 o’clock shadow; think Humphrey Bogart in clerics. A few years later a song appeared with this lyric, “He’s a mean motor-scooter and a bad go-getter.” To a kid, Father Davis was that guy. In class, the Sisters simply needed to evoke his name to get cooperation from the “bold-brazen articles,” such as myself, who came under their charge. I mean, he just had to crook his right eyebrow to stop wayward children in their tracks. No one wanted to mess with this guy.

And yet here in this mystifying, scary alcove adjacent the altar, the intimidating Father Davis became a gentle shepherd—the sacristy as phone booth; the all-powerful Superman transformed into the humble Clark Kent. In this moment of failure and great personal embarrassment stood a Father Davis that had not been seen before—softened and non-judgmental-- one who, at exactly the right moment, embraced the quote chiseled over the entrance to the adjacent Sacred Heart School, “Suffer the Little Children to Come Unto Me.” A phrase that would forever flash me back to the softened face and quiet understanding rarely seen under his harsh and crooked brow.

A lifetime later I see this event as instructive. Mine was certainly not the experience any first communicant would hope for, but perhaps there was a deeper truth behind the failed sacramental experience; something akin to the story of Peter’s denial of Christ in the courtyard. Indeed, this would prove to be just the first time I was not able to fully accept the Divine in my life.
On a happy note, my mom, bless her protective and generous heart, did not rat me out at the family gathering we had later. Soon the trauma, embarrassment and sense of failure faded. What’s more, despite the ‘death threats,’ I did not suffer the wrath of disappointed Sisters when I returned to school that week. Free at last and feeling very much alive, I began to wonder if Florence Farnsworth would flash her smile if I invited her to share a snack-box of Cheez-Its with me.

The next Sunday I went back to the altar rail; in my mind both Father Davis and I were transformed… he the saintly shepherd, me the grateful, if still bold and brazen article. This time, Brother Jesus and I had a much better time of it. In the case of the good Father Davis, the kid learned not to “judge a book by its cover;” and importantly, I experienced the feelings of failure and redemption. Not bad lessons those – although all too mystical and profound for a seven-year-old to swallow.

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