September 2007, Chattanooga, Tennessee

By Katie Flannery

I sat outside of the church and tried to talk myself into going in. Two years before, I had worked for the Catholic Church as a campus minister and, through a series of events, I had been fired.

I had kept a private blog about my differences with the church and when it had been exposed by an angry student, I not only lost my job, I was also told that I had self-excommunicated, just like all the women who went out and got themselves ordained despite the church’s teachings on women and ordination.

The biggest difference between those courageous women and me was that I didn’t know that I could suffer such harsh punishment. I had no idea that publicly dissing church teachings was punishable by excommunication.

But I had to go into the church. Mary Ann’s husband had been dying forever, it seemed, and he had finally gone. Mary Ann had been my friend for 23 years. I loved her to my very core. I was only at the church for Mary Ann. Sitting in the parking lot didn’t count.

The priest who would say the funeral Mass for my friend’s husband, Fr. Mike, was a childhood friend of mine, but his closest friend was the priest who fired me, who told me I could no longer receive the sacraments.

I hadn’t seen Mike since I was fired. I was terrified of how he might react to seeing me.

Then there was Mary Ann herself. Although I’m generally really good with death and dying stuff, talking to Mary Ann scared me. In all the years I’d known her, I’d seen her cry only a few times, all in the few months before her husband’s death. Although she was a nurse and understood Tom’s dying on a number of levels, the whole process was gut-wrenching for her. I didn’t know if I could bear her grief, now that he was dead.

About 10 minutes before the service was to start, I slipped in the side door of the church. I saw Mary Ann in the vestibule and quickly ducked out of sight to avoid her.

I sidled into the very back pew and down to the middle aisle. I kept glancing furtively — and somewhat fearfully — toward the vestibule. I wanted to talk to Mary Ann, I realized. I loved her so deeply. I was a pariah. I couldn’t have even shown up if I hadn’t loved her that much.

Suddenly, she was walking toward me. My panic evaporated, and I stood to greet my friend. We embraced, and Mary Ann said, “Thank you for coming. I know it must have been hard for you.”

I nodded into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. The end was very fast.”

I knew this already. Tom had gone down on Thursday. He went into a coma on Saturday. I found out at 8 on Sunday night, and he was dead by 9.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too. I’m glad you’re here.” Her eyes were full, and so were mine.

The funeral, in a sense, had come to me.

The Mass was as all funeral Masses are. Everything seemed to happen quickly, too quickly. When it came time for communion, I stayed put. I was no longer allowed the sacraments. I watched closely, as everyone went up to the altar to receive communion. Mary Ann was the last to go.

When Mary Ann was seated, my friend, Fr. Mike, the pastor of this church, came off the altar and headed for the back. In a Catholic church, when a priest comes off the altar, all eyes follow him.

He was headed straight for the back, where the pariah, the outcast, sat alone in the very last pew. He walked very purposefully up to where I was seated.

“Katie,” he said, “receive the Body of Christ.”

And he gave me communion.

Two years of being an outcast washed off me in an instant. Mike had done this very publicly, approached me in full view of people who knew I was not supposed to be an acknowledged part of the church, and, just like that, he asked me back into the church that had discarded me two years earlier.

Again, the funeral had come to me.

I stayed as Mary Ann and her family left. I watched all the friends file out. I waited until the very last person was gone and then I looked up at the cross. I looked around the beautiful church.

I wasn’t sure then if I would ever really be Catholic again. A lot needed to be processed. But God? She loved me still. And at that moment, I was certain of it.

Katie Flannery is a freelance writer, living in her hometown in Tennessee. She is finishing up her memoirs and has published numerous articles and stories in The East Tennessee Catholic, National Catholic Reporter, Common Ties, and other venues, and she tutors to support her writing habit. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, January 21st, 2008 | Email This Post

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