REMEMBERING A DISTANT PAST

Anecdotal evidence suggests that some of us, at an advanced age, may not remember what we had for dinner last night, but clearly recollect what we experienced during our youth. This occurred to me recently when I was searching for a topic to write about to take a break from commenting on politically contentious issues. A friend of mine revealed a photograph of himself in full altar boy attire. This revelation generated memories from a fairly significant time period in my own life. A history which has had an impact on my own childhood. I was born in The Netherlands, four months before the end of World War II. During my first few years, my parents struggled to get a grip on the cultural destruction the Nazis left behind after occupying the country for five long years. When I turned six years old and entered grade school, I had gradually become aware of my surroundings. Compared to today, life, for me, was very simple. Once we acquired a telephone, we were connected to a party line. Our access number contained only three digits. Sinterklaas and Black Pete were real and legitimate. And each Catholic family was obligated to contribute one male member to the priesthood. To build up the depleted work force, the government generously contributed financial support for families who produced multiple children. For Catholic families, prohibited from using artificial birth control, this was a blessing. I ended up being the oldest of eleven children. Within the chaotic post war environment, one of the stable, familiar organizations providing a sense of comfort and belonging was the faith community. My parents, especially my dad, were quite involved with the local Catholic Church. So, when I turned six years old, my dad volunteered my services as a prospective altar boy. The introduction to my first official function in my religious community is a bit fuzzy. I remember being scheduled almost daily to assist in a daily 7:30am mass in the middle of winter. Wearing my best shorts (I suppose my parents could not afford long pants at the time) I would walk to church and huddled against a wall waiting for our pastor’s housekeeper to unlock the door so I could get in and get ready. But the physical strain was only a minor inconvenience. Back then, mass was celebrated in Latin. For a six year old, who only recently began to develop a vocabulary in my parents’ language, this became a struggle. We had to learn latin responses to the priest’s prayers during the mass. This meant sheer memorization. I do believe we had cue cards of sorts, but we had no clue what we were saying. This was not essential. We just needed to pronounce each syllable in the right order. Most people in the pews had no idea of what was being said either. Our pastor - revered for his open opposition to the Nazi occupation forces - was stone deaf and stubbornly impatient. He had a habit of strutting towards the altar, whether we altar boys were ready or not. Since he could not hear our responses to his prayers, he would look around to see if we were done reciting our responses, and continue when our lips no longer moved. When we were too slow performing other elements of our prescribed ritual, he would, to our embarrassment, loudly exclaim his impatience. Since he could not hear himself, his voice carried. In subsequent years, after the old pastor passed away, and still well before the 2nd Vatican Council (1962-1965) decreed that mass could be translated into commonly used languages, there were two occurrences that helped to focus my ultimate development. Influenced by my early years as an altar boy, and encouraged by slightly older friends destined for the seminary, I decided that I had received the calling to become a priest. I wanted to become a missionary, since, early on, I wanted to travel. To be clear, I also had my sights set on, at some point, becoming a saint. Sainthood appeared to be somewhat complicated. However, once the word leaked out, at least once a month a tenacious recruiter from a regional seminary began to show up at our house. While hormones may have played a role in causing me ultimately to shelve these objectives, another developing issue caused me to cancel them altogether. My relationship with our new parochial priest gradually became confrontational. It did not take long before our disagreements reached a boiling point. There came a time when I had had enough, led an insurrection and called a strike. All of my fellow altar boys followed suit. The work stoppage lasted the better part of a full month. At some time during this period I realized that my pursuit of the priesthood was no longer tenable. After all, if I continued on that track I would certainly not become the first and only Dutch pope since Adrian VI, who only ruled for 20 months during the 16th century. As it was, even though he was nominated as a compromise candidate by Cardinal De Medici, he was considered to be the “Barbarian of the North” by the Italian clerical elite. All in all, I may have disappointed some of my friends and relatives at the time. However, the entire period taught me a sense of responsibility well beyond my years, and provided a bundle of memories that occupied a special place in my early life. I retained a deeper understanding of the religion I grew up with, something I might not have had had my dad not involved me at a very early age. While I may not remember what I had to eat yesterday, a simple black and white photograph generated scents, sounds and sights that were buried in a history I might have forgotten. Theo Wierdsma