Growing Up Catholic: The Sacraments

In the Catholic faith (and probably other Christian denominations), there are seven sacraments that mark different significant stages of a follower’s life and commitment to the Church. The seven sacraments (in relative chronological order) are: Baptism, First Reconciliation, First Communion (aka First Eucharist), Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, and Anointing of the Sick. In brief, here is what each sacrament represents:

•  Baptism: initiating someone into the Catholic club as an “official” member
•  First Reconciliation: helping Catholics seek healing for their sins by confessing to their priest (who is believed to act as a representative of God)
• First Communion: initiating someone even further into the Catholic club by letting them partake of the body and blood of Christ
• Confirmation: finalizing the initiation of someone into the Catholic club by having them reconfirm their commitment
• Marriage: strengthening the Catholic club by having two of its members enter into a holy commitment to one another
• Holy Orders: strengthening the Catholic club by having one of its members (read: men only) commit to God by becoming a priest, deacon, or bishop
•  Anointing of the Sick: helping Catholics seek healing for their ailments by being blessed by a priest (who is believed to act as a representative of God)

Now, if you’re like most Catholics, you got baptized when you were a baby and had no choice in the matter, you made your First Reconciliation in second grade when the worst sin you ever committed was calling your sister the b-word, you made your First Communion also in second grade when you barely knew what being Catholic meant, and you did Confirmation in middle school just before your critical thinking and decision-making skills kicked in. If you’re like me, you never made it past First Communion, and your mother cried bitterly for your lost soul when you told her you weren’t going to be confirmed. That’s right, I am one of those former Catholics who hasn’t gone through all the sacraments, but I have some interesting memories about the ones I did experience.

As I said, I was baptized Catholic as a baby, so I have no memory of it and did not contribute to that fairly major life decision whatsoever. My mom grew up Catholic and remains a strong devotee today, while my dad grew up Lutheran and agreed to become Catholic after marrying my mom. My parents (mostly at my mom’s demand) enrolled me in Catholic schools growing up, so the sacraments were built into my educational experience, and I didn’t need to attend Sunday School. I recall taking First Communion classes in second grade with Mrs. Knievel at St. Anthony’s Catholic School in Casper, Wyoming (and yes, she was related to well-known stuntman Evel Knievel through marriage—only in Wyoming!). I remember the parish’s priest came by occasionally to tell us about what the sacrament meant and answer any questions we had. He told us that when we eat the bread (which is really just a little silver dollar-sized wafer with less flavor than a saltine) and drink the wine (which is really real wine if you’re Catholic, not the Welch’s grape juice that those Protestant heathens give their seven-year-old children!), you are genuinely eating the body and blood of Christ. One of my less abashed classmates asked, “But isn’t that weird to eat and drink Jesus?” To which the priest replied, “No, that is what Catholics believe.” As solid an answer as that was for children at whose age the question “But why?” is compulsive, I somehow had a follow-up question. “So, the bread and the wine are symbols for the body and blood of Christ?” (Ok, ok, so it might not have been that articulate in my second-grade dialect, but it was something along those lines…) “No!” the priest forcefully dissented, “once they are blessed, they are truly the body and blood of Christ!” For real, folks, it’s called “transubstantiation,” and it’s actually what Catholics believe. To most, it is nutty at best and cannibalistic at worst. To me, it really never made sense, and I never actually bought it.

Nevertheless, like a good little Catholic girl, I completed my First Communion, with my pure, lacy white dress and shiny, white Mary Jane shoes. The day of one’s First Communion is sort of a mini-holiday for Catholics, where everyone dresses up and you are showered with gifts by approving Catholic relatives. My mom gave me a pair of teeny tiny gold star earrings with little diamonds in the middle for my freshly pierced ears, and I can honestly tell you that I still have them to this day and wear them on occasion. My grandma gave me a glo-in-the-dark rosary, so I could say my Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s with a little extra pizzazz. Mrs. Knievel gave me a laminated scapular, which is basically two thumbnail pictures of Mary and/or various saints that are laminated and tied together with what looks like a run-of-the-mill shoestring. It is meant to be draped over your shoulders and worn proudly with your First Communion attire.

When it comes to taking the body of Christ, the traditional way of doing it was to stick out one’s tongue and wait for the priest or Eucharistic minister to gently place it there. My mom told me that was weird, though, so I opted for the modern approach of cupping my hands together neatly in front of my chest and feeding it to myself like someone who’s not a lazy slob. However, it took me a while to figure out how to deal with consuming the wafer in the few seconds it takes to walk up to the wine bearer, so as not to backwash Christ into the community cup. After a few times of awkwardly chewing it before sipping the wine and, as a result, holding up the line, my mom scolded, “You just let it disintegrate at the back of your tongue! Just take the wine while it’s still in there!” I didn’t know what disintegrate meant, but I got the gist.

My First Reconciliation came during the same year, and I’m pretty sure it actually happened first (it’s all a holy blur). I remember receiving lessons in class about what it means to be absolved of your sins and being instructed to think of some sin ideas for my first time. I wasn’t a perfect child, but I really had to dig deep on that one. Should I tell the priest about how I read my sister’s diary? No, too personal. How about how I neglected to actually clean my little brother when I bathed him? Nah, too juvenile. Maybe I can tell him about how I refuse to help my mom empty the wastebaskets sometimes, even though she tells me it’s “my job”. Man, this is harder than I thought. I need to start sinning more!

I don’t remember what sins I finally arrived at for the real deal, but I do remember going into the sacrament with a paralyzing fear that the priest would find me a complete monster and chastise me in front of the whole congregation. You see, in movies they always show confession happening in those private confessionals, where a dark screen separates the sinner from the priest, offering at least the shroud of anonymity. But in reality, those fancy confessionals are rarely used in modern times; instead, most churches have opted for a quick and dirty face-to-face confession which only happens in a private room if you’re lucky, but more often occurs right in the main aisles of the church with nothing but a courtesy space bubble and some ambient hymns to protect you. You have to whisper your sins to the priest and hope the next sinner doesn’t overhear, and you better damn keep it brief! I was surprised to find that after confessing my not-so-deep, not-so-dark sins, the priest simply said, “Be nice to your family and say three Hail Mary’s.” Phew! That was easy. I diligently took out my fluorescent rosary when I returned to the pew and said my three Hail Mary’s stat, clutching one bead for each. I proudly informed my parents that my first confession went well, and I received minimal punishment. Then I posed for some awkward family photos in a very early 90s floral print dress with a giant white, triangular bib at the top and my toothless smile. I felt so relieved that, after a few days' grace period, I went right back to sinning again.