The Reluctant Organist

"Mike! You're gonna miss Mass!"

My dad's voice rang through my bedroom at the appointed hour on Sunday morning, a weekly ritual as sure as the rambling homilies of Father Lang, the Catholic priest who presided in my family's church. I'd confronted my father on my doubts of the Catholic faith in which I was raised on several occasions, but none of my concerns ever seemed to register.

"As long as you're living in my house, you live by my rules," he'd retort.

It had long since dawned on me that the idea of 'forced faith' was an oxymoron; if one doesn't believe, what's the point in going through the motions? Of course, the loss of the little help I was receiving for my college tuition acted as quite effective leverage against the notion of failing to show up at St. Joseph's each Sunday. As an angry young man I was appalled at my lack of fight on principle, but I had convinced myself that enduring some mindless rituals for another year was a much better plan of attack than confrontation at this point. Heaven knows, apparently, that my father was as rigid on the subject as the book of Deuteronomy's stance is against those without complete testicles entering a house of God (Look it up: Deuteronomy 23:1). Something told me that going to church was still the easiest way about things for now. Of course, that 'something' was bolstered by Deuteronomy 21:18-21: "If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father … all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you." I wasn't about to test my father's archaic limitations.

Yet again I found myself showering twenty minutes before Mass started, cleansing my body with the holy oils of Head and Shoulders and Dove. I had long since abandoned wearing my "Sunday best," but the respect instilled in me by my parents and childhood parochial school teacher-nuns still manifested itself in a button-down flannel shirt and khaki pants. While backing out of my driveway, I contemplated my course of action. The rest of my family had already attended early morning Mass, and I had 'celebrated Mass' a few times before in the local Dunkin' Donuts, sipping coffee and getting some work done. Perhaps it was the guilt incurred from reflection on these past trespasses that indeed guided my car towards the church that day.

I entered the building a few minutes before 11 in the morning, when Mass was scheduled to start. As I dipped my second and third finger in holy water to bless myself, just in case my earlier, more commercialized ablutions weren't enough, I caught the eye of Father Lang, who was casting me an intriguing look. Before I could utter the compulsory, "Good morning, Father," he strode up to me.

"You're just the person who can help me right now," said the somewhat anxious priest, a few beads of sweat moistening his creased forehead. "My fool organist decided not to show this morning. Do you think you could sit in?"

Entwined with my surprise at this ambush was the renewal of a familiar feeling that crept up on me whenever I spoke with Father Lang. He wasn't like the priests of my childhood, mythic ancient men with white hair like God Himself and booming voices. He was middle-aged with a sweaty brow and thinning dark hair, but more damning than his appearance was his demeanor. The clergyman spoke down of other people behind their back more often than I expected of a member of the clergy, which is to say at all. Every so often, he made slightly off-color jokes and spoke of other parishioners and this manner of speech was so foreign from my previous dealings with the clergy that I never felt at all comfortable conversing with him. However, the man was obviously in a bind, and I replied with a "happy to help."

Seconds later, I was following the billowing, green robes of Father Lang to the rather space-age-looking keyboard situated where the first few pews would normally be located in the front right corner of the church. He showed me where the organist kept his books and what music was planned for today, all the while grumbling, "I'm going to kill that guy," which would certainly be breaking a commandment or two. I was relieved when the priest scurried off to the back of the church to begin his official procession to the altar. Exactly how do you reply to a priest contemplating murder?

I had always been comfortable in front of an audience, but this was a congregation. I was used to playing 'gigs' wherever and whenever found, but the word sounds all wrong in conjunction with leading the sacred Catholic Mass. During the service, there was no deep mental contemplation, no soul search for me. I sat on the bench in front of the keyboard and just tried to keep my fingers dry enough to not slip off the keys, as if sight-reading hymns in A flat did not already take enough of my attention. Silently I apologized to the congregation through the fleeting eye contact I made with its members that I did not know how to play the organ. Centuries-old hymns never sound quite right on an electronic keyboard, no matter how realistic the grand piano sound may be.

Before the service ended, Father Lang stepped in front of the altar, named me as today's literal eleventh-hour stand-in, and led the congregation in a round of applause I absolutely didn't deserve. This was no performance, and I was no performer. Besides the fact, I was fully aware that the congregation was blissfully unaware of my previous jaunts to coffee shops instead of houses of worship, my previous waverings of faith, and my quite current doubts of Deuteronomy and its predetermined importance on intact male genitalia. While nothing had transpired to shake my views, I felt guilty all the same, as if I was somehow tricking the congregation into believing I was some pillar of Catholicism, holding up the worship music end of things.

I made sure to look busy after playing the outro music, fiddling with sheet music and buttons and papers and keeping my head down, dodging those who came up to me with words of thanks and compliments. Sure, I appreciated them as anyone would, but I was thoroughly convinced that anyone who got close enough would feel the shame radiating from my face. On my way out, after reluctantly giving him my contact information in case of further musical emergency, I shook the priest's hand, uncomfortable as ever.


"Thanks for your help," Father Lang said. "You really answered God's call today."


I thought about correcting him, but instead nodded, murmured something unintelligible, and turned. I have my criticisms of the faults of institutionalized religion, but it was the institution that had just helped me shed some light on my own faults. With any combination of luck and intelligence, I'll never lose my open-mindedness toward the spiritual and unexplained. For now, I can hardly handle being on God's speed-dial.