It's Personal: You Decide... St. Bridget's

It was the feast of St. Pius X. August 21, 2000. I was nearing the end of my time at St. Bridget's in Cheshire. A summer internship, if you will, before entering the seminary. The pastor, a priest for whom my uncles had been altar boys in West Haven, was a smart and happy man of Irish stock who ruled his roost absolutely and effectively. That's why it was such an honor for him to allow me to give the homily at a 7:30 a.m. Monday mass. Although not practice the Catholic Church technically allows, the pastor believed that the only way an aspiring priest could be good at giving homilies was to give them. It made sense to me. By late August, I had already given my fair share of homilies to the small Monday congregation. I can't say many of the homilies were particularly good; I was actually very nervous in my alb in front of even those few people. But, on August 21st, I stepped to the pulpit and delivered what was probably the best homily I had given during my short tenure. In fact, I had more than one parishioner tell me that it had brought them to tears. After the mass, a group of us went over to the small coffee shop across the street and enjoyed a cup of joe. The pastor and I then returned to the office to begin the day's work. The pastor immediately called me into his office and complimented me on the homily. I thanked him. Then, he smiled a big grin and said, 'But you do know that you just gave a homily about St. Rose of Lima and that today is the feast of St. Pius X. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me...'

I returned to St. Bridget's for Christmas in 2000 at the pastor's request. And because I felt that St. Bridget's felt more like my own parish at the time. The pastor welcomed me and grilled me about all the happenings at the seminary. He wanted to know which priests visited. And what I was learning. What I'd seen in Boston. And what I'd learned thus far. He then told me that he needed someone to help him at the Christmas masses, especially the Midnight Mass, which for whatever reason is not really at midnight in most parishes but at 10. I was, of course, more than happy to oblige. And so, we readied ourselves for the very special mass. The pastor wanted me to be the thurifer. In other words, the guy that holds the thurible. Okay, so the guy that swings the holy smoke. That help? I had acquired the knack at the seminary. A clean swing - like a pendulum - using a little wrist action in the right hand. So, we got the smoke smoking for the entrance and then I put the thurible aside. Well, it soon came time to add more incense to the thurible. The one problem was that I didn't know how it opened. The ones with which I was accustomed at the seminary had a piece on top that you could grab and lift. This one had no such piece. And I had no idea how to open it. So, I did the only thing I could at that moment. I lifted the metal with my bare fingers. For those of you who don't know, where there's smoke there's generally fire. And the embers in that thurible made touching the metal like touching a stove. I survived that first time. And then I had to do it again later in the mass. And then right before leaving. And no, I did not figure out how to life the lid - at least during the mass. The result? Fingertips that didn't heal for a month.