Circa late 1960’s, in a Catholic town, in a predominately Catholic state of Catholic southern Germany, what does a good Catholic boy do? He joins the ranks of the ‘Altar Boys’, so there I was, a halo growing ‘Saint seedling’. Living in a non-secular society our state school curriculum included grooming in catholic rituals, text, song, and protocol. Altar boy training offered a blend of fun and struggle, the latter, referring to some Latin prayers we were supposed to learn but gave up trying. As we all knelt around the altar, the priest in the centre praying the ‘Confiteor’, we just used to mumble in pretence, except at the point of the chest beating “Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa”, when the volume increased tenfold, then dropped back to a mumbling in pianissimo for the remainder of the prayer. ‘Fortune favours the volunteers’ was the motto of a group of us altar boys who always put our hands up when the priest came to school asking for assistance at weddings or funerals. First of all, this meant a few hours off school. Then, at funerals we had the privilege of riding in the priest’s car, waving to all the other people who had to walk from the church to the cemetery. We felt like celebrities. Traditionally, the family of the deceased would make a donation to the priest and the altar boys. Naturally, this had made our day as we went back to school, each of us carrying the monetary value of approx. six ice creams in their pockets. Weddings, being a happy event, paid double that. The altar boys’ job was a busy one. Besides the decorative task of standing in line, hands folded in prayer and looking important, there were various other tasks to complete, such as passing the collection box around, carrying the offerings to the altar or lighting and extinguishing all the candles. At the ‘Corpus Christi’ procession we carried heavy crosses and banners for two hours. At high masses and funerals, one of us had to swing the incense pot from side to side, engulfed in drowsing fragrant smoke. On one occasion, at a funeral, I baffled the priest and the congregation during the ‘dust to dust’ ritual, when I took three un-balanced steps backwards to avoid falling into the grave. I just wasn’t ready to turn back into dust.
For initiation, any self-respecting altar boy was expected to taste the mass wine without getting caught at least once during his career. Getting dressed for mass was an ordeal. Finding a fitting size and colour match of the three-piece outfit (skirt, shirt, and collar) seemed to lie beyond the power of prayer. Oversize skirts were rolled up to create a makeshift belt which would often loosen during mass and begin to slide down, leaving the audience wondering why we kept scratching our hips. Nobody is perfect including altar boys, so we committed our fair share of bloopers. In preparation for mass, we were divided into two groups, each one delegated to sit at the right or left side of the altar. One Sunday, halfway through the service, it dawned on me that I had placed myself on the wrong flank. Taking this minor mistake more seriously than it actually was, I suddenly decided to cross to the other side, right in front of the priest who paused his sermon staring at me, amidst giggles from the congregation and my fellow altar boys. Considering that politicians sometimes cross the floor in parliament, I found my act was harmless, even though I was the talk of the town that day. The Parish rewarded us for our efforts with annual excursions to places like Switzerland, as well as a Christmas party, where we were served a meal, shown a ‘colour movie’, and sent home with a book. The genres were tailored by the parish counsel to match the recipient’s presumed interests, such as science, sport, or art. Mysteriously, I always scored the adventure novels. During the Christmas and Easter period, the Church was an altar boy’s second home. We confessed sins we didn’t commit, just to be seen visiting the confessional, to be able to serve at mass. One Christmas, harbouring a freshly purified soul as usual, I was rostered on for midnight mass. This was no easy feat, for it went on for two and a half hours, most of which we would spend standing, holding a stand-up candle in a glass bowl, about the height of my chin. Entertained by our angelic church choir, who’s only handicap was that they didn’t know when to call it a day, my head sank forward. Next thing I remember is waking up to a smouldering smell, still standing upright. One ‘Ave Maria’ by Schubert and an ‘Ave Verum’ by Mozart later the smell had gone, leaving me to think I had imagined it. Once I reached home exhausted, my mother asked what happened to my fringe and eyebrows!
On this note I like to wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and please, beware of candles.