Photo on left : RIP Elmo....
“… And so, let us pray together in the words the Jesus gave us…”
And the dreaded words are said. I watch the man next to me discreetly (or so he thinks) wipe the sweat off his hands and onto his pants. The little girl in front of me sneezes into hers (Note to self: avoid any sign of peace with the contaminated appendage - sometimes I wonder if there was a cold and flu season when St. Peter introduced the holding of hands and communal sharing of the wine cup into the Catholic mass). I look to either side of me where both of my pew neighbors are holding out their hands, elbows scrunched as close to their sides as possible (as if I wouldn’t see them) so as I have no choice but to reach and feel as if my shoulder is being popped out of its socket in this prayerful version of Tug-of-War. I clasp my fingers around my pew neighbors’ hands and wait for the return gesture… only to be affronted with the dreaded opposite: the dead fish handshake.
Let me preface this by saying that I have nothing personal against dead fish. In fact, with all due respect to the deceased “superclass” (phylum vertebrata, I found out – there’s my $32,000 education going to work), I love seafood. Thus, in all technicalities, a dead fish could be one of my favorite things in the world according to that last statement. So, to all those fish out there who are going to come out saying I am ichthyophobic (afraid of fish), my factoid about seafood proves the exact opposite.
Catholic mass is a 2000-year old tradition (give or take a few corrupt years and that whole Vatican II thing). The beloved “The Lord’s Prayer” aka “The Our Father,” a key component to not only the Catholic mass but also to many other Christian religious services, is older still, dating back to 1541 A.D. (The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume IX). In Catholic elementary schools and Catholic religious education programs across the world, this prayer is one of the first, if not the first, prayers taught to the earth’s youngest parishioners. With this kind of emphasis put on such a prayerful tradition, one would assume few problems would be found with this particular aspect of mass. However, my experience has proven quite the opposite and it all revolves around dead fish.
Dead fish, while normally envisioned with utter disgust (not to mention that putrid odor that the dog forever reeks of following a trip to the lake where he/she finds a dead fish and proceeds to do the inevitable: roll all over it), actually have quite an important role in Biblical history. As Jesus gathers his apostles to follow Him, three are fisherman. Then, in the favorite story of every Sunday School teacher for children under the age of ten, Jesus’ division of the five fishes (dead, of course) and two loaves of bread among thousands of people cannot be forgotten. The people of Galilee lived on a lake, for Pete’s sake (just take a look at Minnesota where the opening day of the Fishing Season is the Superbowl of the summer); fishing was their lifeline.
I’d like to think that it is out of respect for this vital part of Biblical times that lies behind the “Lord’s Prayer” experience I endure each week. However, even my optimism cannot reach that far. So, I stand there in my shoulder-dislocating position to hold hands with two dead fish: limp, floppy and as impersonal a holding hands encounter as one can possibly achieve. I squeeze each person’s fingers a little harder, hinting as tactfully as I know how. Each neighbors’ fingers stiffen and I anxiously await the finger curl… nothing. Next, I pull my fingers away a bit, thinking my fellow “Our Father-ians” will feel as if they are dropping my hand and grasp hard to catch it… my hands fall against the pew in front of me with a bruising crash (note to self: do not fall off cliff in presence of fellow pew inhabitants). Bowing my head and hoping the glaring eyes of the parishioners I feel on the back of my head are simply my imagination, I quickly recite the remainder of the prayer with my hands folded across my stomach.
Since that dreadful “dropping of the hands,” I have added a long repertoire of tricks to encourage the parishioner next to me to actually hold my hand (luckily, none as noisy as the first). So, next time you are sitting in church and here someone furiously whisper “Stop pinching me already,” you will know I’m in town for the weekend, forever on my mission to save the Catholic mass from the tyrannical takeover of the Dead Fish Handshake…
And the dreaded words are said. I watch the man next to me discreetly (or so he thinks) wipe the sweat off his hands and onto his pants. The little girl in front of me sneezes into hers (Note to self: avoid any sign of peace with the contaminated appendage - sometimes I wonder if there was a cold and flu season when St. Peter introduced the holding of hands and communal sharing of the wine cup into the Catholic mass). I look to either side of me where both of my pew neighbors are holding out their hands, elbows scrunched as close to their sides as possible (as if I wouldn’t see them) so as I have no choice but to reach and feel as if my shoulder is being popped out of its socket in this prayerful version of Tug-of-War. I clasp my fingers around my pew neighbors’ hands and wait for the return gesture… only to be affronted with the dreaded opposite: the dead fish handshake.
Let me preface this by saying that I have nothing personal against dead fish. In fact, with all due respect to the deceased “superclass” (phylum vertebrata, I found out – there’s my $32,000 education going to work), I love seafood. Thus, in all technicalities, a dead fish could be one of my favorite things in the world according to that last statement. So, to all those fish out there who are going to come out saying I am ichthyophobic (afraid of fish), my factoid about seafood proves the exact opposite.
Catholic mass is a 2000-year old tradition (give or take a few corrupt years and that whole Vatican II thing). The beloved “The Lord’s Prayer” aka “The Our Father,” a key component to not only the Catholic mass but also to many other Christian religious services, is older still, dating back to 1541 A.D. (The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume IX). In Catholic elementary schools and Catholic religious education programs across the world, this prayer is one of the first, if not the first, prayers taught to the earth’s youngest parishioners. With this kind of emphasis put on such a prayerful tradition, one would assume few problems would be found with this particular aspect of mass. However, my experience has proven quite the opposite and it all revolves around dead fish.
Dead fish, while normally envisioned with utter disgust (not to mention that putrid odor that the dog forever reeks of following a trip to the lake where he/she finds a dead fish and proceeds to do the inevitable: roll all over it), actually have quite an important role in Biblical history. As Jesus gathers his apostles to follow Him, three are fisherman. Then, in the favorite story of every Sunday School teacher for children under the age of ten, Jesus’ division of the five fishes (dead, of course) and two loaves of bread among thousands of people cannot be forgotten. The people of Galilee lived on a lake, for Pete’s sake (just take a look at Minnesota where the opening day of the Fishing Season is the Superbowl of the summer); fishing was their lifeline.
I’d like to think that it is out of respect for this vital part of Biblical times that lies behind the “Lord’s Prayer” experience I endure each week. However, even my optimism cannot reach that far. So, I stand there in my shoulder-dislocating position to hold hands with two dead fish: limp, floppy and as impersonal a holding hands encounter as one can possibly achieve. I squeeze each person’s fingers a little harder, hinting as tactfully as I know how. Each neighbors’ fingers stiffen and I anxiously await the finger curl… nothing. Next, I pull my fingers away a bit, thinking my fellow “Our Father-ians” will feel as if they are dropping my hand and grasp hard to catch it… my hands fall against the pew in front of me with a bruising crash (note to self: do not fall off cliff in presence of fellow pew inhabitants). Bowing my head and hoping the glaring eyes of the parishioners I feel on the back of my head are simply my imagination, I quickly recite the remainder of the prayer with my hands folded across my stomach.
Since that dreadful “dropping of the hands,” I have added a long repertoire of tricks to encourage the parishioner next to me to actually hold my hand (luckily, none as noisy as the first). So, next time you are sitting in church and here someone furiously whisper “Stop pinching me already,” you will know I’m in town for the weekend, forever on my mission to save the Catholic mass from the tyrannical takeover of the Dead Fish Handshake…
