The Male Mystique

The Male Mystique

“As regards the individual nature, woman is defective and misbegotten, for the active power of the male seed tends to the production of a perfect likeness in the masculine sex; while the production of a woman comes from defect in the active power.”

·              Thomas Aquinas Summa Theologica, Q92,Art. 1

It didn’t take long for Catholic kids in the ‘50s to figure out that ours was a church in which men ruled and women served. The altar rail stood as a symbol of that distinction, and women were never seen inside the sanctuary, except at odd hours when they were allowed to sneak in and perform housekeeping duties - like changing the altar linens, arranging flowers, or scraping up spilled candle wax. Altar-girls were unheard of in the 50s.  On any given Sunday, there might be four generations of men parading around the altar in various robes, but the women, all wearing some kind of Paul-mandated headgear, were relegated to the pews. The message was clear: official religion was man’s work.

In second grade, we got our first crack at this male hierarchy. Those of us who had evinced enough self-control that there was a chance we could stand still for half an hour without going into some sort of spasm were chosen to be trained as “torchbearers” for Friday night Benediction. The nuns made a big deal out of this first selection process. Anyone who was interested in becoming a torchbearer had to officially submit his name to his teacher, knowing that he would only be picked if she thought he was worthy to serve at God’s altar. By second grade, none of us thought we were worthy of anything, so it was a pretty scary crap-shoot.  

The day finally came when our teacher read off the names of that year’s torchbearer draft. Those of us whose names she called were immediately slotted into an elite fraternity. Not everyone’s name was on the list. This of course made those of us who were on it feel very special. We were God’s elite troops.

Now I realize that the only reason that Johnny Bocabella, our class’ standout athlete, wasn’t “chosen” as a torchbearer was that he never submitted his name. The nuns would have picked him right away, but his Dad probably advised him against it, knowing that Johnny’s calling was to swinga bat, not to carry one around with a candle on the end of it. (I’m really glad I only figured this out later in life, since it would have put a serious dent in my elite torchbearer veneer.)

We torchbearers immediately became a fraternity. It’s like we had been initiated into the first degree of a prestigious secret society . The next step would be” altar-boy,” and that, in turn, might lead, through various steps, to “priesthood.” After that, God only knew - Bishop, Cardinal, maybe even Pope.

(No - we shouldn’t say that. We had no right to exalt ourselves, even in our imagination. . . But we HAD taken the first step. . . And after that it was up to God. . . So it WAS a possibility.)

The job of the torchbearer was to kneel in front of the altar as devout, candle-bearing witnesses, as the priest “exposed” Jesus, the Light of the World, to the congregation. We would blend our light with the Christ-light, as the priest held aloft the consecrated host, encapsulated in a gold-spired “monstrance” (fr.“monstrare”, to show, highlight, demonstrate). He would lift the monstrance high, then sweep down, then up, then over, in the sign of the cross; and the congregation would bless themselves in the same cruciform pattern.

The “torches” that we “bore” were five-foot long wooden poles with candles mounted on the top. These were kept behind the large marble altar, out of sight of the congregation, inserted in holes which had been drilled into a long wooden shelf.

As torchbearers, we had to wear cassocks and surplices, so part of our training consisted in learning how to select the right size of these mystical garments. The cassocks were all kept in a tall cabinet, and there must have been at least thirty of them, in various sizes. On that magical first day of training, we were instructed to try on several of them, until we found one that fit, and then we were told to find some identifying mark on the label that would enable us to find that specific cassock again. Usually there were six torchbearers, chosen according to height, the first pair being the shortest and the last the tallest. We were all in the same grade, so there wasn’t a huge height difference between us. That meant that, on any given Friday night or Sunday afternoon, there might be another guy your same height who would go for your favorite cassock if he got there first. So you better get there early if you wanted to be sure you got the cassock that fit.

You also needed to check for candle wax. The last kid who wore it might have tilted his candle and sloshed a bunch of wax on it. You didn’t want to walk out there in front of all those people with a big chunk of wax hanging off the front of your cassock.  

Or missing buttons. That was another thing. You didn’t want to parade out there looking like your fly was open.

Over the black cassock, you wore a white surplice, which you also had to check carefully. It, too, might have candle wax on it, or it might have gotten ripped at the collar when the last kid was taking it off.  That’s why you always wanted to get there early, so you’d have time to check out your wardrobe. Plus, if you got there early, you might get to hang out with the older altar-boys and young priests who made up an exclusive and intriguing inner circle within this all-male hierarchy.

When it was time for Benediction to begin, we torchbearers would line up, two abreast, and then process out to the middle of the sanctuary where we would genuflect together, two by two, and then go to either side, just in front of the altar rail. Eventually, there would be three of us kneeling on each side. We didn’t have anything to do during the first part of Benediction, except kneel there and look pious. Shortly before the Blessed Sacrament was taken out of the tabernacle to be “exposed” to the congregation, we would get our signal. We would all stand up together and proceed around either side of the altar to the back, where our torches were kept. The altars were huge in those days, symbolizing the Church Universal and Triumphant, so they gave us plenty of protection. We could easily all fit behind the altar, out of sight of the congregation. One of the older guys would come with us and light the candles. We would carefully pull them up from their slots and line up, still out of sight. Then came the tricky part – coordinating our re-entrance so that we appeared simultaneously from each side of the altar. If our timing was off, even by a little bit, the effect would be spoiled, with one side lurching out first and then screeching to an embarrassed halt when they noticed their counterparts on the other side had failed to show.

Once we got back to our places in front of the altar rail, we stood with our backs to the congregation, waiting for the signal to kneel. This was perhaps the trickiest maneuver of the whole evening, since we had to keep our candles upright in one hand while we grabbed the back of our cassocks with the other hand and lifted them up enough so that our back foot wouldn’t get caught on the hem when we extended it backwards to kneel. (That was one other thing we learned to check when picking our cassocks – whether the stitching in our back hem was loose. Many torchbearers learned the hard way, pitching over backwards like a taut bow when their heel caught a loose hem during a kneel.)

We stayed kneeling throughout the rest of Benediction, sustaining a reverent position while the incense billowed up in our face and the hymns of the congregation wafted overhead. This is where our Spartan training came in, enabling us to keep our backs straight and our minds focused, despite the frankincense-induced nausea and dizziness that often overwhelmed us. If we did begin to waver, all we had to do was remember that at least three of the nuns were behind us, watching our every move. That was like a dose of smelling salts.

Being a torchbearer was like becoming an apprentice in the clerical union. Your elders watched your moves and assessed your attitude, and, if you passed muster, they started preparing you for the next step: altar boy. If you went on to excel as an altar boy, they would usually start suggesting to you that you might have a vocation to the priesthood, and that you might want to think about entering the seminary. If you entered the seminary and excelled there, your bishop might decide to send you to Rome for your last four years of theology. That meant you were in line to become a bishop someday.

But it all started with being a torchbearer. You had to be able to handle fire, wax, and hems.