I’m a regular St. Peter. No, I’m not all that infallible, sadly, but I do now have the keys. Not to heaven of course, but to the church.
Yes, I’ve had the keys to the church for a good long while, but it wasn’t common knowledge. Now as parishioners learn that I have the keys, I have found myself a new meaning and purpose for my existence.
I am now a doorman.
I’m in good company. There have been an inordinate number of holy doormen. There must be something about that line of work…..
But I digress.
I am now the go-to guy for locking up the church. I have the keys, and so therefore, I should have to stand around for an extra half hour while everyone moseys out of the church. I find it interesting that there is no person actually assigned to this task. There is no rotating schedule of key-bearers as to who is going to laze about reading old pamphlets while old ladies talk about their hats and kids run marathon laps up and down the choir loft. Nope, it is just done by however does it.
That person is now me.
It all started when we had a bit of vandalism over the holidays. Someone got in the church somehow, and stole our processional cross. We live in a rather poor community that is rife with homelessness and drugs, so this kind of thing is not really all that uncommon. When cleaning up the church we often find beer cans in the confessional, (I’m pretty sure they weren’t Father’s, as he would just enjoy a cold beverage in the rectory 3 steps away.) and on occasion we will open the narthex to find it stinks of cigarette tobacco or marijuana. What is one to do?
The string of vandalism over the holidays had a more violent, destructive nature. So those going to daily Mass had to be a bit more careful to make sure that everything was locked up good and tight.
By “those”, I of course meant “I”.
So there you go. I feel like a kid who got all excited at having the keys to the car, only to find out that it means I have to drive my sister to gymnastics class.
Yuck. I might get cooties.