St. Bartholomew’s School ~ My Storybook Of Faith
By: Mike Decastro
Tags: Mindfulness, Schools, Faith, New Jersey, Catholic

I recently attended mass at my childhood parish, St. Batholomew’s in Scotch Plains NJ. The visit was tethered to the passing of a dear friend. It was his funeral and our farewell to the sound of his laughter which was a signature and a sound that always let us know that we were ok and still buttoned up as a crew. Sad. For folks of a certain age, weddings and funerals become reunions that everyone attends. Age allows for both to be a life ‘time-out’, that slows forward momentum so that gratitude and retrospective appreciation can take hold and root, for a short while. With that sentiment, I sat in a pew at St. Bart’s Church and allowed memory after memory to visit my consciousness, as I said goodbye to my dear friend.

I’m Catholic, but I’m not good at it. My faith does not hold adoration for the Papacy but does hold great affection for and connection to the storybook version of Catholicism that I learned while attending St. Bart’s grammar school. I still see the world through my childhood Catholic eyes, with a sense of innocence. My faith is also informed by Truth as defined by my Grandmother, an infamous mass-skipper, who lived the credo ‘Be kind.. kindness is strength. Love.. love is God in each one of us’. When I do attend mass it’s not on Sunday, it’s a morning daily mass, which brings a re-connection with all those feelings of agape love. The tone and cadence of our local Priest are conversational and warm. The intention of attendees seems organic, unforced and fashionably casual. The latter seems trivial but is well appreciated... I think the Apostles were pretty casual in their attire.

If my relationship with my faith is a child’s storybook version of Catholicism, it was written within the walls of St. Bartholomew’s School. The illustrations in the storybook are rich and colorful, and amazingly there is a scent when it’s pages are opened, of incense blessed by the devoted hands of a Priest, reminiscent of Spencer Tracy in a black-and-white movie. The rich colors of the illustrations have much to do with the colors of the stained glass.. reds and blues so deep that if they were pieces of sea glass, they would be trophy pieces. The statues stared at during mass, in those days were emotive and told stories of jubilance or great sorrow. All carefully brought to life by the hand of an artisan that brought a heart and flesh, and flowing garments to life from stone. Smoke rising and light fluttering from flame; the holy candles gave movement to the statues.

The whole of the masterpiece that was St. Barts in those days, was crafted by the hands of Italian immigrants. Folks with little means, but blessed with craftsmanship and trade, and an abiding Catholic devotion that had great depth and meaning. They channeled their faith and talents through works, creating a gathering place for the community to express their faith and give thanks. That was St. Bartholomew’s then.

Today a tapestry of modern rounded edges cooly sanitizing drama and emotion now serves as visual. Statues sit within a beige canvas and seem a bit bored. Whisked away are the beautiful candles which brought drama, emotion, and movement to the stone statues. These replaced by an electro “click-on” version, which brings no dramatic effect. In a world that has become hyper-litigious and over-insured, real-lit candles have no place. The rich dark wood of the confessionals, ornate and evoking passion, is gone as well.

When I left St. Barts that day, mourning my friend, I also mourned my beloved childhood church. Over several days as I processed the passing of my dear friend, I felt that I had been unfair in my assessment of St. Barts and harsh in my judgment. So, I stopped by again, this time for daily mass. As I sat in the pew, the background soundtrack of school kids playing was better than any hymn. I realized that sound has always been what defines St. Bartholomew’s, no matter the era. Today, new storybook versions of faith are being written within the minds and hearts of my fellow alumni. All of which will hold the same magic and depth, as my storybook version.. and be every bit as innocent, beautiful and sacred.