On Faith: Breaking of the Chalice
By: Matthew Wood
Tags: Faith, God, Religion, High School

I never thought I’d see the day where the name of my high school would plaster the front pages of every media outlet across the country. The attacks coming from all sides, shooting rapidly in all directions, without regard to the direction or the accuracy; seemingly without care that my alma mater, this Jesuit institution, was made up of people — human beings — teachers, administrators, Jesuits, coaches, all who had devoted their lives to forming men for others to the best of their ability. Each attack felt like an attack on their character, and all I could remember was their tireless, selfless devotion to trying to form one immature kid into a human being who thought beyond the whims of a high schooler and instill qualities of faith, selflessness, discipline and service into my character.

This is by no means a defense of any individual who calls this school their alma mater; this is simply a story about one moment from my experience at the now infamous institution Georgetown Preparatory School.

Georgetown Prep was founded by Archbishop John Carroll in 1789 making Prep the oldest Catholic high school in the United States. Situated on a 90-acre campus in North Bethesda, Maryland, the school is dedicated to the mission of forming the roughly 450 male students into “men of faith and men for others.”

A Man for Others. This was the Jesuit creed driven into us thirteen-year-old kids from the moment we stepped foot on the expansive green campus decorated with old, red brick buildings. At thirteen, this motto sounded like another Catholic axiom where I understood the literal meaning, but fully grasping and embracing the ideology was a step or two beyond my childlike mind. Since the age of five, I attended Catholic school. This meant religion class, prayer before and during school, regular school-wide mass, mandatory confessions (which were quite terrifying to a seven-year-old boy), and even stations of the cross during Lent.

Throughout this religious-based education, our teachers repeated ad nauseam the Golden Rule (do unto others as you would have done to you), love thy neighbor, love your God, volunteer, help others, live a life of service. The words were repeated so much they lost their meaning. We heard the words, but never asked, “how do I embrace that message in my daily life?” “How do you love thy neighbor? What is a life of service?” At five and six (even 11 and 12), I don’t think anyone could blame us for glossing over those words as we counted down every minute to recess flicking boogers at one another. We were children. But now, we were in high school. We were evolving (at least we were supposed to be) into young men.

I can tell you at age 13, 5 feet tall and 110 pounds, I didn’t feel anything like a man in my sport coat that was two sizes too big, clip-on tie and wrinkled khaki pants. But each time I sat in one of those pews, surrounded by the imposing large marble columns that lined the nave of the breathtaking chapel on campus, I felt the beginning of my evolution. As I listened to our Jesuit President deliver his homily to our school community and speak passionately about the mission of Jesuit education — forming men of purpose; men who spent their lives in service toward God and others — goosebumps would run across my skin. A life of purpose. The idea of service as my life purpose would ricochet in my mind for the remaining 45 minutes of Mass lost in thought on how I too could follow this Jesuit example and serve my brothers and sisters of this world. Even then, I remember leaving Mass most days thinking how fortunate I was to be attending an institution where a purpose-drive life was the foundation of our education.

Unfortunately for the President and our teachers, inspiration in teenagers is as fickle as the wind, and the moment we were not flanked by those awe-inspiring columns, our thoughts returned to sports, love interests, and, a little less common, academics.

But my time in the pew was not a complete loss during my high school years. The sermons provided the seed, and though perhaps that seed would have to wait to receive the necessary sunlight and water to thrive, the seed remained, buried, waiting for the conditions of my life to allow it to grow. That seed of service may have not have survived the bumpy road of life if it had not been for a singular moment that occurred in that chapel; a moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

By the end of the first semester my freshman year, I was slowly starting to find my way in this new big world of high school. I generally kept close to the friends I had formed on the soccer field earlier that Fall. Before heading off for a multi-week Christmas break, it was a school tradition to have Mass on the last academic Friday of the year. 450 odd students, faculty, administrators, coaches, choir, Jesuit priests all piled in filling the chapel with a cacophony of noise until the piano began to play, signaling Mass was about to begin.

I usually never entered a large gathering place without at least one wingman by my side. There was nothing worse to a high school kid than staring out into the abyss of strange faces looking for a friendly face as you walked alone trying to find a seat in the cafeteria, in school assemblies, or even at Mass. This Friday, however, I was running late, and I scrambled inside the church doors just before they closed and hurriedly commenced my walk of shame down the nave. I knew Mass was about to start any minute, and I was nearly running down the center aisle desperately searching for someone I knew that would make room for my small frame. I made it midway down the aisle, still no luck, and I could hear the beating of my heart, as I felt all eyes turn on me, the awkward kid with no place to sit.

Then, suddenly, relief passed over my body as I saw my savior, not hanging on the cross behind the altar, but in the wave of a friendly Latin teacher sitting next to a friend of mine. As I raised my hand in response, I felt a hard thud against my waist. “That’s odd,” I thought. “What could possibly be…” My eyes turned back to the path before me and events began to move in slow motion. In my desperate search for a seat, I had completely forgotten Prep’s unorthodox practice of placing the glass bottles for the wine and water and the chalice for the Eucharist on a small table midway down the center aisle. My hands instinctually reached out to grab the table to save myself from the nightmare that was about to unfold, but all I could grasp hold of was a small piece of the white lace table-cloth that covered the table. It was too late.

Boom.

The noise of the water and wine glass bottles shattering against the marble floor echoed through the chapel. The chalice banged on the ground and the desecrated Eucharist spilled out onto the marble floor. The red wine and pieces of glass bathed the center aisle. The table tipped sideways on the ground with the white cloth soaked in the red wine. 500 sets of eyes turned on me. I was paralyzed. Paralyzed from the shock. Paralyzed by my humiliation. I was frozen in that exact moment, unable to move, unable to breath. Time stood still. Unfortunately, the rest of the Prep community gathered within the chapel, including the Jesuit priests, also seemed just as stunned and not exactly sure what to do, elongating my humiliating paralysis.

As I used all of my will power to not add insult to injury by breaking down in tears in front of the entire school, two pews up, I saw movement. One of biggest guys in the school, a nearly 300-pound defensive linemen and senior captain of the football team I’ll call Bo, stood up. I had never interacted with this foreboding figure who everyone in the school knew and respected, and I simply had no idea what to expect. Would he laugh? Would he raise my entire body above his shoulder like a straw man? My mind raced with the endless possibilities of how this situation could get even worse. But without saying a word, he simply walked towards my frozen figure, dropped to his knees, and started picking up the glass strewn across the floor.

A collective breath was let out of the church and time began to move again. Following Bo’s move, I quickly started picking up as much glass as I could. Then another student joined in, then another. By the time our hands were full, a priest had brought the broom, mop and trash can to help. We cleaned up the mess, the priest had to re-bless the Eucharist, water and wine, as I scurried to some hole in the far corner of the Church. As I hoped to hide during this 20-minute delay before Mass could start again, one of my favorite Jesuits decided to call me to the center altar and announce my name for the world to hear. As well intentioned as he may have been, this act crushed all hope that I had just started to cling on to that maybe my form tackling of the holy table had happened so fast that people didn’t know exactly who broke the chalice.

That moment, that day, was without a doubt the worst of my high school career, as the creative forces that exist within the walls of high school came up with the nickname “anti-christ,” a name I heard shouted through the academic corridor each time I turned the corner for the next six months (not exactly a promising nickname to pick up at a Jesuit high school).

But, when I look back at that moment, I have completely forgotten the humiliation, the nickname, the desire to never go back to school, and a smile runs across my face. Because all I can remember is that simple act of kindness by Bo, that simple gesture to help another human being in desperate need, that act of service that exemplified our credo of being a “man for others,” that act that saved a stranger from further pain and suffering. Bo made me a believer in the profound difference you can make in someone’s life by living out this selfless creed, and I strive to live up to his example every day of my life.

His act of generosity has stayed with me these last twenty years. Experiencing firsthand the power and impact an act of service could have on a complete stranger drove this value of service — living for someone else — deep into the core of my identity and laid the cornerstone of the person I wanted to become. I no doubt fail to live up to this life aspiration every day, but I never stop striving to reach the mountaintop of my life. To truly earn the designation of being:

A Man For Others.