Misereatur nostri omnipotens Deus …

Many have asked how Dr. Caligari began his life of crime.

Well, I started out as an altar boy. I signed up because you could leave school early twice a week. Sure, you had to serve a 7:00 AM mass once a week, but what the hell – it seemed like a fair trade.

The priest who ran the program was a frustrated football coach. He’d wheel a blackboard onto the altar during our weekly meetings and diagram where we were supposed to stand and move, as if we were running plays. Holiness through halftime strategy.

He also instructed us to clasp our hands loosely at the waist – not at crotch level. “You boys don’t have balls big enough to walk around holding ’em,” he’d say. Spiritual guidance with a side of emasculation.The duties of an altar boy were vast and weirdly militaristic.

You set up before mass – water, wine, hosts. Ever opened a jumbo bag of the Body of Christ and filled the ciborium like it was a bowl of cocktail peanuts? That’ll scramble your adolescent theology real quick.

Since they weren’t consecrated yet, you were allowed to touch them. But you had to guess how many parishioners would show up. The priest hated waste, and if there was no later mass, he’d have to consume the leftovers. Nothing worse than stale Eucharist, apparently. But run short? Have to sprint back for more in the middle of communion? That got you a smack to the head.

Yes, priests were allowed to hit altar boys. Holy orders, unholy hands. If the priest hit you, you must have deserved it.

Then there was the Blood of Christ – each priest had his own favorite blood type. One preferred sherry. Another liked white wine. A third stuck to the classic red. But Monsignor? Monsignor liked scotch. With just a splash of water.

“Boyo,” he’d whisper, “don’t be stingy with the scotch this morning – it’s cold, and you didn’t pay for it. And not too much water. Christ wasn’t anemic.”

More tasks: Hold the Bible. Ring the bells. Lay out the vestments. Holding the Bible meant marking the correct page for the day’s reading and keeping it steady during mass. If you forgot to mark it, or wobbled while the priest was nursing a hangover, that was another smack to the head.

The bells had to be rung just right at the elevation of the host. Too loud? Too late? Trying to get a laugh from your friends? Smack.

Vestments were selected with help from little old ladies who tagged them for you. But if they forgot or were late, you had to guess. Guess wrong? Boot in the ass.

One of our most high-pressure jobs: Eucharist catcher. For those of you who remember (or know), the priest placed the host on a parishioner’s tongue, you had to stand beside him with the paten (a little serving tray on a stick) under their chin in case the host fell. If it dropped – or worse, slipped out of their mouth – the priest had to consume it himself.

If someone threw up after communion? Yep. The priest had to re-ingest the host. Pre-moistened. And yes, some of us altar boys practiced the ancient, dark art of paten-flicking – subtly thwacking friends in the throat so they’d spit up the host. If the priest caught you? Instant excommunication from altar boydom. I got two friends and never got caught.

Now we come up to the another important function of the altar boy – towel boy.

After communion, the priest finished the wine (Blood O’ Christ) in the chalice, rinsed his fingers into the chalice (removing the “Crumbs o’ Christ”) and wiped them with a towel – the purificator. Your job was to pour the water, offer the towel, and get out of the way.

“You’re not washing my dick, boyo,” was a common reminder if you took too long. Or, “Not too much! That was the good sherry you poured. I’ll kill you in the sacristy.” No tips. No gratitude. Just the occasional death threat.

After mass came the escape. Or the reckoning.

Mass was nearly over and if you were lucky so was your torture. Either you had the beatings hanging over your head or you know you could make a quick get away. Once mass was over, you have to stow away the various items that were used during mass and hang up the priest’s vestments. If you weren’t in trouble or one of the little old ladies were there – you could make a mad dash by to school or to home. If you did something wrong or the priest was already deep into his cups – there could be hell to pay.

Have a blessed Holy Thursday.