7. The Old Home

Sixty years ago, in what I have designated as the Salem-Wilmot area of Noble County, the large majority of the country people—whatever may have been their differences of opinion about many things—were almost belligerently Protestant. There may have been substantial reasons for this attitude. On many occasions, in the west European countries from which these immigrants had fled, the old Mother Church had taken sides with predatory rulers as the feudal system made its last stand. But all that had been a long time ago. No such grievance persisted in young America.

It was unfortunate, I think, that there were no Catholics and no Catholic Church in the Salem-Wilmot country. You may think what you like about the Catholics, they do set a fine example of belief in and loyalty to their religion.

If the subject of religion happens to come up on the golf course, Sunday afternoon, one of your foursome, when queried about his church affiliation, may reply, “My parents were Congregationalists. I suppose I am, too.” Another may say, “I was brought up a Methodist, but I’m afraid I don’t work very hard at it.” You turn to the third.

“You’re a Catholic; aren’t you, Jim?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And you work at it.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Did you go to church this morning?”

“Of course!”

Now if the three of you non-practicing Protestants think you know Jim well enough to indulge in some playful ribbing, one of you may risk saying, “But Jim has to go to church, or he’ll go to hell.”

Quite unruffled, Jim smiles and replies, in the soothing tone of one quieting a mental patient, “Sure, sure; that’s a good enough reason.” He may add, “If you chaps want to go to hell, don’t let me detain you.”

But, seriously, the avoidance of punishment isn’t Jim’s sole motive for going to church. Religion is in his blood; he had it in his milk as a baby; it’s the chief heritage in his family’s tradition. He can remember when he and his father and his aged grandfather knelt, close packed, elbow touching elbow, in the same pew; nobody whispering or waving a hand to a friend; everybody serious.

Maybe the old priest officiates, maybe one of the younger priests; it doesn’t matter. Maybe the short sermon is good, maybe it’s dull; that doesn’t matter, either. Jim is here to worship. Perhaps Jim knows his Latin, perhaps not; but the mass is the same, and Jim knows what to do. The scent of incense does something to him. When he attended mass in Africa, footsore, homesick, depressed, it comforted him: he was at home here; everything was the same; he inhaled deeply of the incense. He had one possession that hadn’t been dirtied or defiled or injured, his Religion.