In his series “How I became a St. James altar boy,” Ralph Horner writes about growing up next to St. James Anglican Catholic Church in Goodrich-Kirtland Park and how he got drawn into being an altar boy and, eventually, “a high Anglo Catholic, but not under the Pope Pius XII.” In last week’s installment, Horner met Father Pete who convinced him to be an altar boy at the church.

Okay, I am going to be an altar boy at St. James, I thought. How bad could it be? If I don't like it, I'll just quit.

So, the next Sunday I went next door to the church when I heard the first bell ringing. Just like Father Pete told me to do (nobody called him Father Vivan Albertus Peterson). He told me to go the back door of the church and just come in and go down the hall to this room called the sacristy where he and the other altar boys and priests would be. I did and I came to the sacristy. There was Father Pete, some other priests, and some Looney Tunes looking boys.

He gave me this long red dress-looking thing he called a cassock and this loose lace blouse thing that he called a cotta and told me to put them onHe gave me this long red dress-looking thing he called a cassock and this loose lace blouse thing that he called a cotta and told me to put them on. At that bit of news, I was about to tell him that the deal was off, throw these sissy outfits on the floor, and leave.

I am starting to see how bad this could be. I am not wearing a damned blouse and a dress!

One of the other altar boys, who looked like a guy that you would not want to get mad at you, walked over and quietly said to me, “Put them on dumb ass.” (Gulp! Okay!) 

I thought to myself, “Boy, is that the kind of language an altar boy uses?” But I wasn't going to ask him. I put them on, and I was thankful that none of my friends could see me. If Richard Nash saw me in this getup my goose was cooked. The dress was wool and right away I started to sweat.

We marched out and did Mass. I didn't have to do much as a rookie. After the mass was over, I realized that I kind of like doing this serving Mass thing. I don't know, but I seemed to feel good about this serving Mass thing.

When I went back to Cardale, Pennsylvania to spend time with my grandmaw (that's how she spelled it because she was kind of Appalachian), she always took me to the Tower Hill Christian Church on Sunday. That was a Protestant church. It was kind of okay, but it was nothing compared to the Mass at Saint James Church.

All they did at Grandma's church was sing and listen to this guy talk about damnation and sing hymns. Saint James was different. It was kind of like a big show. There were three priests at High Mass and the priests, and the altar boys were like the stars of the thing! There was big organ that filled up the back of the church and a choir.

The church wasn't plain like Grandmaw's. There were candles burning all over the place and everything was bright and colorful, and the place looked like the inside of a castle.

Everybody in the pews came to the altar and Father Peterson put these little bread things in their mouths and gave them a drink of wine. I even got a little taste of wine! I They let kids drink wine! This was so cool!

I changed my mind about the cassock and the cotta things. I decided that they were like costumes in the movies about kings and queens and knights and the Middle Ages.  This was a show, kind of, for the people in the congregation but more importantly if was a show for God. I sure hoped that he liked it!