The communion rail lasted only months after Father Shea’s arrival. He was all for removing barriers, wanted the altar accessible to everyone. Though in truth, the communion rail had already begun to crumble before he came; whole sections were missing or broken, like the remains of an ancient Greek temple. Still, it was solid enough to lean against, its marble smooth and cool, and while it stood it was a favorite backdrop for teenage girls who gathered before Mass, leaning their summer flesh against it, comparing fingernail polish, sharing lip gloss, taking joy in being watched.
The broken marble rail was also the place where the gold-guitared folk group played during Mass, strummed songs we could bear until later, in the basement, we’d gather, child and teenager—even adult—and slip quarters into the old jukebox, then dance to Rick James and the Sugar Hill Gang.
The Corpus Christi community was strong. It organized picnics, held car washes, sponsored retreats. At Silver Lake, or the Jello Mansion in Leroy, the old house with a pond and canoes left to the diocese by the inventor of America’s favorite jiggly treat. We paddled in canoes, talked about our lives, made collages to represent our dreams, then confessed our sins to Father Shea.
Corpus managed to put a more positive spin on sin, and confessions were not performed in locked boxes, but in the open air—in the soft cover of a retreat house or in the flickering light of a candled altar. All but one of the church’s confessionals were reclaimed as storage and loaded up with stereo equipment. The one that remained was used by the few parishioners who still preferred the screen, and required that their Saturday sessions for forgiveness remain dark and enclosed.