Memories of the Thing that Supposedly Never Changes
My first memory of church was my grandmother's parish, Church of the Precious Blood in Monmouth Beach, New Jersey. It was pure white on the outside with red doors (kind of like an Episcopal Church, ironically), but the inside was small and dark--big dark wood beams bracing the ceiling, lots of 50s-style "Catholic kitsch" statutes. I remember going with grandma mostly, but we didn't go much otherwise without grandma, especially after the pastor, Earl Gannon (who has been there since the 60s, back to when mom was a kid), publicly called out my mother in the middle of Good Friday service for not keeping her young boys from making more noise than he felt acceptable. Monsignor Gannon's successor was a child molester, who, based on the timeline set forth in this article, was shuffled off to Precious Blood to get away from the "mess" he created at Incarnation Catholic Church in Ewing . His successor never bothered to visit my grandmother--a parishoner of ...