Sacramental Wine
A story about an altar boy drinking the sacramental wine
Father Ross slammed down the chalice on the altar. A group of around twenty fourth graders surrounded the priest. We all stood on the dais; each wing of the four wings of St. Charles Borromeo church were empty. I thought it was weird to be in the church without it being full of parishioners — like I was in some forbidden place.
“I need serious boys. This is a privilege to be an altar boy, and it requires seriousness. So, James, get out!”
Father Ross’ belting singing voice would dominate most masses, but now the voice was directed at James and was filled with anger. James was one of my fellow classmates who, like me, had answered the call to be an altar boy. He was a bit of a nuisance, but generally he was a nice kid.
“Get out. Go now!”
James shrunk — his shoulders hunched.
Father Ross pointed to the west wing. James hesitated. Perhaps this was one of those points adults make without the intention of following through. Father Ross wasn’t playing. We all watched as James shamefully walked away from the altar, down the dais, and out the west wing’s doors. Father Ross didn’t continue until James had exited the door.
