“Peacekeeper” at RC WomenPriest liturgy: a Next Gen reflection
by Katie Schervish

As I walked into the liturgy room Sunday morning, my eyes scanned the crowd of mostly white-haired men and women. I could feel the excitement and hear the nervous early morning chatter. People settled into their seats to witness what I am sure many thought they would never see in their lifetimes: a mass being celebrated by a group of about 12 ordained women Roman Catholic priests!

As the service started, I stood in the back anticipating experiencing something truly moving. However, not all of my attention was on the altar. I had volunteered the night before to be a “peacekeeper” during the liturgy. Because this event was so controversial (though I personally didn’t see why) CTA had decided to do a mini-training of volunteers in case anyone chose to enter and protest, heckle, or even rush the altar. In the hallway before, we joked as we practiced different scenarios. Now, I found myself scrutinizing incoming participants, looking suspiciously to see their name badges (proving they were one of us , those attending the conference) and breathing a sigh of relief as the first prayer went smoothly.

Then, I saw him. A clean cut, middle aged man wearing a very nice pin stripped suit, carrying his own Bible in a leather case. He came in late, stood in the back, separate even though there were seats available. He had no CTA credentials, no press pass, and as I judged by the clothing alone, no reason for being there other than to cause trouble. Clearly this man couldn’t be part of us, younger people in jeans and Danskos, former nuns and priests set about reforming the church they still believed in. He must be here to start something.

My first thought was: here goes, when is he going to open his Bible and say how wrong it is to have women on the altar, proclaiming the word, blessing the bread and wine? My next thought was: won’t everyone be impressed when little 5’2’’ me can deftly step in and convince him to leave the room, allowing everyone else to continue in their holy activities?

Another peacekeeper nearby had caught sight of the man too. He came over to me and whispered “If he tries to go up to communion, I’ll get in front of him and you stay behind so we can keep an eye on him.” I felt justified in my suspicion. Someone else was worried too. And we wouldn’t let him destroy what was a groundbreaking moment in our church.

The service continued, with me in awe of the miracle occurring in front of me as men and women stood, prayed and began partaking in the consecrated body and blood, all the while keeping my eye on the mystery man in the suit. I followed him up to communion, making sure there was no funny business.

Then, I finally awoke to what was going on inside me. I had become a victim of the fear I was fighting against. I stood and watched as this quiet man humbly took the bread from a woman priest and moved on. I realized in that moment that he was not a threat, was not a possible liturgy terrorist, he was simply a man who wanted to partake in this holy moment.

I walked back to my post, cringing inside at what I had let myself become. In the span of a few minutes, I had gone from a calm, reverent churchgoer to a hunter of conservatives, convinced there was a possibility of harm so I had to find someone to justify my fear, true or not.

Later, I saw him walking in the hallway as I hurried to the closing liturgy with the whole conference. As I passed him, I thought about stopping to apologize. I feel like he knew we were talking about him (my fellow peacekeeper wasn’t too subtle with the fingerpointing). I wanted to say I was sorry for judging him. I wanted to say I was sorry for assuming based on first impressions and outward appearances that he was a part of the dreaded “other” and therefore meant to harm and do wrong. I wanted to know who he was, where he was from, why the suit? I wanted to apologize for being sucked so easily into the actions I condemn others for with their fear of Arabs, Mexicans, and foreigners of all kinds. I wanted him to hear my apology, and for him to forgive me.

Schervish is a teacher in Louisville, Ky.