Before we married, it was so critical for both Mary and I to learn how people existed outside individual comfort zones, including faiths. Mary and I would often accompany each other to the other’s church – some Sundays at St. Maria Goretti Catholic Church (SMGCC) and some at First United Methodist Church (FUMC). (You may have just said, “Oh, no” but don’t get ahead of me.) My father, mother, and younger sister were well-entrenched in multiple activities at FUMC, and Mary’s father, mother, and Mary’s five siblings were similarly involved at SMGCC. After church with Mary’s family, I would share Sunday dinner with the Poston bunch. After church at FUMC with my family, Mary would come to 1401. I will tell you sometime about the time Mom served Fried Fish Heads and the unusual look on Mary’s face, but that is another story. Anyway, I digress from the subject at hand.

 The following event happened during the mid-1960s’ when the Catholic Mass was still said in Latin with the presiding priest facing the altar, and his back to the congregation. This dumb Methodist was desperately trying to follow the proceedings with a booklet called a Catholic Missal which was in English. I’m holding my own as the priest raises the host high during the consecration of the Mass. The faithful accept that this transubstantiation as the wafer is transformed into the Body of Christ. The priest announces, “Hoc Est Corpus Meum.” But that ain’t what my Methodist ears heard.

The Mass was said quickly, which made it a little difficult to turn pages and stay up with the process. So, with apologies to my Catholic friends, I will tell you my Methodist ears heard, “Hocus Pocus.”

I reeled in shock! My eyes flew open wide! My heart probably skipped a beat or two or three. I said to myself, What just happened? Yes, I realized that much of the Catholic doctrine was and still is shrouded in mystery, but Hokie Smokes, Batman! I turned to Mary and asked, “What did he just say?” She ignored me. I leaned across Mary to her father and pleaded, “Did he just say, ‘Hocus Pocus’? What did he say?” No response. 

I turned to Mary’s older brother, John, and repeated my question. “Did he just say, ‘Hocus Pocus’?” He grinned and buried his face as deep and as low as he could. He started to chuckle and probably wondered who let this dumb Methodist in the door.

Mary’s mother now entered the conversation with a stern, yet short “Shh!” I ignored that demand and again beseeched Mary’s father with my imploring expression, and he started to giggle. Mary’s mother now was after all of us, “Quiet! Now! All of you!”

I tried to explain this to my mother and father and got polar-opposite responses. My mom was, shall we say, piqued. Dad almost fell out of his chair laughing. I was in the doghouse at the Poston home until the day I asked Mary’s father for permission to marry her. Well, maybe I stayed close to the doghouse after that as well.