Best Altar Boy. Ever.
A record that will stand forever.
In a past entry I revisited a long-forgotten book called JESUS II, a work of fiction partially set in my hometown of Wausau, WI. The book mentions the church I attended when I was growing up — St. Michael’s — as well as the Very Reverend Father Krasowski (“very reverend” happens when you’re in the position for a long, long time)1.
Being a boy in a Catholic School back then meant you would most likely “serve Mass” — in other words, be an alter boy. Girls were not invited nor even considered.
For Catholic boys, the altar boy gig was a bit of a glamour grab. You got to wear some fancy “vestments,” and were basically “on stage” for about 30-45 minutes. Each typical mass required two altar boys, and we generally stood, sat, and knelt on either side of the presiding priest as the ceremony progressed.
One routine alter boy duty occurred as the priests and lay-distributors2 gave out Communion hosts. In olden times, you’d receive the host from the priest directly on your tongue. This began to change after the Second Vatican Council, in 1969, decided receiving Communion in the palm of one’s hand was acceptable.3 The Council did not mandate Communion by the hand, however, so some of the more traditional congregations (St. Michael’s included) lagged behind.
Tongue Church
So, when I entered the Altar Boy Corps — a bit early, in 2nd grade as opposed to the more common 3rd grade threshold — St. Mike’s was still a Tongue Church. That meant that the priest or lay-distributor would put the small circular host on your tongue; “Body of Christ,” answered with “Amen,” and then out went the tongue.
As you might imagine, in a congregation of 20, 50, or even 100 persons, you’re going to observe a wide spectrum of approaches; everything from the demure “tiny tongue target” that challenged the distributor’s host-targeting skills, to the “wide open and shark-like” tactic deployed by particularly energetic Catholics.
As the Communion host approached the tongue or gaping maw of each congregant, the altar boy was charged with holding a cylindrical “paten”4 under the recipient’s chin. In theory, if the small host were to somehow fall, it would be saved from plunging to the ground by the altar boy-wielded paten.
Well, that was the theory.
Unfortunately, if and when a Communion host actually got loose and went into free fall, it would sort of “flutter” to the ground; swaying this way and that, like a leaf falling from a tree. I’d seen more than a few hit the carpet; I never saw a “save.”
That is, until one Sunday morning when I was on duty.
Vegas Mass
At St. Mike’s, the 10:30 (later, 11:00) Sunday morning mass was the headliner. I called it “Vegas Mass” - always a full house; the main event.
Somehow, I had been asked to be the regular 10:30 Sunday altar boy. Who can say no to that?5 I think Sister Desideria realized that a lot of elderly parishioners appreciated a sense of similitude every week; seeing the same two youngsters up there on either side of the priest each Sunday may have created a comforting “ritual background” that was consistent with the repeated, structured sequence of actions that they valued in a liturgical ceremony. I was a long-standing “co-star”; when my fellow altar boy graduated and went off to high school, his younger brother stepped in under my wing.
When it was time to distribute communion, I generally handled the paten under the chins of folks in the main “priest/reverend” line; my co-altar boy worked with either a lay-distributor or another priest.
After years of wielding the paten, I had never had one communion host fall onto it. Among the older altar boys, I’d hear stories about “Kevin,” who had years ago saved two hosts from the carpet over the course of his career, but that was it.
Until one weekday morning.
It was a normal all-grades mass day (meaning grades one through eight were in attendance), and I was one of the altar boys that morning. During communion — after dozens of grade schoolers had already been given their “Body of Christ” and replied “Amen,” — a communion host “got loose” from the priest before arriving on the tongue of the recipient. It swayed downward right into my tray.
A save!
I can’t be sure, but I think I remember getting a smile and a wink from Father Rafacz — who, by the way, attended St. Michael’s school when he was growing up — and feeling quite proud of myself.
I was also an altar boy that particular week for the daily morning mass (hey, it got you out of half a class). Only a few days later, there I was holding the paton under the chin of a 7th grader — and another host slipped and toppled right onto my paton.
Two saves in one week!
A few weeks later, Sunday mass; a host got loose and began to flutter toward the ground. It was swaying back and forth; This time, I had time to react; I quickly (and somewhat acrobatically) crouched and got the paton under it.
THREE saves!
If I recall correctly, there followed a “dry period” of no saves (or even attempts). But, only a few weeks later I was confronted with another “long drop” host, and managed to thrust the paton and get my arm out for the save.
It was, I must say, a near-gymnastic move. And, I now had FOUR COMMUNION WAFER SAVES.
Next in line? Another altar boy named Kevin had one. That’s it.
I was — and am — the champion.
The End
After that particular mass, Father Rafatz took me aside as I was “de-cloaking” in the sacristy.6
“That was a nice save today,” he said, referring to that morning’s rather animated host-catch.
“Thanks!” I answered, hoping there might be a certificate or other reward involved.
“You do not need to do that,” Father Rafatz continued with a slightest trace of a smile. “It’s OK if a communion host falls to the ground; we set it aside. However, diving at the ground to ‘make the save’ is a bit… disruptive.”
He was exaggerating - - but only a little.
So, the whole paton-under-the-chin thing was all for show. Oh well. I quickly nodded in the affirmative, apologized, and headed for the door.
Not long afterward — mere months, if I remember correctly — St. Mike’s joined the majority of Catholic churches that were now distributing communion to the hands of congregants, not their tongues (though that option remained open to traditionalists). That meant — you guessed it — there was no longer a need for a paten-under-the-chin during distribution of Communion.
….And my record remains unbreakable.
Best altar boy. Ever.
When researching this, I learned that Father Krasowski — who we considered a “wizened elderly man,” — was only two years older than my current age when he passed away.
“Civilian” non-priests distributing communion
I’m reminded via my research to confirm the date that, for the first 800 years of Christianity, receiving communion in the hand was the norm. It shifted to the tongue — you guessed it — in the Middle Ages. The Vatican's 1969 instruction, Memoriale Domini, was sort of “conditional approval” indicating that, while the traditional practice of communion on the tongue should be preserved, bishops could allow communion in the hand under certain conditions.
The nuns called them patens. I’ve since learned that, historically, patens were used to collect offerings of bread from the faithful and to distribute the consecrated fragments to communicants.
My tenure lasted long enough that I had my original altar boy partner replaced by his younger brother.
I had to look up “sacristy” — haven’t heard that word in decades.