September 13th, 2026
Dear Diary,
We closed St. Casimir’s today. The canon law people said “Relegated to profane but not sordid use.” Nobody talks like that except canon lawyers. The finance people have been on me about the place for years. Leaking roof. Ancient boiler. A handful of families. Collections that would barely cover lunch at Taco Bell. We held meetings, commissioned a study, then another study because people didn’t like the first one. Old Fr. Ernst at St. Matthew’s said he was happy to keep covering it… for the people. I signed the decree in June.
The communication office girl wrote for the paper about “transitioning the faith community into a new pastoral reality.”
Msgr. Tommy disapproved. He said there are groups which could take it over and bring it back to life. I said that we had had studies. He said, “It means closing their church, Atticus.” He called me Atticus. He’s never done that before. I told him we had to be realistic. “Reality includes people,” he said. I hate it when he does that.
There were 14 old people and a few young families with kids at the final Mass. Farmer types. No protesters or reporters. Just people waiting for me.
The church was spotless. Somebody had polished every pew, every bit of brass. It smelled like wax and polish and incense and the stainglass windows lit it up with colors … like when I was young. In the sacristy Fr. Gilbert showed me the parish’s chalice. It had a dent near the base. The inscription underneath said Dedit Familia Nowak, 1931. I think “Dedit” was “gave”. During the depression. Mrs. Kowalski who was in the sacristy with us said her mother helped collect the money when she was a little girl. Children brought pennies to church. Farmers gave eggs and chicks and milk and butter which the sisters sold in town. “They were poor,” she said, “but Father needed a chalice.” It kinda belonged to everyone’s parents and grandparents.
My homily was about buildings not being the Church, communities change, memories remain, new pastoral realities. All the stuff. I almost believed it myself.
After Mass, Fr. Gilbert and some people carried the chalice and vessels and vestments and the Blessed Sacrament to the car for transfer to St. Matthew’s. The people knelt as Our Lord passed. When we returned, the little altar boy snuffed out the red sanctuary lamp. A tiny thread of smoke rose and disappeared. St. C’s had the Blessed Sacrament for 124 years. Then it didn’t.
On the way out in the narthex a little boy asked, “Where will Jesus live now?” I said that the Blessed Sacrament was going to St. Matthew’s. He nodded, but it think maybe that that wasn’t what he meant. I think he meant there at St C’s. Then I noticed a picture frame in the entrance with an arrangement of photos.
FROM THIS PARISH
9 PRIESTS
13 SISTERS
8 BROTHERS
PRAY FOR VOCATIONS
One of the photos was a very young smiling Fr. Ernst. I didn’t know.
Outside, Mrs. Kowalski showed me the graves of her parents, grandparents and her husband. Then she gave me a dish of purogi. She had heard I liked them. I closed her church and she brought me food.
Should we have tried harder? I don’t know who “we” is. Or maybe I do.
On the drive home Fr. Gilbert asked if I wanted to stop for supper. I said no. I reheated the purogi later. They were very good, but couldn’t finish them. I sorta lost my appetite. I keep thinking about that little red lamp.
Not on NEW BOOK about how the Novus Ordo Lectionary came to be with its cycles and edits of Scripture: “SMOKE OF SATAN!”
