Gabriel Jeroschewitz, May 29th, 2025        Abridged version. A true story.

How I lost my Religion.

My name is Gabriel, and I’m here to tell you a story, a true story, mind you. It all started when my family landed in Canada in 1960. I was just a wee lad, barely six years old, and suddenly, I was thrust into the solemn world of altar service. Now, you might think being an altar boy is all about pious devotion and angelic behaviour. But trust me, there was plenty of room for mischief, especially when you’re an eight-year-old boy navigating the confusing rituals of the Catholic Church.

By 1962, I had the Latin Mass down pat. Every ‘Et cum spiritu tuo,’ every ‘mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ rolled off my tongue with the practiced ease of a seasoned orator. I felt like a tiny, robed Cicero, ready to declaim before the congregation. Then, bam! The Second Vatican Council happened. Suddenly, everything was changing. The Mass, the very bedrock of my liturgical knowledge, was switching to English. It was like learning a new language all over again, a linguistic earthquake that shook my little world.

But this story, this tale of ecclesiastical woe, began on a Friday night. It was sometime in the middle of ’62, and we were doing the Stations of the Cross. Picture this: a dimly lit church, the air thick with the scent of incense, and three figures making their way around the sanctuary. There was Father O’Malley, our long-suffering priest, Michael, my partner in crime and fellow altar boy, and me, Gabriel, the unintentional agent of chaos.

My primary responsibility? Bearing the Long Triumphant Cross. This wasn’t just any crucifix, mind you. This was a six-foot-long behemoth, a weighty symbol of faith topped with a rather stern-looking, embossed brass Jesus. It was heavy, unwieldy, and, as I was soon to discover, a potential weapon of mass (pun intended) destruction.

Michael, bless his mischievous heart, was in charge of the thurible. That’s the fancy incense holder that swings on three chains. He loved that thing. He’d swing it with gusto, sending plumes of fragrant smoke billowing through the air, sometimes a little too close to the parishioners. We were a well-oiled, albeit slightly unhinged, liturgical machine.

Now, my cassock, the long black robe we wore, had seen better days. The hem was torn, the unfortunate casualty of a particularly enthusiastic football game in the churchyard before service. Playing football in vestments? Oh yes, we were dedicated alright, dedicated to fun, even when dressed like miniature undertakers.

For those unfamiliar, the Stations of the Cross are a series of fourteen images depicting Jesus’ final journey. We’d stop at each station, Father O’Malley would recite the prayers—a mix of Our Fathers, Hail Marys, and “We adore You, O Christ, and we bless You”—and Michael and I’d genuflect, a deep, respectful bow, before moving on.

We were about halfway through, somewhere around the sixth station, where Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. Father O’Malley finished his prayers, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. It was my turn to shine, to execute a perfect genuflection. But fate, as it often does, had other plans.

I bent my knees, my pointy winkle-picker shoes squeaking against the cold stone floor. Then, disaster struck. The tattered hem of my cassock caught under my shoe. I stumbled, lost my balance, and like a felled oak, I went down. But I wasn’t alone in my descent. Oh no, I took the Long Triumphant Cross with me.

With a sickening thud, the brass Jesus made contact with the back of Father O’Malley’s head. He crumpled to the floor like a discarded newspaper, sprawling across one of the pews.

Silence.

Then, a collective gasp from the handful of parishioners present.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Time seemed to slow to a near standstill. I was convinced I’d killed him. I was eight years old, and I was pretty sure I was going straight to hell, no questions asked. The church, with its stained-glass windows and imposing architecture, suddenly felt like a medieval dungeon. A gothic fear, as you say, gripped me.

But then, a moan. A weak, pathetic moan.

Father O’Malley stirred. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp white handkerchief, and dabbed at the back of his head. When he pulled it away, it was stained with a crimson blossom.

The parishioners looked on in horror, their faces a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity.

He wiped his head again, took a deep breath, and, incredibly, waved us on. “Let’s… let’s continue,” he mumbled, his voice a little shaky.

We finished the Stations of the Cross in a daze. I was so traumatized that I barely registered the remaining stations. Jesus falling, being stripped, nailed to the cross – it all paled in comparison to the image of Father O’Malley splayed out on the pew, bleeding from his bald spot.

After the service, Father O’Malley, looking a little green around the gills, called me over. “Gabriel,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm, “what happened?”

I stammered out an explanation, my voice trembling. I told him about the torn hem, the pointy shoes, and the unfortunate trip. I apologized profusely, my eyes brimming with tears.

He listened patiently, then sighed. “Alright, Gabriel,” he said, “accidents happen. Just be more careful next time.” And with that, he let me off the hook. No extra prayers, no stern lecture, nothing. He was a better man than I was.

You’d think that would be the end of it, right? A near-death experience for the priest, a brush with eternal damnation for me. However, my story doesn’t end there. There was, as they say, a sequel.

A few weeks later, I was back at St. Basil’s, serving the 11:00 Sunday Mass. The service went smoothly, surprisingly so. I was feeling almost confident, almost redeemed. My assigned task after Mass was to tidy up the altar, wipe away any spilled water or wine, close the missal if it was open, and then, most importantly, turn off the microphone in the pulpit.

I climbed the steps to the pulpit, the same pulpit from which Father O’Malley delivered his sermons with such booming authority. I reached for the microphone switch, my hands still slightly damp from cleaning the altar.

And then, ZAP!

A jolt of electricity shot through my body, causing me to reel in shock. I yelped, my voice cracking with shock. And then, without thinking, without any filter whatsoever, I bellowed, “Oh, FUCK!”

The church went silent. Again.

Time stopped. Again.

The collection of ladies in their black veils, the ones who always seemed to be there, counting their rosaries and muttering prayers, all turned and stared at me. Their faces were a tableau of shock, horror, and, dare I say, a hint of morbid fascination. It was like I’d just dropped a bomb in the middle of their Sunday serenity.

The look on Father O’Malley’s face was something I’ll never forget. It was a mixture of disbelief, disappointment, and a weariness that suggested he was seriously reconsidering his career choices.

He didn’t yell, he didn’t scream, but his words were ice-cold. “Gabriel,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “I think you need to take a break from altar service. Six months. Think about what you’ve done.”

And that was it. My career as an altar boy, which had begun with such promise and Latin fluency, ended with a shocking (literally) exclamation in the middle of Sunday Mass.

And you know what? That’s when I lost my religion. Maybe not entirely, but something shifted that day. The magic, the mystery, the sense of awe – it all fizzled out like a damp firework. I continued going to parochial school, but the church never felt quite the same after that.

So, there you have it. My true story of liturgical mishaps, priestly injuries, and a shocking loss of innocence. It’s a reminder that even in the most solemn of settings, life can be unpredictable, and sometimes, all it takes is a torn hem and a faulty microphone to send you on a completely different path. And perhaps, that path, however profane, is precisely where you were meant to be.