Following is a letter from a distant cousin--whom we'll call "Clem"--written after attending his first Catholic church service.
Dear Cousin: Hey, city boy! How ya doin'? We're fine over here, but I had to write and tell you about our Easter doin's. Great Grandmamma June made me drive her into town to the big church last Sunday. She said it was time for her to know what goes on under that fancy steeple.
Well, bein' Baptist, I didn't much like the idea of going to a Catholic church, what with all their praying to a woman and drinkin' wine on Sundays. But I gotta admit, cousin, it was a fascinatin' and peculiar experience. I got dressed in my usual Sunday fineryblack suit and John Deere hat--and carried Grandmamma June over in the truck. We set right up front in a section called "Reserved," which I thought was mighty nice of them, considerin' we didn't even call ahead.
This place was really big. The ceilings were so high I coulda parked three cherry-pickers and an 18-wheeler inside. And you never saw so many paintings and statues showing the different parts of Jesus' life. ('Course, come to think of it, they just showed him bein' a baby and then on the cross, so they skipped a bunch.)
But I noticed right away that the choir was in the wrong place. I figure the architect made a mistake puttin' 'em in the back of the church, instead of in front where they're supposed to be. But they must of decided to live with it. Only problem was I had to keep craning my neck backwards to watch the song leader, which seemed to bother the people behind me.