Immaculate Heart of Mary Parish on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood has excellent acoustics. This I know only too well.
June 29 is the annual liturgical commemoration of the martyrdoms of SS. Peter and Paul. It is a holy day of obligation for all Catholics in many countries, but not in the United States. In 2025, this observance falls on a Sunday.
By a trick of the calendar, exactly 67 years earlier, on June 29, 1958, the Feast of Sts. Peter and Paul again fell on a Sunday. That morning at the 9 o’clock children’s Mass, Your Humble Scribe, then a third-grader at Immaculate Heart of Mary Elementary School, was all of 8 years of age.
Ushered to the front pews with other children, Mass began. We knelt and followed the opening actions and Latin prayers of the priest. Sitting, we listened to the Epistle and Gospel delivered in English from the pulpit by Fr. John O’Donnell.
With his bald head encircled by snowy-white puffballs of hair, Fr. O’Donnell, the very Celtic pastor of Immaculate Heart Parish, was the image of the kindly, benign Irish priest.
It was a sham. Crotchety was one of his defining attributes.
Short and feisty, he always seemed ready for a donnybrook. When students were marched to church from the school across the street for weekly confession, they shunned his confessional. He could get quite choleric. One might hear a muffled, “What do you mean you disobeyed your parents five times?” through the door of his confessional.
When other priests typically gave three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys for a penance, Fr. O’Donnell casually asked the penitent if he had a rosary handy. Good Catholic kids that we were, of course we had. Praying the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary often turned out to be the penance.
Back at Mass, following the reading of the Gospel (“Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build My Church”), Fr. O’Donnell read the parish announcements. They always concluded with recitation of three Hail Marys “for those who have died in the service of our country.” He would gesture below the pulpit and to the left, where, leaning against the pedestal of the statue of the Sacred Heart, framed and under glass, stood a long list of names of the honored dead.
Now warmed up for the main event, Fr. O’Donnell was ready to deliver his remarks. At the children’s Mass these were couched as questions for the youngsters gathered in the front pews: girls on the right; boys on the left, directly under the gaze of the pastor.
Fr. O’Donnell fixed his blue eyes on us and leaned forward, his right arm resting on the rim of the dark oak pulpit. We braced ourselves for the first question.
“Who was the first pope to forgive sins?”
The question had a rather neat directness to it. Well, I’d made my first Communion. I had listened to the Gospel about who had been given the Keys of the Kingdom. The answer, of course, was St. Peter. My arm shot up.
Fr. O’Donnell called on me. I stood. Little did I realize I was taking the bait in a fowler’s trap set for the unwary.
And then I misspoke. At the age of 8, I sometimes got confused when it came to naming the Prince of the Apostles. So, instead of answering “St. Peter” as I had intended, my 8-year-old voice rang out loud and clear, enhanced by the church’s lovely acoustics.
“St. Patrick, Father.”
As the words fell from my lips, I knew I was undone.
For those of you used to applauding and chatting in Catholic churches, I should explain that, in the 1950s, no Catholic in America ever thought of intentionally making noise in church. Congregants never spoke aloud. For sure, no one ever clapped and, even more certainly, people never laughed aloud in a Catholic church for fear of losing their immortal souls.
Such was forgotten that day.
Side-splitting laughter erupted. The spontaneous hilarity was both thunderous and prolonged.
With superb timing, Fr. O’Donnell allowed the mirth to subside before leaning forward to the microphone, thoughtfully replying in his thick brogue, “Well, I won’t say you’re right … but I won’t say you’re wrong.”
More unrestrained merriment. My face went 10 shades of scarlet.
At last, the congregation quieted. A fourth-grade boy gave the right answer: No pope ever forgave sins; only God can forgive sins.
Fr. O’Donnell nodded approvingly, “No priest, no bishop, no pope ever forgave a single, solitary sin. Acting for Jesus, we grant absolution in His Name, but God alone can forgive sins.”
"Eh? What’s that?" I thought. "O Lord, that’s right." I was doubly undone and thoroughly mortified. Other questions were asked, other answers given; the rest is a blur. My mother understood my embarrassment and hugged me close as I rejoined her at the conclusion of Mass.
The incident passed into family legend, becoming one of my father’s favorite stories because there’s more to it. A member of the choir, my father was descending from the loft after Mass when he came upon Fr. O’Donnell in the vestibule. He apologized for my being “fresh.”
“No, no, no,” the pastor told him. “Don’t you worry about your son. He gave me an opportunity I’ll never have again in a t’ousand years!”
The next time I saw Fr. O’Donnell, he spoke to me kindly. I explained the mix-up with the names Peter and Patrick. Fr. O’Donnell said that he understood, adding, “Don’t ever be afraid to speak up. If you’re wrong, I’ll set you straight. If you’re right, so much the better. Either way, one of us will learn something.”
Looking back 30-odd years at the joys given me by my son DeForeest, I feel as if he grew up too soon, it was so much fun raising him. I understand all the more why Jesus loved children so much, with their trusting hearts, simple questions and ofttimes funny mistakes.
So, then, pastors, teachers and, especially, new parents — enjoy the children entrusted to your care. Cherish their mistakes as much as their achievements. Believe me, we all will learn something.
Sean M. Wright, MA, award-winning journalist, Emmy nominee, and Master Catechist for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, is a parishioner at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Santa Clarita. He responds to comments sent him at [email protected].
