Mary J. Breen’s previous work for The Toast can be found here. Most recently: When We Wore Foundation Garments.
When I was about ten, my mother gave me a special holy card for my prayer book. I remember it vividly. It was a smudgy cream colour with fading print, and it was tattered and torn around the edges. On the front was glued a long pale leaf which, according to the fine print, was from an olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane. And I had no doubt that this was true. I believed that the leaf had fallen from a tree that grew from an olive that fell from a tree, back and back almost 2000 years to a tree in the grove where Jesus had had his agony on the night before his crucifixion. It never occurred to me that it probably came from a farm in California or Mexico. I was sure it was the real thing and I thought it gave me a special closeness to Christ Himself.
Holy cards like this were part of the old-style Catholicism that was bred in my bones. My father, like any good Irish Catholic parent, had the dream of giving a child to God, and as an only child, that was me. In his mind I would, naturally, join a convent and become a nun. And so I grew up immersed in the closed world of the One True Church in the 1950s, a world populated with angels–good and bad–novenas, indulgences, and hundreds of saints with various specialties. Because my father was especially devout, we fasted and abstained from favourite things on Fridays and during Lent. We said Morning Offering prayers on awakening and Acts of Contrition before bed. We said prayers before and after every meal, the Angelus at twelve noon and six, and a set of prayers every evening including the Rosary. We also went to daily Mass and Communion, Confession on Saturdays, and Sunday Mass and Sunday afternoon devotions. And throughout these prayers were the ever-present themes of unworthiness, sin, and guilt, ideas that enveloped me in their power, and entrapped me with little to no ability to see beyond them. I was taught that to doubt or question was to sin.
***
All of that was years ago, I’m no longer up-to-date on any Catholic practices. Even so, I thought things had changed enough to make me surprised, just a few years ago, to learn that the holy bones of a 19th century French saint were coming to our local Cathedral for the faithful to venerate. Much was made of this in the press, and some friends of mine insisted we go and see this genuine medieval spectacle. I was far from sure. I didn’t think I could enjoy visiting the place I escaped from just before they turned the key.
The original owner of these travelling bones was St. Thérèse of Lisieux, a nun who was canonized soon after she died at the age of twenty-four in 1897. Her Catholicism was bred in her bones too, as her parents had both wanted to join religious orders before they married, and she and her four sisters all became nuns. Most Catholics know her as “The Little Flower of Jesus,” a name she gave herself to explain her willingness to grow like a tiny unassuming wildflower wherever God planted her. She has become very popular in some quarters, so much so that over the past 20 years or so, her bones have journeyed to nearly 40 countries including Russia, South Africa, Canada, the US, the Philippines, Australia, the UK, Ireland, and Iraq. One of these relics even went on a voyage of the Discovery space shuttle. And now her bones were making a stop in the small Canadian city where I live.
When I was young, my parents were admirers of The Little Flower, keen to point out her humility, her childlike innocence, her disinterest in beauty, and her obedience to God’s will—attributes they’d have loved to have seen in me. And of course, they wanted me to see that much of her holiness came from her decision to live the life of a nun. I, however, was not at all interested in this sappy person. I paid her little attention until it came time to pick a confirmation name, and Thérèse came to mind, but not because I wanted to be unnoticed, humble, and beauty-free, but because I wanted to counteract the vivid ordinariness of being named “Mary,” a name my father said was “the holiest name of all.” I wanted to be cool, and I wanted a cool name, so what better than to add not your everyday Irish Teresa, but a French one with a special French pronunciation and two accents?
And so, now, for the first time in over thirty years, I was going to church, not for Mass, but to see my confirmation saint’s sacred bones. I don’t understand why certain bones are more holy than others, but there was no doubt that a lot of people where I live thought differently. Clearly they saw being near St. Thérèse’s holy bones as a benison in and of itself.
When my friends and I arrived, the Cathedral was already packed, and people were still gathering on the front steps. Men, women, and children, more women than men, many more old than young, some in Sunday hats and good coats, and some in jeans, parkas, and toques. A sea of Irish faces.
Within minutes, I was starting to think like a scared Catholic kid again, wondering if God and Satan with his cunning ways were about to enact a mighty battle for my soul right there in the Cathedral. Once again I could hear those messages that told me what a sinner I was, what an enormous disappointment, what a seeker of pleasure—unlike The Little Flower—and what an utter fool not to have recognized that membership in the Catholic Church had been handed me on a platter. I was barely inside the doors and I wanted out.
The Church’s insupportable position on women alone does it for me, knowing what I do about the lives of girls and women. I know there are brave Catholic feminists who are willing to defy The Holy See and ordain women priests, but for me, the sins of the Church are too many and too great. Add to that the glaring contrast between Jesus’ words about the eye of a needle and the enormous wealth of the Vatican, and I’m done. Even though I know that there is no question that some good works are done in the name of the Church, thinking about the institution puts me into a kind of inarticulate fury mixed with despair and powerlessness, and the best thing is to avoid it. But, there I was in a Catholic church once again.
I kept my head down for fear of being recognized as our line began to move up the side aisle. My wariness made me more attentive, and soon I saw that I was surrounded by very familiar things, things that I knew so well that they were giving me a sense of belonging to something I didn’t want to belong to. There they all were: the holy water font with bits of green mould at the edges; the Stations of the Cross; the kneelers for proper upright kneeling unlike, according to my mother, the half-slumping praying those lazy Protestants do; the lurid statues of suffering saints; the carved and intimidating pulpit; and the crucifixes which, after not seeing them for years, I saw for the gruesome things they are. And over us, enclosing us, the haunting mix of incense and beeswax candles.
***
Veneration proved to be quite a perfunctory affair. The line moved along quickly, and soon we were at the front. There, centre stage in the sanctuary, stood a modest wooden table, and on it, a very ornate wooden box about four feet long, and a foot-and-a-half deep and high. The box was brown and trimmed with a considerable amount of gold leaf. The four walls were lined with little pillars, and the Plexiglas dome covering it made it look much more like a replica of Le Petite Palais than a casket. I was confused. I’d been expecting a coffin-sized box where her bones would be lying like a skeleton in a horror movie, and then I grasped what I was seeing: this was a reliquary, not a coffin. Of course. This was a box containing some but probably not all of her bones.
The Faithful didn’t seem to be baffled. People were taking turns hurrying up to kneel on the small padded kneeler in front, so they could touch and often kiss the plastic dome while saying a quick prayer. Perhaps they were hoping for one of St. Thérèse’s miracles, or perhaps they just felt the comfort of believing they had someone to turn to when things got tough.
As I waited my turn, I watched the official-looking men on either side. Close to us stood the Bishop in full ecclesiastical dress—mitre, crosier, biretta—and beside him three priests in black soutanes and white surplices, and beside them, two fidgeting altar boys. On the other side was a phalanx of Papal Knights of Columbus in black capes with red linings, white feathered Zorro hats, white gloves, and sashes across their swollen chests, looking as proud as if they had had a personal hand in St. Thérèse’s piety. Behind the men—and I didn’t even notice them at first—stood two old nuns in full long black habits not unlike what St. Thérèse would have worn. Each was holding a dirty rag and a large bottle of blue Windex, and after each pilgrim touched or kissed the Plexiglas, they dashed up to spray and rub the front surface shiny and germless, if not sinless. No one glanced at them or thanked them or even seemed to notice them as they continued to provide unacknowledged backup to the important stuff. I doubt neither they nor St. Thérèse would see it that way.
And then it was our turn. I managed an approach and retreat that didn’t draw attention to myself, though I neither kissed, prayed, nor touched. Neither did I feel anything holy or spiritual—just an intense desire to flee. We didn’t get to see a single bone, holy or otherwise.
***
Memoir writers are forever quoting Faulkner: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past,” and for good reason. It is always with us, late and soon, and with no Plexiglas shield to protect us, the past gets in the way.
And so, though that was all years ago, I am still far from indifferent to Catholic churches. I can visit and admire and even feel respectful in Protestant churches, mosques, synagogues, Buddhist temples, and Hindu temples, but not in Catholic churches. At least not yet. Mostly I feel the acute exasperation we feel in the presence of those we know too well. The only time I enter one nowadays is to attend a funeral.
I turned to take my weary bones home, once again walking away from a Church I’ve been walking away from for a long time. Just as the bones of St. Thérèse have endured, so have the effects of the Church endured for me. I carry enough of my own relics of that time.
Tags: catholicism, childhood, history, mary j breen, religion, saints
This was lovely. As a post-Vatican II recovering Catholic, I feel like I narrowly escaped the convent by a generation or so, so this really hits home for me. Thanks for sharing.
I get so excited when Mary emails me to say “I can’t imagine you young ladies have any use for this, but I thought I’d send it anyway,” and then this perfect clean fascinating thing falls into my lap.
I would like to take this moment to note that I personally emailed Nicole a while ago requesting more Mary J. Breen.
Mary J. Breen, I love you, please write always. I would be very interested in An Evening With Mary J. Breen during which Ms. Breen talks and everyone listens. Bonus points for a fireplace and tea.
I love these things so much. Love them. Yes! Yes we have use for them! Never stop, Mary. 🙂
I have to update this comment to state that Mary would never actually say “ladies,” because she was a 1970s feminist and fought the good fight for “women.”
“Mostly I feel the acute exasperation we feel in the presence of those we know too well.” MARY BREEN, SUMMING UP CONFLICTED RELIGIOUS FEELINGS ON THE TOAST SINCE 1955
I was just going to quote this.
Catholicism is a strange and powerful thing. I went to a conservative Catholic school for thirteen years and graduated as an agnostic liberal feminist. Perhaps not the result they were aiming for. Still, even though I have not been truly “Catholic” since I was very young, maybe ever, the religion and institution still hold a lot of sway over me. That can be hard to explain to non-Catholics.
+1 to that. I recently got into an argument with someone on the internet about this, and they kept on bringing up secular parallels and how they were not deeply affected by them. YES INTERNET STRANGER THAT IS MY POINT. I like to call people like us “culturally Catholic” in the spirit of people who identify as culturally Jewish. Even if I don’t necessarily agree with the culture, growing up steeped in it still shaped me in ways that continue to surprise me.
Yes! I’ve been “culturally Catholic” for years. And I also refer to myself as “devout but not pious,” in that I definitely self-identify as Catholic, even though I pick & choose the beliefs I like, and only go to Mass to sing with the badass choir I’ve been in half my life. I love being Catholic–it brings me joy–but I don’t care if anybody else is.
I identify as a culturally Catholic athiest for the same reasons. I may not believe in God, or actually ever have believed in him, but the culture has a noticeable influence on me and my family and so is still relavent to my life.
“Culturally Catholic atheist” yes! I’ve struggled with how to define myself because my Catholic upbringing definitely still influences my worldview, my theories on religion, the importance of ritual and ceremony in life, etc etc but well – am an atheist. So thank you!
We were raised as Bad Catholics. Like, Catholicism, Saints, Mass, the lot, but with the idea the reincarnation is A Thing, and that sex outside of marriage is ok, as long as there is love, and abortions are sometimes needed, no matter what Johnny-Paul said.
And yet, having broken almost completely from the church, I still go to Christmas Midnight Mass every year, and even take communion (without confession first! Scandalous!). There’s just something about the ceremony of it all that I still need, even if it’s only once a year.
did we grow up in the same house somehow? Grew up with all the same above plus a healthy dose of Catholic superstition & ritual (cure in the water on the Feast of the Assumption, bury St Joseph to sell a house…) and I still find myself mumbling the St Anthony prayer when I lose something.
Yuuuup.
My 13 years of Catholic education were more on the hippy dippy post-Vatican II side, which despite being awfully conservative in some ways emphasized things like “it’s not a sin to be gay or mentally ill, just the behaviors involved” which was like a wedge of cognitive dissonance that eventually made me an atheist liberal feminist. I’m always surprised that none of my other 5 siblings left the church, though the youngest is definitely agnostic… but perhaps my being an asexual lesbian with a strong need for the world to be fair and just has set me up on a different path.
But, yeah, I’ve been calling myself culturally Catholic since I started college and realized I couldn’t claim any interest in wanting to believe anymore for the same things you say.
I graduated from a Liberal Catholic high school (after going to a more conservative Catholic grade school) and considered on my own becoming a nun. That’s all gone now, that deep and abiding faith, that feeling of walking with God. The fact that His Church On Earth thinks that people like me are pretty much worthless is a huge part of that.
But I still feel deeply, culturally Catholic in very primal ways. I went to Mass with my parents for Easter last year, after not having been to Mass in YEARS, and was shocked that many of the responses had changed. It was jarring.
Yeah, I went to my grandmother’s funeral last year and same thing about the responses having changed. It was disconcerting!
I’m also dittoing you about the nun thing. I figured it was what I was destined for since I didn’t want to get married and I was such a sinner that I had to basically devote my life to religion to make up for it. 😛 (I was not a sinner, fyi. I was a normal kid.)
See also: “things that I knew so well that they were giving me a sense of belonging to something I didn’t want to belong to.” Perfect. (And the rest of that paragraph also tracks exactly with my experience.)
“Close to us stood the Bishop in full ecclesiastical dress—mitre, crosier, biretta—and beside him three priests in black soutanes and white surplices, and beside them, two fidgeting altar boys. On the other side was a phalanx of Papal Knights of Columbus in black capes with red linings, white feathered Zorro hats, white gloves, and sashes across their swollen chests, looking as proud as if they had had a personal hand in St. Thérèse’s piety. Behind the men—and I didn’t even notice them at first—stood two old nuns in full long black habits not unlike what St. Thérèse would have worn. [ . . .] No one glanced at them or thanked them or even seemed to notice them as they continued to provide unacknowledged backup to the important stuff.”
MARY BREEN, SUMMING UP THE ENTIRE CATHOLIC CHURCH ON THE TOAST SINCE THIS POST
This resonated so much. Not even Catholic, but grew up in a New Age-y religion and boy it’s weird that the things that feel this way to me aren’t culturally-agreed-upon symbols like crucifixes, but chants made up in California in the 1960s. What can you even do with that, you know?
I grew up going to a post-Vatican II folk-group Catholic church in a multipurpose room, where we talked about Msgr. Oscar Romero and Dorothy Day and didn’t talk about homosexuality being a sin, which I’m told is some kind of magical-unicorn Catholic upbringing. Visiting “normal” US Catholic churches with statues and stuff everywhere and anti-gay-marriage petitions in the lobby was a weird experience. I thought my unicorn church was the real, true, good one– until I realized there weren’t any women in leadership positions at my church, either.
I was never a true-blue believer, so it wasn’t too hard for me to leave. But it’s hard to explain the feeling of hearing hundreds of people recite full paragraphs in unison without tearing up a little/wanting to go back to a time when I could find it beautiful and perfect and not problematic at all.
Love this. I’m not of the same generation but as a Catholic-school-attending Canadian this resonates like crazy. Thank you.
I’ve read the Plexiglass paragraph about six times. This piece resonates a lot with me, as my mom feels mostly as Mary does, while still practicing, in sort of a “I’ll be damned if I let them shove me out of my ancestral church” way.
I’m with your mom on that, Nicole. My mom might be, too, but I think she mostly goes to Mass as a way to try to hold some babies.
My Catholic upbringing was a whole lot less intense than yours, but my feelings are so similar, especially the way that “thinking about the institution puts me into a kind of inarticulate fury mixed with despair and powerlessness, and the best thing is to avoid it.”
As a kid my favorite thing about the church, maybe the only part that I liked, were the magical trinkets and bizarre saints and grotesque relics and gold leaf. When I’m in a museum (or on wikipedia) I can still get totally sucked into that stuff. I haven’t been to Mass in years but my collection of prayer cards and rosaries is vast. I would have been first in line to see those bones.
This also got me to thinking about my confirmation name. I picked Dymphna, an Irish princess who was beheaded by her own father and is now venerated as the patron saint of people with mental illness. I didn’t have any personal connection to the saint at the time (although I could say that her patronage is significant to me now as an adult). I just thought it was a cool name, and she sounded like a badass. This pretty much sums up my relationship to religion.
I chose Veronica because of the LFO song of the same name. Such piety.
Gosh, I know so many people who picked her as their Patron. The main reason i didn’t was because my best friend did. 🙂
Kind of late on this but my confirmation name is Dymphna too! I was similarly captivated by her story.
This was great. Re: Confirmation names: mine was Monica, which I said I chose because I needed to learn the virtue of patience (of which she is the patron saint) but I think I had really just been watching a lot of Friends (it was the 90’s).
My confirmation name is Catherine (of Siena), because she may have had an eating disorder, but she was one of those medieval women who wield crazy amounts of power. And my husband chose Wolfgang because he thought it was funny.
Same! Catherine of Siena, and for pretty much the same reasons.
My confirmation name is Cecilia, because she’s the patron saint of music and I was in the choir. Also it sounded pretty and she had the prettiest illustration in our “Lives of the Saints” book.
Next week on Buzzfeed: 20 Sexiest Saints of the Middle Ages
DITTO.
Also, I thought her martyrdom story was pretty cool. I mean, she was like “no, dad, I am NOT marrying that guy, okay.” and something something something they decided to kill her and she was thrown into an oven and survived for like three days of dry heat without water. So they took her out and chopped her up into tiny pieces. And the whole time she was singing. Or something like that, it was suitably gory and weird and looking back apparently I really liked a lot of saints who refused to marry for one reason or another. #foreshadowing
Mine is Helen, which was basically chosen by my mother (at this point I was done with Catholicism but did the entire Confirmation coursework, so, might as well get the ceremony out of it!). It was HER grandmother’s name, I think (maybe her great-grandmother? and don’t ask me paternal or maternal…), and I have nooo idea what saint I claimed!
Helen is Constantine’s mom. There’s actually some really cool folklore about her and feminist stuff that she represented in the middle ages, if you feel like checking out From the Beast to the Blonde by Marina Warner.
Hmm that Helen does not at all sound familiar to me, but I’ll have to look her up!
AUGH. I think WordPress ate my comment. 🙁
So just in case it didn’t, here’s a short version (because it was long and I don’t want to be all spammy): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helena_%28empress%29
Basically, From the Beast to the Blonde is a book about fairy tales and the people who tell them and their history. It’s pretty broad but extremely feminist and fairly fascinating. Also kind of dense at times, and now and then I’ll feel like Warner is a little too narrow in her analysis and applying a specific meaning to one element (like, say, storks) when there are several other equally valid meanings that she is ignoring.
In talking about these tales, Warner explains how they subvert the patriarchy and societal standards, and in one major way, it’s because they’re associated with old crones, who are traditionally given an outcast image of lewd and licentious and such (think of the image of the brothel madam with the hooked nose and warts and wiry grey hair). The old Sybils are an example of this – they’re Seers who live in the caves far from society and medieval folklore has it that they predicted the coming of Christ. Helen/Helena is part of the long evolution that made these stories acceptable for society, and she’s viewed as sort of a Sybil herself for introducing Christianity to her son, who in turn brought it to the world (Byzantine Empire and all).
But, of course, this is part of folkloric tradition. Stories and symbols and stuff accrete on the saints through repetition, kind of like the Seven Dwarves getting names via the Disney movie. So Helena was important in medieval folklore for her representation, even if that representation didn’t have much to do with the actual saint. (And, of course, some saints never existed at all!)
Growing up in a Catholic family and going to Catholic school got me fascinated in folklore because of stories of the saints, and all the superstitions and things that go along with it. It’s quite interesting.
My dad is Bartholomew and my brother is Walter because they thought it was funny.
I took Chiara because I had just gone to Italy and Assisi with school and it was “different.”
REAL holy over here.
I was Patrick and very proud of it – it’s a family name and being the only daughter, I was the only person who didn’t have it in their name. (Mother’s maiden name) It also suited me well in my teenage glare-phase anytime anyone (except, I was pleased, the bishop) said “Shouldn’t you be Patricia?”
I picked Patrick, too. Nobody gave me a hard time about it, possibly because my first name is Brigid.
My confirmation name was Christina, after the superpowered German saint – she could fly, you know.
To escape the smell of humans, she would frequently hide inside ovens.
One day at a place called Wellen she climbed into a large font and sat in the water. For two years. People would frequently seek her out to consult her for her wisdom.
“Where’s Saint Christina? I need some of that wisdom!”
“Not in the font? Did you check the oven? Not there either? Probably flying around somewhere. Take a number and wait.”
Although this is absolutely none of my business, I’m going to be crass and say it – Observant Irish Catholics and only one child?!? In the 50’s?! Hmmmm!
Back to being socially acceptable:
I have a really lovely (and expensive!) charm bracelet from my childhood that has a charm for each of my sacraments, and I want to wear it because they were gifts from my family recognizing milestones in my life, they were given with love, etc, but I also feel very awkward wearing angels and nativity scenes and a huge Eucharist on my wrist (I mean, huge, with the light emanating forth and everything) as a atheist. Right now I look at it fondly in my jewelry box but I wish I could find a way to be okay with wearing it.
there are all kinds of biological and other reasons a family would only have one child, though, unrelated to culturally stereotypical ideas of family size or birth control.
Yay, more Mary Breen!
St. Therese’s “Story of a Soul” is actually a great spiritual biography, not anywhere near as daintily saintly as the reputation that precedes it. It’s sort of like reading “Diary of Anne Frank” – it’s really obvious that a teenager is writing for a while, and then things take a turn for the sublime.
For me, the Catholic Church is like a party with a couple of wonderful guests who are hanging out in the kitchen, but you have to put up with thousands of drunken, insulting, and possibly violent frat boys on the way in. So I say “no thanks” and check out the Buddhist coffeehouse on the corner instead.
Mary Breen! I grew up a cradle Catholic, and even though I’ve given it up, just reading about The Little Flower pulls at my brain. When I was in Catholic school, which was next door to a local hospital, our teacher would make us pray to The Little Flower whenever we’d hear an ambulance go by. “Little Flower, in your power….”
Oh gosh the Little Flower rhyme!
My grammar school had two nuns – Sister Therese and Sister Edna. Sister Therese was the old woman who was probably pretty awesome except she was really old and I was really young and she terrified me… but she was the school librarian and in charge of teaching us little kids how to use a card catalogue and stuff. But she ALSO taught us about things like Venial vs. Mortal Sins and rhymes like that one. I only just realized whose name she chose when she took the habit.
(Also, typing this out, I realize where my terror of looking into a mirror came from – Sister Therese’s warnings about vanity being a sin and the little mimeographed cartoon drawings of girls gazing at themselves in mirrors. I thought FOR SURE I was going to hell because I couldn’t help but glance at myself in a mirror when passing by, even though I tried really hard not to. Now I know it’s an automatic reflex of seeing something moving and looking before realizing it’s a mirror, but I was 6…)
Sister Therese’s favorite rhyme/prayer was Saint Michael The Archangel Defend Us In Battle Be Our Safeguard Against Wickedness And Snares Of The Devil.
At least, that’s the one we said every time with her no matter what that no one else taught us and I still sometimes find it coming to my head when I hear something with the same rhythm or similar word patterns. It’s kind of a scary prayer, actually. 🙁
Mary Breen I love your writing please write a million more things. Thank you THE TOAST for the great writing you showcase.
I love these things so much. Love them. Yes! Yes we have use for them! Never stop, Mary. 🙂
Can I come out here a practicing Catholic? (will you take away my Toast-reading rights?)
Seriously, though, your writing is fantastic (the descriptions!) and I am glad that your life path has (mostly) led you to a place of peace.
I belong to a different conservative Christian sect than Catholicism, but this struck a chord with me. It’s often been a struggle about staying or leaving, and feeling like I can only do good from inside (since members close ranks and won’t listen to those who have left, as they’re painted as bitter or anti), especially now that we have a growing feminist movement within our church which is actually seeing some minor progress. But then wondering if it’s worth it to stay for the cognitive dissonance and mental gymnastics required.
I went to Midnight Mass about 2 years ago and it was my first mass since my grandfather’s funeral and before that maybe my first mass in 8 years? My mom’s in the choir and they are great and Midnight Mass is crazy and festive so I just thought I’d go.
Anyway, they played a COMMERCIAL FOR THE CATHOLIC CHURCH in the middle and then the priest said something to the effect of “hey lapsed ppl we know you’re here you can come talk to me about whatever has caused you to break with the church.” I don’t think it would have gone well if I had taken him up on it but that seemed surprisingly savvy of them.
Actually, if the priest asked, you probably could have told him whatever it was… it’s a long story, but I converted to full communion in the Catholic church while my mom was a prqcticing ordained minister in the United Church of Christ, and when I told my priest that I was not cool with the church’s stand on ordaining women, and he made this sort of understanding wince and basically said that he didn’t doubt my mom’s call to serve God and that he didn’t agree with the church on this issue personally, and was keen to take up and promote every new office women in the church were granted permission to perform, but that he also saw why that was not enough for some people. Anyway, I realize not all priests are that understanding, but presumably if he was willing to say “come on up and talk to me” (or the bishop made him) he was ready for the obvious stuff like women’s rights in the church, or the abuse scandal or what have you, and possibly even something less obvious that is more personal to you. I agree that that was very savvy of them, and I’ve never heard of doing an ad like that before…
Editing to add I just noticed how incredibly old this comment is. I’m recovering from a really long meeting by reading whatever I come upon, zombie-like. Sorry if this came out of nowhere (assuming you get email notification, as I do, when someone replies to one of your comments!)