Observations, by Tom Sheridan

Lenten loopies

Happens every year. Twice a year, actually. Christmas and the Lent-Easter combo.

Every winter and every spring secular media rediscovers religion. Or at least rediscovers that religion is more than he-said-she-said conflicts over abortion, gay marriage, political support, abuse and all the rest.

Just watch. In the next few weeks the newsmagazines will give us Scripture stories, Bible history and the like.

That’s OK, and you might even learn something. But there’s also the goofy stuff.

Did you see the supermarket tabloid—Weekly World News or one of those—“reporting” that archeological evidence supports that at the Last Supper Jesus ordered in pizza for the disciples? And they said it with a straight face.

No, I’m not making this up.

According to the paper, there were a couple of vegetarian pizzas and a couple of sausage (but not pork sausage, I hope). Oh, and one pepperoni. For Judas. Allegedly.

Neither did I buy it … the newspaper OR the tale that Jerusalem had Dominos franchise back then.

Yes, I know it’s stupid. But too many people actually believe what’s printed in these silly-sheets.

There’s no question that faith means suspending some of the cynicism that’s prevalent in today’s world. After all, that’s why some things are called “mysteries.”

But being a believer shouldn’t mean being gullible.

It happens, though, because people are sometimes too busy paying attention to such stuff and not enough attention to faith.

During a recent visit to my mother-in-law’s home in Florida, she pulled me aside to show me a letter she’d received from a Tulsa, Okla., outfit calling itself “St. Matthew’s Churches.” The envelope promised a blessing. Nothing wrong with that; we all could use a blessing now and then.

But inside was a sheet of 11-by-17-inch paper carrying an image of Jesus and words “Church Prayer Rug.” The “rug,” said the accompanying letter, was “soaked with the power of prayer.” All you had to do was to kneel on it and you could “expect a blessing.”

There were the usual testimonials from people who did just that and were rewarded with cash, cars, homes. The mailing—addressed to “resident”—didn’t actually demand a donation. But it suggested one pretty strongly. (That’s what the postage-paid envelope was for—hint, hint.)

To her credit, my mother-in-law didn’t really believe it was legit. But I don’t think she was quite sure. The quasi-Catholic lingo, “St. Matthew’s Churches,” almost hooked her. Still, the whole scam reminded me of something I ran into years ago when I was consumer editor for a secular newspaper.

A minister from the New York area wrote letters to people promising blessings and riches. Inside, promised each letter, was a prayer rug which the minister had personally prayed upon. (In his case, it likely was “preyed” upon).

I opened the envelope a skeptical reader sent and out fell a two-inch piece of red yarn. Yup, that was the prayer rug. (Must have been a weave-it-yourself version.) And of course a monetary donation was expected.

This calls for a caveat: churches—including the Catholic Church—operate on the generosity of their members. And churches, even legitimate ones, come up with some pretty ingenious ideas to encourage that support.

Right now, the archdiocese is in the middle of one of its main sources of revenue, the Annual Catholic Appeal. Parishes, too, conduct fund drives for everything from paying day-to-day bills to capital improvements.

But it shouldn’t be hard to differentiate between the kind of tricky “prayer-rug” scam and legitimate need.

All you have to do is look at where the money goes. In the case of the Annual Catholic Appeal, the answer is quite biblical: the people are educated, the hurting are helped, the faith is passed on. And a whole lot more.

And you don’t have to buy a rug.