There are two kinds of Catholics.

The ones who go to mass on Saturdays. And those who go when they’re supposed to: On Sundays.

Kidding. 

The church says either is fine and who am I to argue? (Actually, I have a lot of arguments with the church right now. More about those in a minute.)

Anyway, my goal every Sunday is to get up in time for 8 o’clock mass. 

About once out of every four Sundays, I succeed. On the others I hit 10 o’clock or noon or make it to the Last-Gasp Mass at St. Gregory’s at 6 on Sunday evenings.

The procrastinator’s service.

This past Sunday my internal alarm went off at about 6 a.m., so there I was with the early birds before the first hymn ended.

I was eager to hear the party line from the bishop on the latest revelations of child molestation by the clergy.

And here’s what we got: Radio silence.

Nada. Not a word. Nothing to see here.

Business as usual.

Finally, during the announcements, after half the congregation had already decamped to Duck Donuts, the stragglers were told that the bishop would be holding some sort of mass in honor of the raped and molested kids.

In Richmond. In September.

Pathetic.

And to think some of us used to feel guilty if we missed Sunday mass. Or ate meat on a Friday in Lent. Or took the Lord’s name in vain.

No more. Not this Catholic.