Altar Rail Debate: In retrospect, I’m glad I kept the joke in my head

St. Philomena Catholic Church in Honolulu. Photo: Gerald Farinas.

I had the dubious honor of witnessing a serious theological debate recently—the kind that makes you question whether you’re listening to ancient philosophers or just people arguing about furniture.

The topic? Altar rails.

Specifically, the growing trend of Catholic bishops, like Charlotte's Michael Martin, deciding that these separating barriers need to go.

My Catholic friend, let's call him Bartholomew (because it sounds sufficiently serious), explained his opposition with profound gravity. For him, the altar rail is the velvet rope separating the VIP section. When the priest presents the Eucharist—the actual Body and Blood of Christ, mind you—it’s not a casual encounter.

"It's like Jesus is showing up," Bartholomew leaned in, his voice a reverent whisper. "And when the Lord shows up, you don't just stand there and wave. You get down on your knees! You receive him with the utmost respect, as one kneels before a king, a lord!"

It was a compelling point, steeped in tradition and the gravity of the True Presence.

Then entered the Lutheran voice of reason, a lovely woman I will call Ingrid (because it sounds sufficiently Lutheran), who believes in the True Presence and kneels at her own church's altar rail.

Ingrid nodded, accepting the practice but rejecting the feudal analogy.

"I kneel, too," she said softly, "but it’s not to greet a lord. It’s a completely different kind of reception. He's not a king demanding obeisance; he's a Father. You take his hand, you embrace him in a family way."

Bartholomew countered that even family members bow to their patriarchs, and Ingrid countered with a point about loving submission versus fearful submission.

It was a beautiful, nuanced discussion about the nature of divine love and human reverence, unfolding right in front of me.

And I ruined it all. In my head, at least.

In my head, a third, deeply irreverent, and utterly uninvited perspective emerged.

“You know what? If Jesus actually showed up, I’d greet him like my college buddy. His nickname is 'Jes,' and the appropriate greeting is a vigorous backslap and a good, solid noogie.

“Jes! Long time, buddy! Got any wine for this party?”

The silence in my head was deafening because no one actually made this joke.

They were too busy discussing the deep, meaningful relationship between believer and Savior, and the architectural constraints of that relationship.

So there I sat, a theological jerk, fighting back inappropriate laughter during a serious debate about sacrifice, love, and architecture, all because I had conjured up an image of Jesus being enthusiastically greeted with a playful headlock.

The altar rail might separate the laity from the altar, but I realized my own internal barrier—the one separating my respect for tradition from my deeply ingrained need for absurd humor—was the one that truly needed work.

As a Presbyterian, I’ll stay out of the debate. It’s for them to decide.