Asleep in the pews

WEYMOUTH -- At first glance, it is hard to tell that St. Albert the Great is officially closed as a parish. There are three daily prayer services, including one on Labor Day that was standing room only. A parish website has been developed. There are fresh flowers on the altar and fresh pastries in the kitchen. Every night, parishioners come with their pillows and blankets, stretching out on the pews or in the aisles. Every morning, others take their place.

Someone remarked that the coffee in the parish hall has never tasted better.

The church is among 82 scheduled to close by year's end under a reconfiguration plan promulgated by the Archdiocese of Boston because of declining attendance and collections, a shortage of priests, and decrepit buildings. But parishioners are not accepting the order to close.

They began a round-the-clock sit-in, which they prefer to call "an eternal prayer vigil," after the final Mass on Sunday, Aug. 29. Three days later, on Sept. 1, the Rev. Ron Coyne turned over his keys to the archdiocese and drove to his home in West Roxbury.

The people may have no priest, but they still have their church -- at least for now.

The archdiocese, obviously aware of the public relations debacle of having parishioners forcibly removed, is waiting it out. But it has been 11 days since the vigil began, and parishioners say they aren't going anywhere.

Outside the church, signs proclaim: "Father, Forgive Them" and "Beep for Saving St. Albert's." The steps are covered with flowers and candles dropped off by well-wishers. In the foyer, the welcoming book is filled with greetings from all over the Boston area.

A night spent at St. Albert's this week offered a glimpse of how a parish that has been closed has nonetheless managed to stay open.

7 p.m. Tuesday: Mary Akoury, cochairwoman of the pastoral council, opens a parish meeting of more than 300 people. She thanks parishioners for their diligence and repeats the message to the hierarchy: "The reconfiguration process from day one was flawed, and an injustice was done: the closing of a vibrant parish." She announces the Voice of the Faithful chapter, which has yet to find a home in any of the other four local parishes, will continue to meet monthly at St. Albert's "since the church is still open."

Updates are given, to much applause: The legal fund now totals $106,038.23; and in just two collections, $2,498 was raised for utilities and maintenance, enough for the next two months. Mary Ames, an attorney who is representing the parish in a lawsuit against the archdiocese, tells the crowd that the case is "cutting-edge" and "groundbreaking."

8 p.m.: Coffee hour begins, and people crowd around Ames, asking about the lawsuit. Later, Ames, who attended Catholic schools and college, says: "I'm a lifelong Catholic, and I was taught that we are the church and to stand up for what's right."

8:30 p.m.: The parish hall is cleaned, and tables are set up for breakfast the next morning. Some people drift out; others settle in for the evening, or at least an hour or two. Sandi Jones arrives, as she has every night since the vigil began. "I sit here and pray and talk to the saints," she says, glancing at the 56 stained glass windows purchased by parishioners four years ago. "I pray for the people. I pray for the church. I pray that [Archbishop] Sean O'Malley changes his mind and gets some compassion." She passes around photos of Friday night's sleep over and then opens the book she has brought: "The Treasury of Women Saints."

9:15 p.m.: Shane Donovan, 17, stops by after his shift working at a nearby supermarket. He's from Brockton, but his best friend told him: "Dude, they're shutting down my parish." Donovan has come to offer his song to the two dozen people in the church. He bows at the altar, then sings "Amazing Grace" and "Be Not Afraid." A few parishioners join in softly on the chorus.

On the altar, a sign on the chair reads: "Father Coyne's chair is empty, but his spirit is still with us." Two dozen red roses are arranged in a vase, an anonymous gift that arrived from California.

9:45 p.m.: A group of women near the front sing "Hail Mary: Gentle Woman." Mary Norton remarks that the next day is the Virgin Mary's birthday.

10:10 p.m.: Helen Silva arrives with her 9-year-old son, Marcus. It's their sixth overnight here. While he draws a picture of Coyne, she pulls out scissors and photos and begins work on a scrapbook for the popular priest. "It's still a parish even though the archdiocese doesn't think so," she says. "If it takes two years, we'll be here."

10:30 p.m.: A trio of children arrive: Gennaro Hock, 11, and Meghan McCurdy and Katie Dwyer, both 12. "It's kind of cool sleeping in the church," says Meghan, who is on her third such overnight. "We're kind of part of history here." Her mother, Diane, says the kids are learning lessons about faith and grit.

John Hammel, the vigil's organizer and the parish's former religious education director, lowers the lights, turns off the air conditioning, and opens windows. The ceiling fans turn lazily. The altar's crucifix is illuminated; the only other light comes from the foyer. Two distinct sounds emanate from the pews: whispers and snores.

11 p.m.: Diane McCurdy goes outside for a smoke. She can't get her daughter and the other two kids to sleep; they're not tired. An apparently inebriated young woman walks up and asks why the church is open. She bums a cigarette from McCurdy and a dollar from someone else. When she reveals that she is homeless, she is invited to sleep inside. She declines: "Knowing me, I'd probably be cursing in my sleep."

11:30 p.m.: Helen Silva hands her son a toothbrush and sends him to the bathroom. She takes the first pew on the left, while he hunkers down on a comforter in the adjacent aisle. Three rows back, Kelly Donahue leans against a New England Patriots pillow, her legs covered by a navy blanket. "This is where I usually sat during Mass," she says. She settles back and reads a book about Pats quarterback Tom Brady.

11:45 p.m.: Phil Healy, a pastoral council member, sets up a cot with an air mattress. "I had a flat tire the other night," he jokes of a deflated mattress, "and someone suggested I call AAA." Nearby, there's snoring. "That's Linda," someone says.

Midnight: On the other side of the aisle, Meghan and Molly Griffin sleep on comforters, surrounded by their stuffed animals. They're 6 and 7 years old, and their mother, Elizabeth, says she feels compelled to be here. "I've never believed in anything as strongly as I believe in this," she says. "The people are so brave here. One night, an 83-year-old woman was sleeping behind me."

A parishioner goes around placing mints on pillows, hotel-style. "I'm keeping my sense of humor," she says. Hans Hauser and Kyle Shaffer have come from Hingham "because we believe in what St. Albert's is doing," Shaffer says.

12:30 a.m.: A survivor of the priest sexual abuse scandal stops by after getting off work. "I feel in solidarity with the people here," he says. He will stay the night, praying in a pew.

Anne Maranville has made a Dunkin' Donuts run, and now sits on the steps drinking coffee with two others. "I feel awful. I feel betrayed by the way the archdiocese has handled this," she says. Jane Keefe arrives with blanket and pillow. She has to be at work at 7 a.m. but has signed up for several hours of keeping vigil.

In the first two pews on the right side, Mary Lou Madigan and Mary Norton, first cousins and best friends, have taken their usual spots: "squatters' rights," they call it. Madigan has her Tempur-Pedic pillow, the better to sleep.

2 a.m.: Phil Healy is asleep on his cot, snoring. Diane McCurdy takes one more cigarette break; the kids are finally down. There are 30 people scattered throughout the church -- some in pews, some on the floor; some asleep, some awake.

3 a.m.: Mary Burns arrives "because this is my allotted time." She kneels to pray. Nearby, another woman fingers her rosary.

3:30 a.m.: Rick Robak stops by for a stint before work. "I pray and I think about what's going to happen," he says. "I think in the long run the church probably will end up closing, but this might open some eyes about future closings. We'll keep this up until the last court battle is fought."

4:15 a.m.: A light rain falls. Barbara Conant, head of the hospitality committee, arrives to make the coffee, as she does each dawn these days. She'll prepare 120 cups of regular, 60 of decaf, and 60 of hot water for tea and cocoa. She checks a table in the parish hall filled with pastries, and adds some slices of watermelon. "We have enough food here to last a month. People are just pouring the food in."

5 a.m.: John Hammel kneels at the altar, crosses himself, and turns on the church lights. TV crews arrive and reporters do stand-ups in front of sleeping or sleepy parishioners. Helen Silva stirs, checks her son, and says she'll have enough time to get home for a shower before reporting to her job as a school secretary.

7:15 a.m.: A group of women sit in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary and sing "Happy Birthday" to her; they've also stuck a candle into a lemon pound cake. Cheryl and Jerry Smith stop by on their way to work; he visits with parishioners downstairs, while she prays in a pew. An ordained minister, he became a Catholic this year, and has led some of the weekend prayer services. "For me, this is an issue of justice," he says.

7:35 a.m.: A delivery man pulls up at the side entrance and takes bags of ice to the kitchen. Diane McCurdy hauls her blankets to her car; the kids are still asleep. Downstairs, weary parishioners drink coffee with their replacements, who have just arrived for a morning prayer service.