For Lithuanians, identity threatened
For more than a century, St. Peter Lithuanian Church, a red-brick building tucked between a patchwork of housing projects and an array of alphabetic South Boston streets, has been the core of the city's Lithuanian community. This is where Lithuanian newcomers, fleeing economic hardship, the turmoil of two world wars, and the communist rule that seemed to swallow their country whole, first dropped anchor.
This was the neighborhood where second- and third-generation Lithuanians like Gloria Adomkaitis and Birute Ziaugra grew up, and homes once vibrated with the sounds of a language forbidden for decades in its native land and the flavor of a culture immigrant parents were determined to preserve. Children attended Lithuanian language school, performed in Lithuanian folk dance groups, and earned merit badges for knowing Lithuanian history in the Lithuanian Boy Scout troop.
And every Sunday, their families worshiped at the church, where the hymns and prayers were in Lithuanian, and the altar and pulpit were molded from Lithuanian oak, and carved with a stylized lily motif held dear in their homeland. There, immigrants cradling memories of Lithuania and children who had never glimpsed the country learned to cherish their faith and their heritage, forever intertwining the two in their lives.
Over the decades, the immigrants and their offspring scattered to other neighborhoods and towns, but St. Peter remained at the center of their lives. It is the setting for baptisms and birthdays, funerals and festivals, weddings and weekend socializing, the magnet that still draws parishioners from the suburbs.
Now, however, in a year meant to celebrate the church's centennial, the Lithuanian community may instead be mourning St. Peter's demise, and they fear the end of the parish could usher in the end of their communal identity.
St. Peter is among the parishes that Archbishop Sean P. O'Malley ordered closed in the Archdiocese of Boston, a list that includes two other Lithuanian parishes: Immaculate Conception in Cambridge and St. George Church in Norwood. The closings will leave only one Lithuanian parish in the archdiocese: St. Casimir Parish in Brockton.
O'Malley, who stressed his commitment to new immigrants soon after arriving in Boston, said he made an effort to spare parishes that minister to the poor and recent immigrants. Of the 41 personal parishes designated to serve a particular ethnic group, 13 are slated to be closed. In most cases, the archdiocese protected parishes serving recent immigrants, while closing those serving older, more-established ethnic communities, such as St. Peter.
"It's as if our whole culture, our ethnic identity, is like a piece of dust, an inconvenience that can be just flicked away," said Gloria Adomkaitis, 59, a third-generation Lithuanian who grew up on G Street in South Boston. "Maybe we don't have as many people as the Vietnamese or Hispanics, but we deserve consideration, too. We don't deserve to be obliterated because the archdiocese decides on a whim that we don't need to exist anymore. That's hurtful, whether you're Lithuanian or another ethnic group."
For the Lithuanian community, the closing of St. Peter -- and the resulting loss of religious rituals rooted in Lithuanian culture -- carries a particularly sharp sting. During the Soviet occupation of Lithuania, the desire to maintain the country's customs and traditions took on special importance for immigrants here.
St. Peter, where both the Lithuanian language and spirit still run strong, played a pivotal role in preserving that identity. From the statue of St. Casimir, posing with three lilies and a red sash at the church entrance, to the figure of Our Lady of the Dawn Gate, cast in amber and set in the center of the altar, the church is replete with icons that are beloved in Lithuania and hold special significance for Lithuanian Catholics here.
"We had to keep the culture and language alive here because we didn't know when the country would be free again. It provided a sense of pride, a sense of belonging," said Adomkaitis. "It is ethnicity rolled together with theology. For me, the prayer and liturgy is much more meaningful and more significant in Lithuanian. If I go somewhere else, it won't have the same depth or intensity of spirit."
In addition, many older immigrants still nurse painful memories of living under a communist regime, which sought to snuff out the Roman Catholic faith by shutting churches and punishing those who practiced the religion.
For those immigrants, the closing of St. Peter and other Lithuanian parishes has sent old traumas darting to the surface, said Birute Ziaugra, 52, a parishioner whose parents emigrated from Lithuania. "It happened to them in Lithuania, so they came here in order to practice religious freedom. Now, it's happening to them again," Ziaugra said.
The first wave of Lithuanian immigrants arrived in South Boston in the late 1880s. At the turn of the century, the growing enclave raised enough money to lay the cornerstone for their own church. One hundred years later, an estimated 1,300 parishioners still belong to St. Peter, representing nearly half the Lithuanian population in the region.
Although the bulk of Lithuanians arrived here more than 50 years ago, a new wave of immigrants began streaming into Boston in the 1990s, following the country's independence from Soviet rule. Newcomers still find their way to the steps of St. Peter, looking for help and a fragment of home in a country where they are still strangers, noted the Rev. Stephen Zukas, pastor of the church.
"These are people who grew up without a sense of God because of their exposure to the Soviet system, and it's important for them to know that there's a center of faith where they feel welcome," said Zukas. "With the closing of the parish, it's going to be a big challenge to reach out to them."
But even more-established Lithuanians, who now live far from the streets of South Boston, say they still cling to St. Peter. Indeed, for many of St. Peter's parishioners, family ties are interlaced with parish history.
Take Adomkaitis. St. Peter church was the scene for her parents' wedding and both of her sons' confirmations. Her grandparents were among the first couples married at St. Peter, and Saturday, in what may be the last wedding ceremony to be held at the church, one of her nieces walked down the mint-green carpet and exchanged vows in Lithuanian and English.
Naida Snipas, 35, a fourth-generation parishioner, Catholic school teacher, and director of the Lithuanian folk dance group, insisted on getting married in St. Peter and layering traditional Lithuanian touches throughout the ceremony. There was, she said, never any other choice for her.
"This is home. I was baptized here. I received all my sacraments here. Where else would I go?" Snipas asked as she paused during her wedding rehearsal last week and reflected on her conflicting emotions. There was joy at the impending marriage and sorrow at the thought of losing a church that has always stood at the center of her life.
"When I heard about the closing, my heart just broke. I have a knot in my stomach," she said. "I hope I'm not the last bride. I don't want to be the last. I want to christen my children here and raise them in this church." 