European ethnic parishes like St. Casimir's were once the lifeblood of Catholicism in Paterson. Most of the 16 parishes standing today were founded to serve the European and Eastern European immigrants that flooded into the city during its industrial boom in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Back then, the church served as a community center. Italians, Irish, Poles, Slovaks, French, German, Dutch, Armenians, Syrians -- each group had a distinct community parish to call its own, to worship in its mother languages, to carry on traditions. But the old model no longer makes sense. The European immigrants have since moved out of the city, settling in the suburbs, their children intermarrying and assimilating into American life.
The cost of maintaining separate parishes, sometimes within a few blocks of one another, is impractical, some critics say. "If I'm a pastor and you're a pastor and we're practically all doing the same thing, and we're practically all next to each other, then that's bad stewardship," Monsignor Thomas J. Coletta, a veteran city priest, said in a Herald News story in April. Coinciding with the announcement of a $37 million debt, Paterson diocese officials have met with pastors to discuss a restructuring plan for the 16 Catholic parishes that dot Paterson's nine square miles. Officials have not yet indicated whether some parishes will close or be merged. Diocese spokeswoman Marianna Thompson said officials are looking closely at the demographics of Catholics in Paterson, namely the thriving Latino community, and what their needs are. "Many of them walk and don't have cars," said Thompson. "An important part of the process is to look where the population resides."
Monsignor Raymond Kupke, archivist for the Diocese of Paterson, said the city's Latino Catholics should not be bunched together as a homogenous group. "There are so many different varieties of Latin-Americans with different dialects and different traditions and different feasts," he said. Kupke draws parallels with an older immigrant group that maintained a strong hometown attachment upon settling here: the Italians. Many Italian Catholics, said Kupke, continued to venerate the patron saints of their hometowns in Italy. As a result, the old Italian parishes in the city, such as St. Michael's and St. Mary's, are decorated with multiple statues commemorating these saints. On a recent Sunday morning at St. Mary's on Union Avenue, a group of some 30 Catholics traveled from neighboring towns to celebrate the weekly Italian mass. After services ended, the parishioners -- all middle-aged and older, who had worshipped there for years -- greeted each other with pecks on the cheek and hugs. Before leaving to grab a cup of coffee with a friend, Maria Fattorusso, of Haledon, explained why Italian Mass is so important to her: "Mass is best in Italian; it's something different; it's a feeling inside of you."
Before the Italian-American parishioners could file out of the sanctuary, a stream of dark-haired girls in white Holy Communion dresses burst through the doorway, racing down the aisle for the English-language services. Later that morning, the priest would lead a Spanish-language service for the neighborhood's Hispanic community. Across town that same morning, a group of 30 gathered for the Lithuanian-English services at St. Casimir's, a small brick church that faces the basketball courts of Wrigley Park in a black neighborhood. At one time the neighborhood was filled with Eastern European immigrants. The Baptist church a block away was once a Polish National Catholic church.
So how does the Lithuanian parish continue to exist, when its community has long since fled the East Side neighborhood? Memory is a powerful force. And the four humble walls contain generations of memories for parishioners like Aldona Tahhinos, 68, who grew up in the church, had her first communion there and was married there. On Saturdays, children attended Lithuanian language classes in a hall next door. Families gathered for picnics in North Haledon, where a live polka band played. Stained-glass windows bear the names of the church's early supporters -- family names such as Ragauskas, Sparanatis and Waraske. The church was founded in 1911.
Another key to its survival is that the Lithuanians are a particularly nationalistic community, a nation that for centuries has been squeezed on all borders by occupiers. Religion and its old-world European language are sources of holding onto its national pride. The language has two verbs that mean to sing: "Dainouti" is regular singing; "Giedoti" is used for singing in church. Parishioners like Alfred Martinkus, who immigrated here in 1954, looks forward to services for the once-a-week opportunity to sing hymns in his native language. "When I go to another church, I don't feel like I've been to church," he said. The congregation is not without its challenges. In its heyday in 1960, the parish had 885 members. Today many of the members are aging and retired, their children married out of the community and attending parishes near their homes. Through the years, there's been a constant struggle to find Lithuanian priests to lead the church. The current pastor, the Rev. John Hanley, who lives during the week at St. Gerard's, is not Lithuanian.
But if a congregation's coffee hour is an indication of its vigor, this church is going strong. Congregants recently sat down to plates full of birthday cake and Lithuanian dishes like kugulis, shredded potatoes with cream, eggs and bacon. They lingered and talked for nearly an hour. Rita Linkute-Apaze, the parish's organist, who immigrated from Vilnius, Lithuania's capital city, about a decade ago, may be the congregants' future. Since moving to America, she married a Peruvian man and had two sons. She brings them to services every Sunday to teach them about her culture. On this Sunday, her Peruvian in-laws joined, as well. "We're all doing good; different cultures are all integrated together," said her sister-in-law Corina Apaza. Marianna Thompson said St. Casmir's is self-sustaining and will not be closed.
What does Raymond Kupke, the diocese archivist who has chronicled the ebb and flow of immigrant groups throughout the city's history, see in the future for St. Casmir's? "They either fade out gracefully or shift to serve the population already present in the neighborhood," he said. "It's a constant changing mosaic. You don't know where the next group is going to come from."
