High Church, Low Comedy: A Silly Season Reflection
The performance of liturgy is serious business... until something untoward happens, and the servers and clergy are hard-pressed not to crack up. Since I first buttoned up a cassock, I have experienced many such tests of 'control of the face'.
I was promoted to thurifer at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene shortly after my father’s death. Accordingly, I dedicated my new ministry to his memory. My father, an Englishman, served in the Royal Navy throughout the Second World War, and retained his sailor’s salty tongue. At St. Mary’s, the high altar is in the centre of the sanctuary, flanked on both narrow sides by three tall metal candlesticks. Throughout the Prayer of Consecration, the thurifer and acolytes kneel at the north side of the altar. During one High Mass, as I was censing away at a major elevation, the thurible collided with one of the candlesticks, making an impressive clanging noise. The acolyte beside me whispered, “Good shot!” I heard my father’s voice in my head uttering one of his favourite expressions: “Clumsy b*gg*r aren’t you!?”
Despite this resounding (pun intended) gaffe, I eventually became a Master of Ceremonies. My début was on Good Friday. As my first grade teacher noted, I thrive on challenges. Everything went smoothly until we processed to the Altar of Repose to collect the Blessed Sacrament. The Deacon put the key in the tabernacle lock, and it refused to budge. After a couple of tries, he turned and gazed at me imploringly. I joined him, and with as much reverence as I could muster, tried to open the door, without success. One of the acolytes came to our aid, and had the same bad luck. Finally the Celebrant arrived, looking none too pleased, and with a sharp and authoritative turn of the key, opened the tabernacle.
A few years later I was made a Subdeacon. The ceremony took place at High Mass. I entered in cassock, amice and alb, and was clothed by my best friend, who was Deacon that day. Although we were both nervous, we put the tunicle on me properly, or so we thought. The Celebrant noticed that it was on backwards. We corrected the error, treating the congregation to the spectacle of a red-faced priest dressing, undressing and redressing a blushing Subdeacon.
Ordination has not rendered me immune from embarrassing incidents. On my arrival in Gaspé, the president of the local seniors’ group invited me to become a member. I was rather taken aback by the assumption that I was at least sixty-five. The gentleman read my thoughts, and assured me that the minimum age was fifty. I joined the 'Recycled Teenagers', as we called ourselves. Our winter activities included snowshoeing on the trails of the Cégep’s forestry school. On my initial outing, the first time I had snowshoed since I was a real teenager, I discovered that my ability was intact, until I descended the first hill. In an instant, I was flat on my backside, looking up at my parishioners, who were making a heroic effort to maintain their poker faces. This was clearly a test for the new minister. My response was to give into my own amusement and burst out laughing. My companions joined in, and then I asked them to lift me up.
Here at St John’s, the merriment continues. I have become accustomed to speaking and singing, in English, over the music that wafts into our church during festival season. During les Francofolies this year, I had my first experience saying Mass in French to musical accompaniment. I began speaking more loudly. My next task was to block out the sound, as I enjoy francophone music and feared I would recognize the song and be distracted. Happily, this strategy worked!
After Mass, my guest who had joined us for worship said that he found the outdoor artist’s performance of Bon Jovi’s Livin' On A Prayer quite fitting!
Wendy +