Phos hilaron

I had a strange new experience today.

At the cathedral, the daily office - Morning and Evening Prayer - is said at the times when there is no Eucharist. Lay volunteers usually do this. Last night, at the annual fund raising concert for our music program, my friend S. asked me if I could fill in for her at Evening Prayer today, because she had a conflict. I said I could, and at 4:30 this afternoon I bundled up, got on my bike, and rode downtown. There was a lot of traffic, and the huge Christmas wreaths encrusted with little red lights had just been put up at La Baie, on the other side of Union Street from the cathedral. In the courtyard, a newly-erected Christmas tree was also alight, but the church itself seemed dark. I went in the main entrance and found George, acting as assistant verger today, waiting in the back. I explained why I was there, and asked where the service books were kept, thinking I would read the service in the small side chapel where a few people could gather, if indeed anyone showed up. A lot of the time, no one does, or people wander in and out as they do all day long.

"Al has the books all ready for you," George told me, and I followed him down the side aisle into the baptistry, where he unlocked the big red door and motioned to me to follow. We went into the sacristy - the room where the communion vessels and all the other service supplies are kept and prepared - and he showed me a stack of books with markers in them, left by Al, the verger. "There you are," he said.

I looked at the books - all the readings for today were noted and carefully marked, and the leaflet with the cathedral's intercessory prayers for this week was behind them. I had brought the readings myself, not expecting this level of help. "Shall I do the service in the chapel?"I asked.

"Usually she does it here in the choir stalls," George said, opening another big door that led out onto the nave, near the altar. I followed him with the books. "You see, here by the microphone." There was indeed a small microphone on the last stall, already turned on.

"And it starts at 5:15?"

"Yes. I'll ring the bells for you, and you can get settled here. I usually stay in the back by the doors."

"OK," I said. George walked out, and above my head, the cathedral bells began tolling. I sat down, reviewed the readings and the service order, which is a little different from the American liturgy, and waited, feeling quite small and alone under the tall buttresses and in the dark wooden choir stalls, built for bigger people than I am. The whole length of the marble altar, at my left, was already covered with red crepe poppies, for Remembrance Day this coming Sunday. I looked at them, and at the names of dead soldiers carved above the altar. I looked out into the empty church. George sat at the back, and one other man, wearing his coat, was seated two-thirds of the way toward the back.

At 5:15, I stood up, said a few words of welcome, and began reading: "O gracious light..."

The service went quickly. Psalm 74 is long, and the Gospel was the horrible passage about the beheading of John the Baptist, but the second reading was the passage for All Saints' from Ecclesiasticus that I quoted here a few posts ago. It felt good to read it aloud, like the poetry that it is, in the resonance of the cathedral, and as I did, I felt the sudden warmth of connection with all of you. I read the creeds, the intercessory prayers for the diocese, the world, the city and the parish, the Lord's Prayer, and the closing sentences, and was done. I knelt down for a few minutes, and then went out into the sacristy and filled in the service book for November 8, 2007: Evening Prayer. Name of officiant. Number in congregation: 3. George came in, I put on my coat, and he let me out the side door and went around to lock up the building for the night. I went outside into the crisp cold air. People were still going in and out of La Baie, where big color posters advertised animal-print silk camisoles for Christmas, worn by pouting, sultry-eyed girls in the arms of several men.

"Does it make any sense at all anymore?" I wondered as I rode over to University and up to Sherbrooke. We have become such a remnant. On the one hand it is ridiculous, insane. But then: people still come in, sit down, listen, think, light candles. Who was the man who came to the service? Why was he there? It's possible that he wanted to sit and listen to a pleasant voice reading prayers and scripture in complete anonymity. But I'm uncomfortable with the distance and the formality - not the old words, so much, as the removal from eye contact, from sharing a book that we could all read from, the impossibility of lighting a candle together or extinguishing it at the end. Up in the choir stall, I felt very much like the man behind the curtain, and that even if a brave pilgrim dared make her way all the way to the front, as I had invited visitors to do, she might be disappointed in what she found.

Would I do it again? Perhaps - but not this way. I have changed, and my faith has changed, a good deal over the past few years. By crossing this northern border, I've also entered a spiritual life that is entirely different than in the United States, and here is precious little heat left in these embers. It's time for new thinking and new connections, and voices that aren't afraid to come out from the shadows, into that gracious light.

Comments

[Rachel]

There's a lot in this post that resonates for me, as you might imagine. The moment when you felt yourself connected with all of us, whoever "we" may be; the disjunction between the evening service and the advertisements outside; that poignant number 3.

The last line of the post feels so hopeful to me, even though it comes on the heels of an articulated sense of disconnection. Maybe, as we move toward the solstice, I'm just looking for light.

[beth]

Thanks for writing, Rachel, it means a lot to me, coming from someone who is more often in the "officiant" column! As I thought about it more, I realized that what felt the worst to me was the sense of being disembodied - I had become a "voice" speaking from the altar, barely even visible from the pews. There is a lectern in the front (not the pulpit, which is raised) and if I do it again, I'd much prefer to light a candle and read from there, or use the small side chapel which creates a pool of light in the cathedral as the sun goes down, and is a warm, welcoming space. I do think we can usually find the light if we look hard enough. But I'm also glad I had this experience.

[Peter]

I was touched by your description, Beth.

I think that what affected me was exactly the part that discouraged you -- the fact that there was almost no one there but you, the verger and God -- and there was nothing to get back from being faithful to your promise but the satisfaction of keeping it.

Holding a service for a single congregant is akin to carving a gargoyle and mounting it under the roof where no one will see it; it's an act of pure faith, and even an unbeliever like me can appreciate it. In a time when bishops are accused of pederasty and evangelists are commonly caught lining their pockets, churches survive on the small devotions of the faithful, and yours was as important as any of them.

Don't forget that you have no way of knowing what your conducting the service meant to the man out in the pews, too.

[Ivy]

This is lovely, Beth. Thank you. Stay warm.

[beth]

Peter, Ivy - thank you for your comments. I agree with you, Peter: there's no way to tell what that lone congregant was feeling or needing, or what he did or didn't get from the service. And one has to assume the best. I feel less conflicted about the experience after a few days distance from it, and more convinced that it's good that the prayers are indeed said in that place every day; I just think it would be good to offer some different kinds of prayer. I'd like to learn to chant the service, for instance. Part of why people enter churches is that most of them DO have an atmosphere that has been shaped by people praying in them for decades or even centuries, and this quiet witness to another way of being stands in stark opposition to our fast, technological, consumptive world. In the city, one can't easily go stand in a forest and be alone and quiet, so inner-city churches like mine are important oases. Some day I'll spend a whole day there and see what I can learn by quietly watching what happens.

[beth]

P.S. How to do it with the most integrity, according to the shape of my own faith at the present time, is another subject entirely.

[Dick]

Moving, Beth, even for an old heathen such as I...

[Theriomorph]

Beautiful. Reminded me very strongly of a cold day many years ago now, shortly after my own distancing from the Episcopal Church when, missing the continuity and beauty and sense of connection, I went and sat in a back pew and listened to a familiar service. There was such a strong sense of valuing what was there, and knowing I was no longer a part of it, as I had been anyway, and wishing for the more uncomplicated relationship of the past, and feeling like the anonymity I felt in that pew was both heartbreaking and more honest. It is no small relationship, to love the Church honestly.

My own travels have taken me entirely elsewhere now, but this post resonated, in the senses of connection and re-examination both. I so appreciate you writing about this with such honesty (and beauty).

Have you ever visited the Weston Priory in Weston, Vermont, Beth? Beautiful services, sung.

[Wow, this internet age: they have a website. : )]