Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines by Mark Schweizer Read Free Book Online

points out, I am the president of the Liturgical Curmudgeon Society.
    I blamed all this on the Rev. Dr. Rosemary Pepperpot-Cohosh, or Mother P, as she liked to be called. She was cut from a different cloth: a midwestern, Lutheran cloth — calico perhaps, or corn-dyed muslin —  but it really wasn’t her fault. Not really. There were some folks that liked an informal church service and since she was of that bent herself, she certainly didn’t mind “blending” the service to cater to their enthusiasm. No, it wasn’t entirely her fault, but I didn’t mind blaming her.
    I was thinking that an Anglo-Catholic priest might be just the ticket. So on this, the Third Sunday of Epiphany, I had come to church to see what St. Barnabas had gotten themselves into. Granted, there wouldn’t be any immediate change in the warp and woof of the liturgical fabric. We’d be draped in calico for a while yet, but an interim priest sometimes stayed for a year and sometimes they decided they liked it so much they applied to made the position permanent.
    I’d programmed the music for January before I’d taken my leave for six months, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the choir sing (and quite well!) Almighty and Everlasting God by Orlando Gibbons as an introit. That was just about as snooty as the priest was likely to get given the current atmosphere. Mother P had encouraged Kimberly Walnut to become a deacon and Kimberly Walnut had completed the process just before Christmas. I stayed out of it. About a year ago, the two women had come to an understanding as to the style of liturgy they could both embrace. This no longer included a processional during the opening hymn (too much trouble to get everyone lined up), no incense on high and holy feast days (Mother P claimed allergies), no acolytes (too hard to get the kids to show up), no chanting of any part of the service (too much practice required), no singing the Psalm (too boring), and nothing else that, in my opinion, might take a bit of effort. That’s me being a curmudgeon again.
    I was watching the priest. He’d been advised as to the current practices of the congregation but I could tell he was uncomfortable. Bev informed me that once he’d told the search committee he was happy to chant the service, he was in. It didn’t hurt that the search committee included Bev, Joyce Cooper, Mark Wells, Bob Solomon, Georgia Wester, Fred May, and Francis Passaglio — all but Francis and Joyce, members of the choir. Joyce was ready for a change and Francis didn’t care much one way or the other.
    The rest of the service was par for the course. No surprises, except maybe for the new priest. Kimberly Walnut presided over a particularly doleful Children’s Moment. The kids were bored, had been bored for months, and now, couldn’t be bothered to make any cute comments. They sat on the steps with their chins in their hands, no expression at all on their little faces. Bored, bored, bored.
    “Does anyone know what this is?” asked Kimberly Walnut, holding up a big plastic fish.
    No answer.
    “It’s a fish, isn’t it? Jesus made fisherfolk his disciples. Does anyone know why Jesus called them ‘Fishers of Men?’”
    No answer, although one little girl managed a beautiful eye roll. Bored.
    “Does anyone want to sing the Fishers of Men song with me we learned in Sunday School?”
    They did not. Not even when Kimberly Walnut started the song, then leapt in with wild gesticulations, waving the plastic fish in a bizarre swimming motion.
     
    I will make you fishers of men,
    fishers of men, fishers of men.
    I will make you fishers of men,
    If you follow Me.
     
    The children didn’t move. Not a bit. All nine of them, ages four to seven, sat on the steps of the chancel, unsmiling, unspeaking, unimpressed by Kimberly Walnut and seemingly tired of being put on display for the congregation’s amusement. They waited till she finished her song, then, without being prompted, got silently to their feet,