occasional snake, and whatever else suited his fancy.
I took the bratwursts out to the gas grill and laid them over the flames in a neat row. Then I went back into the kitchen.
“ Have you heard anything about the service tomorrow?” I asked. “It’s Pentecost, you know. I thought I’d go to church and see how things are going.”
“ I was going to ask you if you’d heard anything.”
“ Moosey told me that he was helping with the birds. Do you know what that’s about?”
“ No, I don’t,” said Meg. “I haven’t been privy to the internal workings of the Worship Committee.”
“ Do you know anyone who has?”
“ Sure,” said Meg. “Carol Sterling, Bev Greene, Joyce Cooper, Father George and, of course, Princess Foo-Foo. Any of them can probably tell you. I’m not on that committee.”
“ It’ll probably be better if it’s a surprise.”
“ What?”
“ Whatever’s going to happen on Pentecost.”
Chapter 4
The feast of Pentecost (named for being the fiftieth day after Easter) is the birthday of the Church and has traditionally been a lively occasion at St. Barnabas. It has always been difficult to reenact the appearance of the Holy Spirit descending and manifesting itself as tongues of flame resting on the heads of the Apostles, but that, essentially, is what liturgy is all about—representing our faith through symbol and ceremony and making the encounter meaningful to modern worshippers. Charismatic churches reenact the glossolalia experience on a weekly basis, although I’ve never actually seen, or heard stories of, tongues of fire coming in and resting on the heads of the congregation. Episcopal congregations, however, not fully embracing the gift of “speaking in tongues,” attempt to reenact the original Pentecost in other ways.
“ Remember when we were doing helium balloons?” said Meg. “That was kind of good.”
“ Ah yes,” I said, recalling the Ghost of Pentecosts Past. “I remember the balloons. I also remember the banners and the streamers. I remember mimes and liturgical dancers. I remember sparklers, kites, red carnations, and wind machines. I even remember the fire baton.”
“ That was excellent,” agreed Meg. “Well, until our twirler dropped the baton and lit the carpet on fire. As I recall, we had to replace the whole center runner. We don’t seem to be able to get a handle on Pentecost. How did they do it in the old days?”
“ Let’s see,” I said. “In France, it was customary to blow trumpets during the service. You know, to recall the sound of the mighty wind. In Italy, rose petals were dropped from the ceilings of the churches to bring to mind the miracle of the fiery tongues.”
“ Why don’t we do that? I like rose petals.”
“ You know,” I added, “there’s an old English custom of having boys crawl into the vault of the cathedral and drop bits of flaming rope soaked in tar onto the worshippers.”
“ I don’t think we’d like that.”
“ It’s not all about what we like. Sometimes we have to do what’s best for the congregation.”
“ This is all Princess Foo-Foo’s fault, isn’t it?”
Yes, it was true. Pentecost was a mess, and the Christian Education Directors were to blame. I tried to assign the priests their share of the responsibility, but it wasn’t really their fault. In my experience, a priest could be talked into anything. It was the Christian Ed Director. I imagine it all started in Assisi when Isabella, the resident CED, said “Listen, St. Francis. We need to have a living nativity scene in the church, and it needs to have a real camel.”
So, given all our history, I wasn’t a bit surprised by what happened.
The morning started out like so many other Sunday mornings. Meg and I walked up the front steps to St. Barnabas just as the prelude was starting. Benny Dawkins, St. Barnabas’ champion thurifer, was warming up on the steps outside the church. He hadn’t lit the incense yet, so the smoke
I took the bratwursts out to the gas grill and laid them over the flames in a neat row. Then I went back into the kitchen.
“ Have you heard anything about the service tomorrow?” I asked. “It’s Pentecost, you know. I thought I’d go to church and see how things are going.”
“ I was going to ask you if you’d heard anything.”
“ Moosey told me that he was helping with the birds. Do you know what that’s about?”
“ No, I don’t,” said Meg. “I haven’t been privy to the internal workings of the Worship Committee.”
“ Do you know anyone who has?”
“ Sure,” said Meg. “Carol Sterling, Bev Greene, Joyce Cooper, Father George and, of course, Princess Foo-Foo. Any of them can probably tell you. I’m not on that committee.”
“ It’ll probably be better if it’s a surprise.”
“ What?”
“ Whatever’s going to happen on Pentecost.”
Chapter 4
The feast of Pentecost (named for being the fiftieth day after Easter) is the birthday of the Church and has traditionally been a lively occasion at St. Barnabas. It has always been difficult to reenact the appearance of the Holy Spirit descending and manifesting itself as tongues of flame resting on the heads of the Apostles, but that, essentially, is what liturgy is all about—representing our faith through symbol and ceremony and making the encounter meaningful to modern worshippers. Charismatic churches reenact the glossolalia experience on a weekly basis, although I’ve never actually seen, or heard stories of, tongues of fire coming in and resting on the heads of the congregation. Episcopal congregations, however, not fully embracing the gift of “speaking in tongues,” attempt to reenact the original Pentecost in other ways.
“ Remember when we were doing helium balloons?” said Meg. “That was kind of good.”
“ Ah yes,” I said, recalling the Ghost of Pentecosts Past. “I remember the balloons. I also remember the banners and the streamers. I remember mimes and liturgical dancers. I remember sparklers, kites, red carnations, and wind machines. I even remember the fire baton.”
“ That was excellent,” agreed Meg. “Well, until our twirler dropped the baton and lit the carpet on fire. As I recall, we had to replace the whole center runner. We don’t seem to be able to get a handle on Pentecost. How did they do it in the old days?”
“ Let’s see,” I said. “In France, it was customary to blow trumpets during the service. You know, to recall the sound of the mighty wind. In Italy, rose petals were dropped from the ceilings of the churches to bring to mind the miracle of the fiery tongues.”
“ Why don’t we do that? I like rose petals.”
“ You know,” I added, “there’s an old English custom of having boys crawl into the vault of the cathedral and drop bits of flaming rope soaked in tar onto the worshippers.”
“ I don’t think we’d like that.”
“ It’s not all about what we like. Sometimes we have to do what’s best for the congregation.”
“ This is all Princess Foo-Foo’s fault, isn’t it?”
Yes, it was true. Pentecost was a mess, and the Christian Education Directors were to blame. I tried to assign the priests their share of the responsibility, but it wasn’t really their fault. In my experience, a priest could be talked into anything. It was the Christian Ed Director. I imagine it all started in Assisi when Isabella, the resident CED, said “Listen, St. Francis. We need to have a living nativity scene in the church, and it needs to have a real camel.”
So, given all our history, I wasn’t a bit surprised by what happened.
The morning started out like so many other Sunday mornings. Meg and I walked up the front steps to St. Barnabas just as the prelude was starting. Benny Dawkins, St. Barnabas’ champion thurifer, was warming up on the steps outside the church. He hadn’t lit the incense yet, so the smoke
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