The Bass Wore Scales by Mark Schweizer Page A

wasn’t billowing around him, but he was going through the motions of some of his signature gyrations. Benny had been to the finals of the International Thurifer Invitational for five years running and, although, he’d never won, he was recognized as one of the top pot-swingers in the world. Benny only worked on major feast days since some of the parishioners complained about the smoke, but, as far as I was concerned, the more smoke the better. If the altar disappeared altogether while he was censing it, I was happy.
    “ Morning, Benny,” I said as we passed him. “What are we going to see today?”
    “ I’m working on a couple of new ones,” Benny answered, not looking at me, but concentrating on the arc of the thurible. “Watch for one I call ‘Over The Falls’ on my first turn. Then coming back up the aisle, I’m planning to do the ‘Jericho Twister’ and when I get up to the altar, a ‘Triple Spin Double Back-Loop’ in honor of the Trinity. It’s a revised shamrock pattern.”
    “ Sounds great,” I said. “I’m looking forward to your artistry.”
    We shook a few hands in the narthex and found a seat in the back, just under the choir loft, as the processional started. Hail Thee, Festival Day was the traditional St. Barnabas opening hymn for Pentecost and today was no exception. It was a tune that the congregation knew pretty well, although Henrietta Burbank’s rendition seemed to be a little thin, due, I expect, to the lack of any pedal notes.
    “ Why doesn’t she just reverse the great-to-pedal coupler and play the pedal part on the keyboard?” I whispered to Meg in between stanzas.
    “ Why don’t you go up and show her how?” Meg whispered back. “I’m sure she has no idea. She’s a piano teacher.”
    “ I’ll show her after the service,” I said, “after she puts her leg back on.”
    “ Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” coughed Father George after the hymn had concluded. Benny had done his job well. We could barely see the front of the church for the smoke.
    “ And blessed be his kingdom, now and forever,” the congregation coughed back. “Amen.”
    “ Alleluia. Christ is risen,” continued Father George.
    “ The Lord is risen indeed. (Cough) Alleluia.”
    The service continued as we sang the Gloria , heard the story of Ezekiel and his valley of dry bones in the Old Testament reading and sang the psalm refrain in response to the choir’s bold attempt at chanting the verses. I was settling in for the Epistle reading, the story of the mighty wind and tongues of flame, and wondering what Father George and Princess Foo-Foo had come up with to bring the gospel to life, when the Princess stood up and invited the children to come forward for the Children’s Moment.
    “ Ah yes,” I said to Meg, under my breath. “The Children’s Moment.”
    Princess Foo-Foo was the nickname that Meg had given to Brenda Marshall, our Christian Ed Director. Brenda was not an Episcopalian by birth or by choice, a fact that she pointed to on a regular basis with a certain amount of pride. Her theology, Meg was convinced, was guided by her confidence in the power of a warm and fuzzy Spirit Force with shoe-button eyes. Elaine was less kind, calling her—and I’m not using Elaine’s exact words here—“ecumenically promiscuous,” and it was Georgia that suspected that she was a touchy-feely Uni-luther-presby-metho-lopian. In addition to her duties in the worship-planning department, she taught the elementary Sunday School class, telling Bible stories with the help of a furry hand puppet named Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear.
    The children popped out of the pews and headed up the aisle to the front of the church where Father George waited for them, his hands clasped together as though in prayer. Meg elbowed me as we watched the children walk slowly to the front. There were the three or four little children from the nursery school class…and then there were the Children of the