says they’ll be glad to wait and see what happens.”
“ I guess they will,” answered Bob. “They might not have to pay off at all.”
“ Palestrina,” I announced. “Then the Harris anthem. Sit up straight and sing it like you mean it.”
•••
As services went, this one was a doozy. Bishop O’Connell, in fine form and full regalia, Father Tony Brown in his new vestments, the acolytes, lay-readers, choir members, and Eucharistic ministers, all followed our champion thurifer, Benny Dawkins. Benny walked behind the crucifer who was proudly holding the church’s new brass and silver processional cross aloft, and the group entered in all possible pomp and pageantry. Benny Dawkins had finally realized his life’s ambition by actually winning the International Thurifer Invitational, held in Santiago, Spain, last summer. He wasn’t a long-shot to come out on top, by any means, having finished as one of the top-five thurifers for the previous several seasons, but the competition seemed to be going the way of his arch-rival, Basil Pringle-Tarrington, who was a sentimental favorite due to his losing an arm in an unfortunate incense-pot training exercise with his sensei in Japan. Benny, never one to be cowed by sentiment, took the competition right to Pringle-Tarrington, first stunning the judges with his new signature move, St. Moulagh’s Breastplate , a maneuver that left a startling vaporous vision of a Celtic cross hanging in the air above the altar before dissipating a moment later, only to be replaced by a phantasmic image of the Keys of St. Peter. The gasps from the crowd were gratifying enough, but nothing compared to the spontaneous weeping that followed as Benny turned and faced the crowd, whirled the thurible in front of him until it became a blur of gold, and the sheer speed of it made the glowing coal light the pot from within until it shone with a radiance matched only by Benny’s serene expression, then walked back down the aisle through a fairly reasonable smoky depiction of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper.” Pringle-Tarrington withdrew from the competition; many thought his spirit had been broken, and he’d never compete again.
I couldn’t see the magic Benny was performing this morning since I was playing the prelude when he came in, but there was appreciative applause as he censed the altar, made his turn and headed out the door to the sacristy. Our bishop didn’t care for incense—it made him sneeze—so Benny used special hypoallergenic smoke and got out of the nave as soon as he’d done his part.
The new organ was splendid, the choir sang exceedingly well, the bishop’s sermon was well-received, and the congregation even sang the hymns. Father Tony had banished the dreaded “children’s moment” soon after he’d returned to taking charge of the services. Now the kids follow the crucifer out to a special children’s service during the second hymn and come back in for communion.
Moosey and his gang were there, five ten-year-olds who struck terror in every Sunday School teacher that had ever had the pleasure of teaching a class on Noah’s ark while simultaneously trying to corral two of every reptile native to the St. Germaine ecosystem—reptiles that had been courteously provided by any one and possibly all of the afore-mentioned gang. Moosey, Bernadette, Ashley, and Christopher had recently added a fifth to their confederacy, someone to take the place of the departed Robert, a casualty of the seductive appeal of New Fellowship Baptist’s Golgotha Funpark . His name was Dewey.
The “Children of the Corn,” as they were known by the Christian education department, had been deemed too old for children’s church and so now congregated on the back pew where they spent the service passing notes and looking up all the smutty parts of the Bible they could find.
“ Balaam sat on his ass,” giggled Ashley during the sermon, passing the pew Bible to Bernadette and pointing out the
“ I guess they will,” answered Bob. “They might not have to pay off at all.”
“ Palestrina,” I announced. “Then the Harris anthem. Sit up straight and sing it like you mean it.”
•••
As services went, this one was a doozy. Bishop O’Connell, in fine form and full regalia, Father Tony Brown in his new vestments, the acolytes, lay-readers, choir members, and Eucharistic ministers, all followed our champion thurifer, Benny Dawkins. Benny walked behind the crucifer who was proudly holding the church’s new brass and silver processional cross aloft, and the group entered in all possible pomp and pageantry. Benny Dawkins had finally realized his life’s ambition by actually winning the International Thurifer Invitational, held in Santiago, Spain, last summer. He wasn’t a long-shot to come out on top, by any means, having finished as one of the top-five thurifers for the previous several seasons, but the competition seemed to be going the way of his arch-rival, Basil Pringle-Tarrington, who was a sentimental favorite due to his losing an arm in an unfortunate incense-pot training exercise with his sensei in Japan. Benny, never one to be cowed by sentiment, took the competition right to Pringle-Tarrington, first stunning the judges with his new signature move, St. Moulagh’s Breastplate , a maneuver that left a startling vaporous vision of a Celtic cross hanging in the air above the altar before dissipating a moment later, only to be replaced by a phantasmic image of the Keys of St. Peter. The gasps from the crowd were gratifying enough, but nothing compared to the spontaneous weeping that followed as Benny turned and faced the crowd, whirled the thurible in front of him until it became a blur of gold, and the sheer speed of it made the glowing coal light the pot from within until it shone with a radiance matched only by Benny’s serene expression, then walked back down the aisle through a fairly reasonable smoky depiction of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper.” Pringle-Tarrington withdrew from the competition; many thought his spirit had been broken, and he’d never compete again.
I couldn’t see the magic Benny was performing this morning since I was playing the prelude when he came in, but there was appreciative applause as he censed the altar, made his turn and headed out the door to the sacristy. Our bishop didn’t care for incense—it made him sneeze—so Benny used special hypoallergenic smoke and got out of the nave as soon as he’d done his part.
The new organ was splendid, the choir sang exceedingly well, the bishop’s sermon was well-received, and the congregation even sang the hymns. Father Tony had banished the dreaded “children’s moment” soon after he’d returned to taking charge of the services. Now the kids follow the crucifer out to a special children’s service during the second hymn and come back in for communion.
Moosey and his gang were there, five ten-year-olds who struck terror in every Sunday School teacher that had ever had the pleasure of teaching a class on Noah’s ark while simultaneously trying to corral two of every reptile native to the St. Germaine ecosystem—reptiles that had been courteously provided by any one and possibly all of the afore-mentioned gang. Moosey, Bernadette, Ashley, and Christopher had recently added a fifth to their confederacy, someone to take the place of the departed Robert, a casualty of the seductive appeal of New Fellowship Baptist’s Golgotha Funpark . His name was Dewey.
The “Children of the Corn,” as they were known by the Christian education department, had been deemed too old for children’s church and so now congregated on the back pew where they spent the service passing notes and looking up all the smutty parts of the Bible they could find.
“ Balaam sat on his ass,” giggled Ashley during the sermon, passing the pew Bible to Bernadette and pointing out the
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