offending passage.
“ You kids be quiet now,” hissed one of the ushers. “Or I’ll make you go sit with your parents.” This admonition always worked for about two minutes.
The service ended on a high note, Karg-Elert’s Nun Danket Alle Gott, that rattled the dentures of several old folks who’d neglected to use a sufficient amount of Polygrip, as specified in the prayer book. The choir applauded enthusiastically, and we shed our vestments and headed down to the new parish hall for brunch, speeches, and the opening of the St. Barnabas time capsule.
“ I’d like to welcome everyone here today,” said Bev Greene, once everyone had gotten their food and found some seats. “This is a very special occasion.”
“ Balaam sat on his ass,” snorted Moosey, finally looking at the piece of paper he’d been passed during the sermon.
“ Hush,” said Meg, snatching the paper away and sticking it in her purse. Ruby, Meg’s mother, took Moosey’s hand, and we found our table, our reservation being held by Nancy and Dave who had come over for the festivities, then sneaked into the parish hall during the final hymn to beat the crowd. Nancy, in her police uniform due to a specific duty she’d agreed to perform during the opening of the time capsule, managed to hold our seats by looking daggers at anyone who attempted to usurp them. It was an effective tactic, and people shied away, looking for a less inhospitable landing.
“ It’s particularly appropriate,” said Bev, “that we have our Celebration Sunday on the feast day of St. Barnabas, and thanks to all the workers, contractors, and everyone else who has been toiling around the clock to make sure we were ready for our homecoming. They’ve done a beautiful job rebuilding our church, and we’re more grateful than words can say.”
Applause.
We went through several short speeches, including one by Mayor Cynthia Johnsson; our chief architect, Jessica Adeline; Michael Baum of the Baum-Boltoph Organ Company, and Father Tony, with Bev acting as the mistress of ceremonies. Meg had declined the invitation to be included.
At long last, Bev yielded the dais to Bishop O’Connell, who stepped up to the mic, all smiles and hairspray, his lilac shirt a little damp from the perspiration that a service clad in extra-fancy vestments, a thirty pound cope and a velvet-lined mitre tend to encourage, especially in June.
“ It is my pleasure, as always, to be with the congregation of St. Barnabas,” said Bishop O’Connell. “I know you don’t want to hear another sermon by me…”
Laughter.
“ …and so I shall be happy to turn the program over to Billy Hixon. I’m sure we’re all waiting to view the contents of the time-capsule that was found under the foundation of the old church. However, before we do, let us have a prayer.”
Every head bowed, and the bishop said the collect for St. Barnabas Day.
“ Grant, O Lord, that we may follow the example of your faithful servant Barnabas, who, seeking not his own renown but the well-being of Your Church, gave generously of his life and substance for the relief of the poor and the spread of the Gospel; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“ Amen,” the crowd answered.
“ Billy?” said the bishop, gesturing to Billy Hixon, who climbed the two steps onto the low platform, carrying the box that everyone had come to see opened. There was a small side-table set up in the middle of the platform, and Billy placed the box on it. The box was exactly thirteen and one quarter inches wide, twelve and a half inches long and nine inches deep. Billy had measured it. It was black in color, made of steel and quite heavy. On the front of the box was a hasp, also made of steel, and a brass padlock that had been cleaned. The lock had the date 1875 stamped into the brass along with the manufacturer’s information—the Handy Lock Company of Pittsburgh,
“ You kids be quiet now,” hissed one of the ushers. “Or I’ll make you go sit with your parents.” This admonition always worked for about two minutes.
The service ended on a high note, Karg-Elert’s Nun Danket Alle Gott, that rattled the dentures of several old folks who’d neglected to use a sufficient amount of Polygrip, as specified in the prayer book. The choir applauded enthusiastically, and we shed our vestments and headed down to the new parish hall for brunch, speeches, and the opening of the St. Barnabas time capsule.
“ I’d like to welcome everyone here today,” said Bev Greene, once everyone had gotten their food and found some seats. “This is a very special occasion.”
“ Balaam sat on his ass,” snorted Moosey, finally looking at the piece of paper he’d been passed during the sermon.
“ Hush,” said Meg, snatching the paper away and sticking it in her purse. Ruby, Meg’s mother, took Moosey’s hand, and we found our table, our reservation being held by Nancy and Dave who had come over for the festivities, then sneaked into the parish hall during the final hymn to beat the crowd. Nancy, in her police uniform due to a specific duty she’d agreed to perform during the opening of the time capsule, managed to hold our seats by looking daggers at anyone who attempted to usurp them. It was an effective tactic, and people shied away, looking for a less inhospitable landing.
“ It’s particularly appropriate,” said Bev, “that we have our Celebration Sunday on the feast day of St. Barnabas, and thanks to all the workers, contractors, and everyone else who has been toiling around the clock to make sure we were ready for our homecoming. They’ve done a beautiful job rebuilding our church, and we’re more grateful than words can say.”
Applause.
We went through several short speeches, including one by Mayor Cynthia Johnsson; our chief architect, Jessica Adeline; Michael Baum of the Baum-Boltoph Organ Company, and Father Tony, with Bev acting as the mistress of ceremonies. Meg had declined the invitation to be included.
At long last, Bev yielded the dais to Bishop O’Connell, who stepped up to the mic, all smiles and hairspray, his lilac shirt a little damp from the perspiration that a service clad in extra-fancy vestments, a thirty pound cope and a velvet-lined mitre tend to encourage, especially in June.
“ It is my pleasure, as always, to be with the congregation of St. Barnabas,” said Bishop O’Connell. “I know you don’t want to hear another sermon by me…”
Laughter.
“ …and so I shall be happy to turn the program over to Billy Hixon. I’m sure we’re all waiting to view the contents of the time-capsule that was found under the foundation of the old church. However, before we do, let us have a prayer.”
Every head bowed, and the bishop said the collect for St. Barnabas Day.
“ Grant, O Lord, that we may follow the example of your faithful servant Barnabas, who, seeking not his own renown but the well-being of Your Church, gave generously of his life and substance for the relief of the poor and the spread of the Gospel; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“ Amen,” the crowd answered.
“ Billy?” said the bishop, gesturing to Billy Hixon, who climbed the two steps onto the low platform, carrying the box that everyone had come to see opened. There was a small side-table set up in the middle of the platform, and Billy placed the box on it. The box was exactly thirteen and one quarter inches wide, twelve and a half inches long and nine inches deep. Billy had measured it. It was black in color, made of steel and quite heavy. On the front of the box was a hasp, also made of steel, and a brass padlock that had been cleaned. The lock had the date 1875 stamped into the brass along with the manufacturer’s information—the Handy Lock Company of Pittsburgh,
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