Never has the priest heard such song. Suddenly he understands why churches have vaulted ceilings—to make room for the singing that lives in a congregation’s breast. They sing in full voice, with good support from well-trained diaphragms, they sing from expanded chests and open windpipes. They sing powerfully, and they sing slowly, and there is a wonderful tension between the men’s sonorous rumble and the women’s voices, so dangerously high they fling defiance in the face of death.
The priest can hardly stand still, but the hymn has only three verses so he can go in at once. He tries not to bounce but to walk with dignity, in through the altar rail, catching sight of Mona and Sanna in the first row—Sanna’s face lighting up, both arms in the air, her mouth forming the word Papa!—but he can’t hear a thing for the singing. He places the chalice on the altar and genuflects. Tries to pray, but the singing fills his world. And when you sing, you become a different person, more certain, happier. They finish reluctantly, as if they wanted a fourth and a fifth and a sixth verse, and he turns around. Prayer book in hand, he sees the organist’s attentive back, hears the note the organ gives him. Responds, a resonant trombone, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
It’s clear that the congregation likes his voice. They respond with a lingering and wholehearted “Amen”.
The liturgy is the product of difficult schisms and agonizing committee meetings, but now it lies there polished and shiny like a gift from God. It has been formulated for him so that a priest need never fall short and be faced with his own imperfections as he works to establish a direct relationship between the parishioners and the Divine. He leads them through the service, singing, reading, and they answer him with song. He is not vain, merely relieved to see that he has won their affection because he can sing. Thank you, God! He sounds happy, certain that he’s made contact when he reads the General Confession with its “I call unto Thee from the depths, O Lord” and then the Absolution, from his heart. He sings “Lord have mercy upon us” with the congregation, which roars and drags and forces him to take it slower despite the organist’s attempt at compromise up in the loft. And then pure joy when they stand and sing Laudamus: “We praise Thee, we beseech Thee, we laud and honour Thee”, a difficult medieval melody that they sing with the utmost confidence. Their voices carry through even the extreme registers, so grandly that he, singing along at the altar, feels chills run down his spine. He adapts to their singing and drags out the ornamentations the way he realizes they’ve been dragged out since the days of the early church.
He no longer holds the service in his hand, the service has instead gripped him and has him firmly in its grasp. The congregation creates the service, and he feels himself in its keeping, without responsibility, like a child, and then in a flash he remembers his sermon. It will simply have to do, because now he is reading the Epistle, and, after the next hymn comes the Creed. Hardly a murmur is heard from the congregation, and he realizes that when they sing they are completely involved, but that when they speak they hold something back. Like their shepherd, alas. He turns towards the altar and the organist begins the sermon hymn. It’s long—“O that I Had a Thousand Voices”—and he is glad for the respite as he walks to the sacristy, followed by the verger, who will help him remove his chasuble and surplice and put on his cassock. Arms into the sleeves and buttons buttoned while they sing inside. The Bible open to the text, sermon underneath, announcements at the bottom. All set, and he’s ready to go, but the verger shakes his head. One more verse, and only then does he send him out.
A straight line from the sacristy to the pulpit. No sidelong glance at Mona’s anxious, encouraging face, straight up the little staircase. Bows his head in prayer, which is nothing but black terror. Help me! While the congregation sings a convincing “Should earth and heaven cease to be, Yet shall I find my joy in Thee.” Simultaneously a creaking from the number board, which the verger sets swinging to signal them to stop.
The church grows quiet, and the priest stands alone in the pulpit, no longer protected by his prayer book. He raises his head from his simulated prayer and looks out over the congregation. Nothing but friendly, solemn, interested faces. Now he knows what to say.
“Dear friends, brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ. We are gathered for worship in our own church. For me, it is the first time, and I will never forget my first meeting with this church on the bay. As you know, the journey out here is a long one, and during the night a person can almost lose his courage and regret coming. But the journey’s end comes into view with the morning light. All of you know the joy you feel when you see the church and the bell tower begin to take shape in the distance, and you know you are almost here. It was so beautiful, I was so delighted, and so happy. And I thought, in the words of the Bible, This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”
The church is silent, but he hears a slight, friendly murmur, as if his words were being well received. He goes on, as if speaking in confidence to good friends. “Let us pray. Dear Lord. You look deep into our hearts and see us as we are, imperfect and inconstant. But you also see our hope and our toil. Thank you for your mercy towards us, your compassion and your forgiveness. Thank you for allowing us to turn to you today and all other days. Amen.” And then he reads the text from the Gospel of John, “ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.” And the wonderful final verse, “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
The priest is moved and inspired and he thinks that last year’s sermon on this theme is not so terribly dreadful after all. With certain embellishments and additions it will be like new, which in truth it is for this audience, and, carefully, he moves into his text, which does have its moments. His voice is cheerful, and he allows himself to look out over the congregation and feels he has made contact. They are with him, even the ones who are asleep, old people who have heard all the sermons they need to hear and now take a blessed pause in the heavy air of a full church.
Yes, they’re going to say that he sings better than he speaks, but on the other hand, he sings better than many others! As the sermon of a young priest at the beginning of his career, it isn’t half bad, and, exhilarated, he rounds it off and turns to the announcements: a thanksgiving for the life of an old man who has died and a reminder of next week’s service.
Finally the collection, which this day will go to the Evangelical Society. Lord bless our offering. The organist’s baritone takes up “Jesus, lead my steps, I pray” and the parishioners shift in their pews, dig into pockets and purses, snap open or shut their pocketbooks, and begin to sing “To follow in Thy blessed way”. The verger emerges from the sacristy and begins making his rounds with his collection bag. The priest comes down from the pulpit and pulls off his own cassock and puts on his robes and surplice for Communion and the closing liturgy.
They sing and sing, and the verger moves solemnly from pew to pew. The collection bag is passed along to those sitting closer to the wall, and it all takes time. They sing slowly, and the hymn is long enough. During the eighth verse, the verger comes in and checks to see that the priest is presentable. Prayer book and Bible in hand, he goes out into the church, which has gone so quiet that he can hear Sanna whining and whimpering. He knows Mona is holding her arm hard and hissing at her to be quiet. It’s been a long service for such a small person, and there’s a lot more to come—some lovely antiphonal song, the Invocation to Holy Communion, the Our Father, a trembling “O Lamb of God”. The invitation, “Draw near with faith.”
But no one comes. They look sullen, stare at the floor or glance at one another, need to be urged as if they were at a party. Wasn’t it the organist who tried to hint that they didn’t like Communion? If only the Sunday service could consist entirely of singing! Then they’d be the most Christian people in the world, but now it’s apparent that they shrink from an individual commitment, from surrender, from the requirement to seem pious.
They curtsey and bow before the altar, and genuflect. So few come, and there is no second setting of the table. The priest himself is trying to get used to Communion, which he would like to see as a symbolic act. The problem is that wherever he goes there is someone who will argue with him and insist that he, as a priest of the church, must believe that the wine is actually transformed into the blood of Christ. When he explains that we drink from the chalice in memory of the blood shed for us, the person in question grows indignant and accuses the
priest of lack of faith and heresy. He still likes best the Sundays that have a service without Communion. Here on the Örlands, that means three Sundays of four, and that suits him fine.
The organist plays beautifully and the priest passes out Communion wafers and follows up with the chalice, drying the cup with a linen cloth after every sip. “Shed for thee.” And then, bowing and curtseying, relieved, a little happier because it’s over, they walk back to their pews. The priest takes Communion himself, and when he drinks he notes how thirsty he is, and he still has the closing liturgy ahead of him.
The organist plays, and the priest sings the Anthem of Praise with the congregation and reads the blessing. And now the congregation kicks into life, forgets its ill humour and sings the closing hymn, “Like Shining Sunrise in the Spring”, with such a will that he realizes that in future he needs to pick longer hymns. When the three verses have been sung, they would like to go on, but the verger has scurried away on tiptoe to ring the bells, and the organist sets to work on his postlude, which the priest recognizes as Cappelen’s “Prayer” (adagio). The organ has a lovely, bright sound, which breaks down once or twice when the pumper pauses at his work.
It is over, and he is back in the sacristy. Off with his gown, the alb over his head, and back into his cassock. People are on their way out of the church, coughing and talking quietly as their feet move towards the door, leaving behind them a cloud of cough drops and naphthalene. The bells are still ringing, but soon they stop and the verger returns, along with the organist, who comes nimbly down the steps from the organ loft, warding off with his hand a corner of the upper floor that seems designed to knock an intruder senseless. They all look pleased, and the priest thanks them warmly. “And how they sing!” he adds. “I’m going to be really happy here.”
He can hardly wait to go out and speak to those who are still in the churchyard, but the verger reminds him that the collection must be counted in the presence of witnesses and entered in the account book. There are a great many small coins, and it takes time, but finally it’s all locked in the chest and at last they can go outside. The sun is shining the way it can in May. Many are on their way to the church dock, but many remain, in contrast with other parishes where people hurry away when the pastor appears. These people stand still and smile warmly, and when he greets them and shakes their hands, they wish him welcome. None of them give their names, and in the end he starts to ask, for he wants so very much to get to know them by name as well as by face. A little group gathers around him, people who want to say hello, and they’re all in such a good mood after all their singing that it’s a joy to be with them.
He almost forgets to look for Mona and Sanna, but then he catches sight of them at one side of the churchyard, isolated in a struggle, with Sanna twisting and screaming and Mona holding her tight and looking angry. They’re fighting bitterly, and big tears are rolling down Sanna’s cheeks. The pastor is still standing there talking and smiling but he feels a pang of depression. Must she always? Sanna has been angelically quiet and good during the service and slept a little during the sermon. It’s only natural that someone so little is now worn out and cries and squirms. But he and his wife have sworn each other a solemn oath that they will be consistent in raising their children. Whatever one of them says will be supported by the other, and no child will get a no from one parent and a yes from the other. Because where would that lead? To a tyranny of the children, Mona has declared, and he has wholeheartedly agreed—they will show firmness, unity, and cooperation.
But he feels sorry for Sanna, who ought to be getting praise, not reproach. “Excuse me a moment,” he says. “I see Mona, who would also like to say hello.” He rushes off. “Now, now, Sanna! You’ve been such a good girl. Come to Papa!”
Sanna raises her arms to him pathetically, her face streaked with tears, her mouth contorted, but Mona pulls her back. “Careful of the cassock,” she hisses. “She’s wet!” As if that were a terrible disgrace in a fourteen-month-old child. Mona is very proud of the fact that Sanna is already almost completely potty trained at home and can be plunked down as soon as she wakes up and after every meal. Now it’s been too long, and after her nap in church it happened. So Mona is angry and scandalized and Sanna is inconsolable. Petter is on edge, but he has no choice.
“I realize you want to go home, but come over anyway and say hello. I promised to come and fetch you.”
Mona bristles. “Did you have to drag me into it? Couldn’t you see what was going on?” But she follows him as she promised, for better or for worse, and manages a smile when she arrives with the wet, whimpering Sanna on her arm.
“And this is my family,” he introduces them. “Mona and Alexandra, but we call her Sanna.” The little group greet them warmly and bid Mona welcome, and they all remark on how incredibly quiet and well-behaved their little girl was in church. They all pretend not to notice that she’s wet, but Mona mentions the chilly breeze and says she needs to get home and change her before she catches cold. “And then too, we’re having the vestry and the parish council for coffee.”
She’s just leaving when a tall, angular person steps forward from the group. She doesn’t smile but stretches out her hand towards Mona and says, with an odd accent, that she would like to introduce herself. Her name is Irina Gyllen, and she is the midwife on the Örlands.
Mona almost curtseys, and Sanna is quiet. The priest collects himself and presses her hand warmly. “So nice to meet you! Thank you for coming! I’ve heard so many good things about you from my predecessor, and I’m looking forward to working with you on health care.”
“Thank you,” says this brown person. “I wish you good comfort on the island. Now I should go, there are so many who want to speak to you.” As she turns away, she glances at Sanna and Mona, who is ill at ease. “Sweet little girl,” she says. “Maybe we will see you at the surgery? Goodbye.”
She heads off for the gate and the Hindriks family follows. They very pleasantly fall in with Mona as they walk and chat, and when they reach the parsonage, Mona says goodbye and the rest of them stroll on towards the dock. Doctor Gyllen lives with the Hindrikses, they have explained to Mona, and she’s an excellent woman in every way.
The only people left in the churchyard are now the members of the vestry and the parish council. The priest shakes all their hands and learns their names and which villages they come from. Fortunately, the organist and Adele Bergman are among them, for he already views them as old friends. He looks with interest at a tall, slender woman wearing a long black velvet skirt, a tailored jacket and a hair net—Lydia Manström, teacher, married to a farmer fisherman in one of the eastern villages. She radiates … well, what is it she radiates? Great self-control and originality, perhaps? Not easy to say what she’ll be like. She has a teacher’s authority, of course, and he hopes that Mona will get along well with her and
make a friend.
They begin to drift towards the parsonage, and he notices that Adele Bergman and Lydia Manström hang back. They’re trying to give Mona as much time as possible, whereas the men are thinking of coffee and sandwiches and push ahead. When they come into the passage, Mona, warm and red, meets them and welcomes them and asks them to come in. She ground the coffee, buttered the bread, and set the table before they went to church, and when she came back she quickly lit the fire in the stove before changing Sanna and putting her in her crib. Now she has also brought out her freshly baked rolls, and the coffee water is simmering on the stove. The pastor needn’t have worried. She may have a hasty temper, but she also has an admirable haste when it comes to practical activities.
Adele Bergman looks around appreciatively. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a maid, Mrs Kummel, who prepared all this while we were in church,” she says, warmly, and Mona is happy to get praise from such a capable woman. “Please do sit down,” she repeats. “The coffee will be ready in a minute.”
She goes into the kitchen, but the vestry and the council are still on their feet and need more encouragement before they’ll sit down at the table. They inspect the furnishings, which they’ve already heard described by the people who were on the boat, and the priest looks embarrassed and says that Mona received a small inheritance from an aunt, without which they would have nothing but a kitchen table and some spindle chairs. He nods towards the table and says, “We got our china the same way. And now we’re going to use it. Please do sit down!”
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