“This all might have been suggested?” I said.
“Yes, it just might have,” said Georgia.
“I’m getting a front row seat,” I said.
“Save one for me,” said Georgia.
* * *
I was right about the crowd. When five o’clock rolled around, and the Blessing of the Groundhog imminent, almost everyone in the park headed for the church. It was getting cold, the sun now gone, although there was still plenty of daylight left. The festival goers probably thought this was going to be a quick service of blessing as it had in the past. A wave of the priestly hand over the rodent, a few words of wisdom about the folly of trying to predict God’s ways, a blessing on the upcoming season of growth, and home in time for drinks.
As the hour drew nigh, the church became packed. Many were St. Barnabas parishioners, but many weren’t. Everyone was chatting amongst themselves, as was common at one of these events. I looked at the bulletin that I’d picked up on my way in. At the top, in bold print, was the announcement: Let us keep silence in preparation of the worship of Almighty God. I had a feeling that the priest wasn’t going to appreciate all the good-natured visiting. I couldn’t tell for sure. I was in the front pew and I knew that Father Dressler would be in the back arranging the processional.
Sitting on the altar was the monstrance. The altar cloth had also been changed, probably chosen from the priest’s private collection. It was beautiful — intricate gold overlay on a white embroidered satin background. I knew that the priest’s vestments would match the altar cloth. He probably had a second set for Kimberly Walnut as well. The monstrance looked stunning. One of the spotlights at the top of the nave had been adjusted so that light glittered off the golden sunburst and flashed on the crystal eye of the icon. The eye was empty, waiting for the priest to insert the host and present it to the congregation for veneration.
The Chevalier Lance Fleagle had repositioned the anthem I’d rehearsed, moving it to the beginning of the service and using it as an introit.
“Ahem!” said Father Dressler’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker from the back of the church. He had figured out that the crowd wasn’t going to respect his rubric at the top of the bulletin and went to the next best thing: a welcoming announcement.
“Ahem,” he said again. “Welcome to this Candlemas Service of Solemn Evensong and Benediction. Please be aware that during a Solemn Evensong, it is customary to keep silence for a few moments before the service begins.”
The crowd was silent, but Father Dressler pushed his “few moments” to about four minutes, and the chattering started back. Then the organ gave some pitches and the choir sang:
I sat down under his shadow
with great delight,
and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house,
and his banner over me was love.
I smiled and I heard some titters as the first line was sung by the choir. Then the beautiful choral sounds filled the church and the congregation stilled. The final chords of the introit faded and the processional began.
This processional wasn’t a hymn, as was usual at St. Barnabas, but rather a couple of movements from Hommage à Frescobaldi by Jean Langlais. Written in the 1950s I thought, although I didn’t know the work. The Offertoire began with a kind of brooding dance on the manuals with a chant tune in the pedals. It was the type of piece I hated to hear in concert, the type of piece most organists loved, the type of piece that generally made the congregation’s teeth hurt. But it did add to the atmosphere of holy mystery, so I decided to appreciate it for what it was.
First in was Benny Dawkins, his thurible smoking like a 1969 Volkswagon van. At his side was Addie Buss, his young protégé, but instead of being relegated to sideboat duty, she now had a pot of her own. She matched Benny step for step and when he began his first “adoration” it was clear that we were seeing something special. Benny’s thurible spun on its chains, seeming to defy the laws of physics. Addie’s smaller pot, on shorter chains, was no less spectacular, twisting and turning inside the arc of the larger pot’s orbit. We watched as wonderfully intricate Celtic knots appeared and disappeared, tied and untied, Addie’s intertwining with Benny’s, and vice-versa. Never did the pots touch, never did the artists falter. Step after measured step until they reached the chancel steps. Several non-parishioners applauded spontaneously, but were quickly shushed.
Following the two thurifers was the crucifer, Robert, one of Moosey’s friends, who carried the cross proudly. He’d obviously been well-coached. Moosey and Bernie, now official acolytes, followed carrying the torches. It would be their job to light all the candles, and there were plenty of them. They went around the thurifers, who had paused at the steps, and got to their task.
The choir was next, processing with their heads sitting atop ruffled crinoline platters, hands pressed in a prayerful pose, teeth gritted, eyes straight ahead. Genuflecting was still the order of the day. The two ushers were there to help everyone back to their feet, but most of the choir just grabbed the side of the pew and hoisted themselves back up. As the choir split, made their turns, and headed back down the side aisles toward the narthex steps, Benny and Addie stood side by side at the chancel and their smoke now billowed like a scene from The Ten Commandments. They mounted the steps and stood on either side of the altar, and the smoke rose in pillars of glory.
Kimberly Walnut and Father Dressler were last in line and they ascended the steps with all due dignity. They were wearing matching copes, golden capes obviously from the Dressler catalog of liturgical finery since they also matched the altar cloth. Father Dressler went to his chair, but remained standing, Kimberly Walnut made her way behind the altar, raised her hands and waited for her moment.
The choir had wended its way up to the loft, Moosey and Bernie had finished lighting the dozens of candles that the priest had positioned around the chancel, Robert had placed the cross in its stand and withdrew, and now Benny Dawkins and Addie continued their magic, censing the altar with a cloud never before witnessed in St. Barnabas Episcopal Church. We could no longer see the altar, but beheld smoky visions of the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple. We saw the two sacrificial turtle doves soar into the eaves. We beheld Simeon, the old man, rejoicing in his blessing. We envisaged Anna, the elderly prophetess, giving thanks to God. Finally, there was the Holy Family. It was breathtaking. No applause this time though. It would have been like applauding the Mona Lisa.
The organ prelude wheezed to a halt. The thurifers finished their exaltation and the smoke around the altar cleared slightly, revealing Kimberly Walnut still standing with arms extended, blinking smoke out of her eyes like an owl with Tourette’s Syndrome.
According to the bulletin, after the Collect for Candlemas, spoken by Kimberly Walnut, she would then have a prayer for the Blessing of Candles. According to my sources, Penny Trice would quickly ascend to the altar after the opening sentences, but before the Candle Blessing, to get an extra blessing tossed in on Pig Whistle. Then Penny would carry the blessed groundhog down the center aisle and out the front door. With all this smoke, I thought, Kimberly Walnut might just get away with it.
“Almighty and Everlasting God,” she started, reading out of her playbook. We had a very good sound system at St. Barnabas, complete with those black Star Trek microphones that wrapped around the priest’s faces and made them look like part of the Borg, or maybe auctioneers. The controlling sound board was in the choir loft, off to the side and in the back, out of the way. Terry Shager was working the sound this evening. He was an electrician by trade, but, as a new member of St. Barnabas, had discovered his calling as a sound engineer thanks to a class taught by Mother P last fall called “Discovering Your God-given Gift.” That Terry was totally deaf in one ear and had only thirty percent of his hearing left in the other one was just more evidence of God’s grace. His hearing loss was due to an electrical accident which had also left Terry with hair on only one side of
his head. This made the one headphone he used fit particularly well.
Terry always wore his professional ensemble to church — faded blue bib overalls, a long-sleeved white shirt with a tie, and heavy, rubber-soled work boots. Bob Solomon, sitting in the bass section, generally kept the sound at a reasonable level when Terry was working by giving him a thumbs up or thumbs down, depending on the situation. This evening, though, Bob seemed to be as disgusted as the rest of the choir and Terry was on his own. Thus, Kimberly Walnut’s voice was clear and strong and more than just a tad loud.
“We humbly beseech Thy Majesty that as Thy only begotten Son was this day presented in the temple in the substance of our flesh …”
Penny was sitting on the front row at the end of the aisle nearest the right transept. I saw her pick up her bundle and start to walk toward the steps leading up to the altar.
“So too Thou wouldst grant us,” continued Kimberly Walnut, “to be presented unto Thee with purified souls and bring us into your presence …”
I looked up at Father Dressler. He was motionless, a small smile on his lips, his eyes closed in devotion.
“Through the same Christ our Lord. Amen,” finished Kimberly Walnut.
“Amen,” echoed the congregation.
Penny was at the altar and held Pig Whistle up at arms length, her hands under his arms, with his hindquarters dangling. He wasn’t as small as he looked cradled against Penny’s chest. He was a good sized groundhog. “Eatin’ size,” as we say in these mountains.
Kimberly Walnut chanced a quick glance back at the priest, but he was still in his adorific pose, waiting for the Candle Blessing. So far so good.
Kimberly reached a hand across altar, fingers splayed, and held it over Pig Whistle’s head.
“God our Father,” she said, lowering her voice as if this would help disguise the blessing that was about to be delivered. Terry, recognizing the drop in decibels, gave the system a boost, and her voice now bellowed over the system, “Creator of all good things, bless now your humble rodent, Pig Whistle …”
Father Dressler’s eyes flew open, his head snapped around, and his mouth formed a perfect “O.”
“… Your gentle groundhog who reminds us of the changing of the seasons according to your word.”
A sound was coming out of Father Dressler’s mouth now. Not a shout: more like a cry of anguish. Terry heard it and dutifully turned up Father Dressler’s mic. Kimberly Walnut heard it, too, recognized it for what it was, and began to hyperventilate, forgetting her carefully worded blessing.
“Uh … uh …” she stammered, gulping air. “Uh … Bless the groundhog … Let him see his shadow … or not … according to thy will be done in earthasitisinheavenamen.” She spat out the last part in a stampede of verbiage, then looked back at the priest who was now turning red with rage and on the verge of apoplexy.
“Oh, my Jesus!” Kimberly Walnut cried in terror, obviously forgetting where she was.
Penny was waiting for the signal from Kimberly Walnut that Pig Whistle had been dutifully blessed and she should head back down the aisle when the groundhog started coughing. She was still holding him aloft, but now turned sideways to the congregation. She spun Pig Whistle in her hands and looked him in the face. Another hack — sort of a wheezy bark — produced a puff of smoke that exited his lungs like he’d been lighting up in the vestibule. Three more smoky little coughs and Pig Whistle went limp.
A gasp went up from the congregation. Kimberly Walnut’s hands went to her mouth and a her face registered panic. Benny and Addie, standing on either side of the altar, their pots still producing quite a fog, looked alarmed as well.
“Pig Whistle!” shrieked Penny. “Pig Whistle!” She turned back to the altar and screamed “He’s dying!”
Kimberly Walnut froze for a split second, then looked at Father Dressler. She saw what was registered on his face — something between demonic rage and imminent clergycide — hiked up her liturgical skirts, and ran for sacristy door.
Penny followed her as far as she was able, still holding the limp groundhog aloft. She got as far as the altar, but was blocked from going further. “Save him!” she wailed at the departing Kimberly Walnut. “Save Pig Whistle!”
Father Dressler almost danced up to the altar in his fury. “What the hell? What the hell?” he managed, his amplified voice echoing through the church. “What is that thing?”
“My groundhog,” sobbed Penny. “He’s dying! Wahhhhh.”
“It’s the smoke,” said Benny. He’d hung up his pot in a flash and now he pushed the monstrance aside, took the groundhog from Penny, and laid the little form, face up, onto the altar. Addie stood frozen, a look of terror on her face.
“Does anyone know CPR?” Benny shouted to the congregation, but it was difficult to make out what he was saying over Penny’s screams.
“Wahhhhh,” wailed Penny.
“What?” some people shouted back. “We can’t hear you!”
“Does anyone know CPR?” Benny shouted again, this time into Father Dressler’s mic.
“I know it, of course,” said Father Dressler, in an enraged daze. “What are you talking about? Who needs CPR?”
“Here!” said Benny, stretching Pig Whistle’s little arms out and starting to push rhythmically on his chest with three of his fingers. “Give him mouth to snout resuscitation.”
“What?!” yelped Father Dressler, not at all sure he’d heard Benny correctly. “Do what?!”
“Mouth to snout resuscitation!” Benny let go of the groundhog, grabbed the priest by the edges of his cope and shook him like a terrier shaking a rat, accentuating each word. “Mouth … to … snout … resuscitation!”
“Hurry up!” Penny’s mother, Liz, screamed at the priest from the front row. “You killed him! Now you bring him back!”
“Hurry!” shouted someone else from the front row and close enough to see what was going on. “Mouth to snout!”
“I saw it on the Nature Channel,” hissed Benny, Father Dressler’s mic still picking up all the action. “Just hold his jaws shut, put your mouth over his snout, and breathe.”
“I will not!”
Penny howled again. “Wahhhhh!”
“Do it!” commanded Benny. He resumed pushing on Pig Whistle’s chest.
“Do it!” shouted Penny’s mother angrily, now coming around the side of the pew.
Father Dressler looked as though he was ready to come apart at the seams, but then did as he was told, held Pig Whistle’s mouth shut and breathed into the groundhog’s snout: once, twice, three times, and the little fella twitched, coughed again, then flipped onto his stomach and gasped for breath.
“Oh, Pig Whistle!” cried Penny in relief. “You’re alive!”
It was at this moment that the back doors of the church flew open and a gas powered golf cart came racing down the center aisle, engine roaring, headlights blazing, and the two occupants’ white acolyte robes whipping behind them like banners of salvation. I’d known about the golf cart of course, and of Moosey and Bernadette’s new venture, but I hadn’t known about the addition of the siren. I don’t know where they had gotten it, or who had installed it for them, but it was quite effective: not an emergency siren exactly, but more like a car alarm.
Whoomp! whoomp! whoomp! blared the siren. People screamed and crowded away from the center aisle as the cart tore through the nave with only a foot of clearance on either side. Moosey was either lucky or being supernaturally guided by the Holy Spirit, and knowing Moosey, it was both. He made it to the front with minor scrapes, the only casualties being the ends of a few pews.
That Moosey and Bernadette had darted out of the side door the moment they’d recognized the crisis was a credit to their new profession as veterinary rescue agents. That the golf cart obviously had no problem climbing steps in front of the church was a credit to it’s four-wheel drive transmission and independent suspension.
Whoomp! whoomp! went the siren. “Get out of the way!” yelled Moo
sey, driving with one hand and waving people back with the other. “Pet ambulance! Clear out!”
Worshippers in the front pews scattered as the cart screeched to a halt on the flagstone floor.
“Get in!” Bernie hollered excitedly. “We already called Dr. Jackson! She’ll meet us at the office. Hurry!”
Moosey was already reversing and executing a tight three-point turn when Penny and Pig Whistle clambered into the back. He slammed the cart into a forward gear, and, siren still trumpeting, tore out of the church, leaving stunned clergy and congregants in his wake. We heard the golf cart bang down the front steps and scream away into the evening.
It took a good five minutes for everyone to get back into their seats, and another two or three to settle down. Father Dressler stood behind the altar. He had the monstrance cradled in his arms and was rocking it back and forth, like he would a baby. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there, staring down at the marble top of the altar where the groundhog had recently lain. The congregation finally quieted, then total silence enveloped the church. The priest stood there another minute, then two, rocking, rocking. He didn’t look up. The Chevalier, not knowing what to do, decided to take it from the top. He whispered some hasty directions, then gave pitches from the organ.
I sat down under his shadow …
* * *
I waited for Meg out in the park where the Winter Festival was just now winding down. She came out of the church with Elaine and Bev, then found Georgia and me over by the hot chocolate tent.
“Well, that was really something,” said Meg, as she walked up. “I don’t believe we’ve ever seen the like.”
It hadn’t been a long church service, maybe fifteen more minutes. Father Dressler had simply wandered off without a word, clutching the monstrance to his breast. The choir sang the Mag and Nunc back to back, then called it a night. Kimberly Walnut was no where to be found.
Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Page 21