Sometimes liturgical innovations can go up in flames

This posting is a bit out-of-date because I wanted to include a photo, which I  didn’t get a chance to take until a day or so ago. So here  is my account of what happened at church last week:

I came to last week's service at St. James feeling more exuberant than usual. Maybe because the previous night's snow added a bit of excitement to the air or maybe because, according to the old calendar this was Stir-Up Sunday, but the day seemed special.

I got to church early: not a good thing since being early makes me bored and being bored usually gets me into trouble. After I swept the snow off the church steps and put the broom away, I felt invigorated. Instead of  settling into prayer in the back pew, I cast my eyes on a candle holder, which for several months had been sitting on the window sill of the West (actually north) Window. Eastern orthodox in flavour, having multiple crosses and three candle holders, it had unaccountably never been lit, despite having been donated by a parishioner presumably for that purpose.  

The back of the church could use a bit of cheering up.  And finally,  before Greg retired at the end of December and the opportunity was lost, I had the opportunity and the means to do something about it.  So, as it turned out, we had a service with the unusual addition of “smells and bells,"  incense and bell ringing being associated with a much higher version of Anglicanism than is usually found here in rural Ontario.

Anyhow, there were already three tea candles in the glass holders.  I had to find something to light them with. Greg got me the  official box of matches  (kept in a  plastic margarine container in the credence table by the altar). The candles were hard to light, but I persevered until the smell of wax pervaded the church (that’s the "smells" part).



Bell, books and candles



As the liturgy unfolded, I eyed  them from time to time. When we got to the Creed, the flames in two of the candle holders were about three inches high. By the Prayers of the People, an alto in the choir was making subtle eyebrow raisings in my direction. By the Passing of the Peace, they seemed like a small bonfire. Taking advantage of being up and about, I looked at them closely; the wicks were nowhere to be seen, and the wax was totally engulfed.

A parishioner in the  pew second to the back thought they should be put out. She was worried lest the heat  break the stained glass window. During a hymn, a warden and I had discussed whether the glass  candle holders might also be at risk of shattering.

So we tried to blow the candles out — no luck . We just blew the flames apart. She thought snuffing them with the phone book of Christian businesses would do the trick, but I didn’t thinking using anything paper was a good idea at that point.

The wax showed no sign of running out; the conflagration was really beginning to worry me. Aside from not wanting, on its own merits, to burn down the church, I did not want my main claim to fame as a clergy wife to be responsible for doing so.  I looked around and saw a small brass school bell further along the window sill — a great candle snuffer were it not for the clapper.

Very carefully I placed it over the flames both to snuff them properly and to prevent the bell from sounding.  Greg was saying the prayer of consecration as I was doing this and behold — or alas — depending on how high on the Anglican scale you find yourself, a little bit of chiming occurred. This would be the "bells" part — for anyone who has persevered this far and needs waking up. The flames were no more, but the bell handle was warm to the touch when removed after communion.

All's well that ended well, but I’ll resume my practice of arriving in the nick of time. I’m also going to get some of those battery-operated candles, as I really was well and truly taken aback by the persistence of the flames!

 

 

Do we need another set of Pyrex pie plates?

Remember slide carousels, or steam irons with a plastic reservoir outside the iron, or those plastic “onion-flower” makers, designed so you could deep-fry your own Vidalia onions at home?  They were all on offer at the garage sale this morning at St. James Church, part of the village-wide Canada Day celebrations.

Greg is carrying out an unidentified electronic antique.

 And proving there is a buyer for (almost) anything, someone actually bought the slide projector; apparently a group he’s with has lot of slides and no way to show them. He declined to take the screen, however.

Which plants should he buy - maybe that pink basket in the lower right?

The rule is what doesn’t sell, you haul home again: not a happy prospect, so you tend to price realistically. The baby stroller I bought for $20 five years ago sold for $6. Greg’s bamboo étagère, with as-yet-unbroken glass shelves, a striking object for any room, was eventually bought by someone who intended it for his study.

Oh goodness, customers are  arriving, and not all the tables are out! 

Oddly, unlike the Christmas bazaar, Greg did not open the proceedings with a prayer. When I asked him about this he said, “It’s just not tradition.” Tradition has been left in the dust because there seems to be no official start time, or, there is a start time, but like many other ruless around here (like driving motorized vehicles on the hiking paths, but I digress), it is honoured in its breach.

The sale starts officially at 8:00 — an hour earlier than previous years to accommodate early birds. The 9 on the sign has clearly been written over to make an 8, but when customers arrived at 7:30, as we were setting up, we let them buy things. This custom is a startling departure from what I am used to in larger centres.

The are still lots of boxes to unload!

Also, a local church, whose denomination shall remain nameless, held a preview yesterday afternoon, which was bad enough, but they actually allowed purchases to be made! I am still  surprised more people weren’t as scandalized by this turn of events as I was.

In any event, despite being hampered by such an un-Anglican head start, we were soon off and flying. The brand new rubber boots were snapped up, as was a very old beaten-up soccer ball, a pole lamp with a blue lampshade (you’d recognize it from the 90s), two white pleated lamp shades, wool, sets of floral dishes, a set of four scarcely used non-stick skillets, the prettier mugs, most of the Tupperware and, of course, perennials from someone’s garden (“Oh no, are all the hostas sold? Darn”).

Sometimes you have to be ingenious to insure a sale: I have brought a small pink wicker basket almost every year we have been in the parish. It had come home unsold annually until this year when I decided to fill it with herbs and sell it for $2. I think the dirt alone was worth that and yes, someone bought it — for the basil.

Alas we had a lot of unsold pink tablecloths and scatter mats – not as popular a colour these days as in the 80s. It was the same story with peach-coloured dried flower arrangements — likely early 90s in both colour and provenance. However, the card table cloths sold quickly. Our Borat sound track sold, as did Adele’s first CD. A surprising number of books sold — but undoubtedly because of the church ladies’ being present, no one bought the paperback on how to mix drinks like a playboy bunny. They probably wanted to though.

Oh, I want those cookies!

The bake sale was pretty much history by 8:30. Butter tarts and pies, pickled eggs, the equivalent of two roasting pans of nuts and bolts, breads, home-made jams and jellies, and squares so sweet “they’ll make your teeth rattle” flew off the tables to the tune of almost $1,200.

The bake sale - before

The bake sale - after

My canteen sales were helped along by a parishioner who had to bake several dozen cookies for a do at the Eastern Star; she offered to buy four dozen from me and save herself the work of baking them. Done! As the day got hotter, we did a brisk business in bottled water, coffee and very strong tea.

All that remained of my 84 cookies and 50 Rice Krispie squares.

Lots of men came into the bake sale for something to eat while they toured the town, and they bought up the Rice Krispies Squares — not the young kids that I imagined would. My rhubarb custard pies both sold; however, remembering the unhappy tale of recent food poisoning arising from devilled eggs, I warned the gentlemen who bought them not to store them in a hot car since “the custard contains eggs.”

People arrived on foot, in pick-up trucks and cars, of course, and also in golf carts, which are a very popular way of getting around town, especially with a small wagon attached for all the children and purchases that don’t fit in the cart. There were even a couple of dump trucks cruising the streets. 

A perfect day for travel by golf cart

Anyhow, it was a great morning – and all over by 1:00 for another year.

The bake sale ladies - and one gentleman - take a well-deserved rest.