Leaving Church - Barbara Brown Taylor [13]
In this way, I became the seminarian at Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church, showing up every Sunday morning to compete with the other lay ministers for borrowed vestments that had not been sweated on too much. My outfit was a plain white cassock alb with a white cotton cincture. The clergy, who owned their robes, added colorful stoles that identified them as priests or deacons. As they talked to one another, they slid the ends of their stoles through elaborate loops in the cinctures around their waists, which entailed some impressive rope work. Most of them could do it without even looking, like origami masters folding paper cranes in the dark. Since my cincture required no more than a single knot, I had plenty of time to tug at the hems and brush off the shoulders of those whose outfits were more complicated than mine. Then we reviewed our roles, stood in a small circle to pray, and lined up in reverse order, with the lay ministers at the head of the procession and the priest who would preside over communion at the end.
After all the hubbub of preparation and the press of people at the door of the church, there was nothing quite like taking that first step down the aisle as the opening hymn began. The crucifer heaved the brass processional cross heavenward. Watching it made the rest of us lift our heads, as we began our slow march toward the altar through a sea of sound. No one could touch us anymore. The ancient drama had begun. All around us, hundreds of otherwise fractious people sang in unison. The organ covered all our flaws. For once in our lives, we were doing one thing instead of many things, and we were doing it surprisingly well.
At the communion rail, people knelt to let themselves be fed. First the priest bent toward them with the bread, then I bent toward them with the wine. They reached for the chalice as I moved it toward their lips. When our hands met on the silver cup, there was a charged moment in which we became one body, less in theory than in fact. While I remained aware that it was Bill or Ann or a perfect stranger before me, I could not summon up any of the feelings that might have accompanied that identification in the fellowship hall or the grocery store. The recognition took place at a deeper lever, where one fully exposed human being rested for a moment in the presence of another.
Artifice did not stand a chance in that atmosphere, which was why I focused on people’s hands instead of their faces. An unguarded face is a deep well; you don’t go there casually, without ropes or lamps. So I practiced what some religious orders still call “custody of the eyes,” not only because eyes are portholes, but also because one does not gaze directly upon the Holy and live. After it was all over, the lay assistants gathered around the altar to help the clergy finish up the leftover bread and wine. Then we handed the empty vessels back to the celebrant and prepared to leave the church in the same order that we had arrived.
Back in the vesting room, we all talked and jostled as we changed our clothes. I loosened the cincture around my waist, popped the snaps on my white robe, and put it back in the closet with the others. The clergy did the same thing, with one significant difference. Even after they removed their Sunday vestments, they were still in uniform. The rest of the team could walk out of the church without anyone guessing what we did for a living, but the clergy walked out with white clerical collars, which announced their identities to every passerby.
Before I had been at Saint Luke’s a year, I began wanting to wear one too. When I served communion, visited the sick, taught the youth, and sat with the elderly, I felt lit up inside.