Can't see the books for the trees?

There’s been quite a conversation going on over at Kelvin’s blog about more than what the Episcopal Church produces in the way of downloadable liturgies. It boils down, I suppose, to whether or not people are put off a church if they have more than one item of reading matter to cope with in a service – or if they have problems finding their way around a liturgy book. And then there’s the side issue of the proper use of clergy time.

Rather than burst into personal reminiscence on someone else’s blog, I thought I’d do a bit of ruminating here, in my own space. And that’s all this is – not a criticism, not a battle-plan, but a thinking session.

So. Think back. I wasn’t always a Piskie. I was brought up in what might best be described as liberal/sceptical Presbyterian surroundings, with a Hebrew scholar in ancient clerical collar as a great-uncle and a father who had been so sickened of church in his youth that he would describe himself as a buttress rather than a pillar of the kirk – good for other people, but not for him. The transition for me was provided by music, by singing Byrd and Palestrina in the Cathedral of The Isles – and being taught to cook by the aged Dean, George Douglas, who talked while I skivvied for his eccentric culinary activities.

The first time I sang Evensong for a week in our quartet, The St Maura Singers (still going strong and giving a recital in the Cathedral on 30 September) I was lost. Every service was a time of anxious thumbing through the prayer book, checking where the music for the Mag and Nunc had hidden itself, worrying about where the Psalm was in the green (plainsong) psalter, trying not to let the anthem fall on the tiled floor in front of the choir stalls for all the world (all five of them) to see. By the Criteria of the Cumbersome Bookies, I should have been put off for life. Remember – at this point I’m a heathen, only there for the music. But I was fascinated. I used to borrow a copy of the 1929 Prayer Book and read it. The language entranced me, and the power of having all these words for every occasion was revelatory. I would read Compline to myself, aloud. I was well on my way to being a Piskie groupie – all without any real faith in what was on offer.

The story of what changed all that isn’t relevant here – suffice it to say that I fell off my donkey at Dean Douglas’ requiem mass and have never been the same since. But ever since then, in choirs and as a member of a congregation, I have been accustomed to juggle liturgy books, leaflets, music for settings, music for anthems and occasionally two hymnbooks if the music was not on the same page as the words of a particular hymn. And I was never alone in this – a choir of children aged 6 – 16 coped fine, and came back for more, often without any background in our church at all.

So what has changed? Are we really worrying about the effect on seekers of no church background? Or are we thinking about visitors from another church who have no real intention of staying with us and who are bound to make comparisons with what they are used to? Because if someone is really drawn to Episcopal worship, what they are used to when they finally fall off their donkeys will be part of the experience – and no fiddling around with making things more convenient is going to matter two hoots.

There’s more I want to say about the role of clergy in helping the donkeys, but I think that’ll have to wait for another time. So I’ll confine myself to a final observation. When I returned to teaching English in 1982 after a break of 8 years, I found that pupils expected much more in the way of handouts and spoonfeeding than I had been used to in my first post. They were unwilling to look stuff up for themselves, preferring to be given reams of typescript which they could then stuff into a folder. To the end of my career I resisted this as far as possible, knowing that if pupils made the notes for themselves they would be far more likely to recall what they had written. Indeed, I often suspected that they wouldn’t really read handouts, and frequently returned them in a relatively pristine condition at the end of the course.

Maybe there is a generation who indeed can’t cope with a book or two. Me, I can’t cope with bits of paper – a glance at my desk proves this. Besides, no-one ever prints alto parts on service sheets.

Communicating again

I felt driven to post this self-portrait after being seduced by Gordon into creating myself on weeworld - so this is Wee Me, if you like. I waste enough time online as it is, so I won't be using the site for social interaction, but I had fun putting myself together while I was talking on the phone. (It's called multitasking)

Actually I don't want to talk about that at all. I wanted to explore, briefly, the use of the spoken word as compared to singing in expressing emotional or spiritual truth. I think that Scots in particular find it hard to express certain states of mind because the accent either sounds false (think Gordon Brown trying to please Middle England) or unsuitable for the situation. But if we sing, especially when we are singing liturgical music, we have the tongues of angels. Accent is subsumed into making a beautiful sound and self-consciousness vanishes. That's how it was this morning in Holy Trinity church, singing the Kilbride mass setting (by John McIntosh) - a real hot line, taking us out of ourselves and onto another level.

Another form of communication, in fact.

He is risen .....

Easter garden
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

On this Easter morning, it seems strange to be blogging instead of worshipping - a matter of logistics, when there are three congregations and one priest. But I have indeed celebrated the Resurrection - last night, at the Paschal Vigil service. Think Christmas Eve, with daffodils and a warm(ish), still night so that the candles didn't blow out and the congregation huddled in the darkness didn't freeze to death. Think yards of plainsong - the Exultet, which I sang (the first time a woman has sung this in the past 30-odd years in Holy T) along with KB to do the specifically priestly bits. Think Alleluias and a new setting of the Scottish Liturgy by John McIntosh, aka Mr B.Think joy and excitement.

And if all this sounds a tad strange if you know the nature of our church, with its damp walls and peeling paintwork, our small and aging congregation and lack of money, then think again. For a start, of course, the message of Easter doesn't change because you have a cash-flow problem. But it's not just that. I have occasionally worshipped in big city churches, where there is order, hordes of well-drilled servers, a clutch of clergy and visible youth presence. But I have never felt as moved as I do here, in the solid dark of the countryside (that's another thing: Holy T. is so far out of town as to be unaffected by street lighting), where the New Fire leaps and crackles dangerously under the trees and the Paschal Candle is the only illumination as we enter the church. The screech of a distant owl is less disruptive than the roar of traffic, and the crack of twigs underfoot can't have changed in two thousand years.

I was in a state of some tension before all this began; the Exultet is very long and I have a tendency to go sharp when excited. But when it came to the bit, even though I could barely see the music, the excitement seemed to be translated into the joy of the proclamation itself and I've never felt so absorbed and focussed.

Of course things go astray in the strangeness of a special service - but this is real life too - no? An aleatoric alleluia, the strange colour of the water used to asperge us (was it the jug? or the water from the back tap?), the vanishing incense (it returned) - none of this mattered. In fact, I don't think it was noticed at the time. It was wonderful. All wonderful.

And then we had the bubbly at the back of the church .....

Note: The Kilbride Mass will be available after copyright clearance.