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I just got an advance copy of an article in the National Catholic Reporter slated to be published on Friday that I found quite interesting, so I thought I'd share it.

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Editorial
November 24, 2006

Not Bad for Melodrama

A year ago we lamented in this space the disappearance of the U.S. Catholic bishops. Well, we meant that in a metaphorical sense. They hadn’t actually disappeared; they had just become far less visible on the national scene than in an earlier era.

Here’s how we put it: “We are watching the disintegration of a once-great national church, the largest denomination in the United States, into regional groupings bent on avoiding the spotlight and the big issues.”

We noted that there was war and starvation everywhere; fresh clergy sex abuse reports out of Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and Spokane, Wash., to name a few; 20 percent of U.S. parishes without a pastor; a Congress poised to reduce health care coverage and food stamps; the United States accused of torture and keeping combatants in secret prisons; and so on. And the bishops had nothing to say. They would talk only to each other about internal church matters.

We are compelled, then, to report that the bishops have not entirely disappeared. For they gathered again, in Baltimore this year, and, continuing their trip inward, issued documents on such burning issues as birth control, ministry to persons with “a homosexual inclination,” and how to prepare to receive Communion. Now, none of these matters is unimportant. Don’t get the wrong impression. We’ve had documents aplenty about all of them before. And these topics -- unlike the war in Iraq, say, or what it means to have a president and vice president endorsing torture -- are even covered in the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

So why again? Apparently the bishops feel that people just aren’t listening. If that’s their hunch, we’d agree. Why aren’t they listening? Let’s consider for starters the document on contraception. A lot of the U.S. bishops today might say there are a lot of bad, or at least ignorant, Catholics out there, Catholics influenced by the contraceptive culture, for instance, who no longer know good from evil.

Maybe they’re right. More likely, though, it’s because the teaching makes little sense, doesn’t match the experience of lay Catholics and tends to reduce all of human love to the act of breeding.

In short, the bishops aren’t terribly persuasive or clear when they talk about sex, and they tend to want to talk about sex a lot. To be sure, they say lots of lovely and lofty things about marital love, about how it completes people and cooperates with God’s plan and fills married lives with joy and happiness. You can want not to have children, say the bishops, you just can’t do anything “unnatural” about it. It’s a strange concept, like not wanting to die of heart disease while not doing anything “unnatural” about it.

They make the point that if every time a married couple makes love they are not open to having children, then they’re not giving “all” of themselves to each other. If you use birth control, say the bishops, and every single act is not open to having children, then “being responsible about sex simply means limiting its consequences -- avoiding disease and using contraceptives to prevent pregnancy.” Whew! So that’s it, eh?

It’s either be open to having kids or married sex is no more significant than an encounter with a prostitute. Such a view of marriage and sexuality and sexual intimacy can only have been written by people straining mightily to fit the mysteries, fullness and candidly human pleasure of sex into a schema that violently divides the human person into unrecognizable parts. There’s a reason 96 percent of Catholics have ignored the birth control teaching for decades. We doubt the new document will significantly change that percentage.

So it is with gays. Here again, church authorities try to fit together two wildly diverging themes. They go something like this: Homosexuals are “objectively disordered” (that’s about as bad as it humanly gets, in our understanding of things), but we love them and want them to be members of our community.

Only this time out, the bishops are not using the term homosexual “orientation” (a definite position) but homosexual “inclination” (a liking for something or a tendency toward). Sly, no? The inference to be drawn, we presume, is that someone inclined one way can just incline another way, whereas someone with an orientation is pretty much stuck there.

That science and human experience generally say otherwise is of little concern, apparently, though the bishops were clear they weren’t suggesting that homosexuals are required to change. This time, too, the bishops, while acknowledging that those with homosexual tendencies should seek supportive friendships, advise homosexuals to be quiet about their inclinations in church. “For some persons, revealing their homosexual tendencies to certain close friends, family members, a spiritual director, confessor, or members of a church support group may provide some spiritual and emotional help and aid them in their growth in Christian life. In the context of parish life, however, general public self-disclosures are not helpful and should not be encouraged.”

The next paragraph in the document, by the way, begins, “Sad to say, there are many persons with a homosexual inclination who feel alienated from the church.” You can’t make this stuff up.

It is difficult to figure out how to approach these documents. They are products of some realm so removed from the real lives of the faithful one has to wonder why any group of busy men administering a church would bother. They ignore science, human experience and the groups they attempt to characterize. The documents are not only embarrassing but insulting and degrading to those the bishops are charged to lead. The saddest thing is that the valuable insights the bishops have into the deficiencies and influences of the wider culture get buried.

Where is this all going?

No one’s come out with a program, but we’ll venture yet one more hunch. It has become apparent in recent years that there’s been an upsurge in historical ecclesiastical finery and other goods. We’ve seen more birettas (those funny three-peak hats with the fuzzy ball on top that come in different colors depending on clerical rank) and cassocks (the kind with real buttons, no zippers for the purists) and ecclesiastically correct color shoes and socks, lots of lacy surplices and even the capa magna (yards and yards of silk, a cape long enough that it has to be attended by two altar boys or seminarians, also in full regalia). In some places they’re even naming monsignors again.

It’s as if someone has discovered a props closet full of old stuff and they’re putting it out all over the stage. Bishops, pestered by the abuse scandal that they’ve avoided looking full in the face, find it easier to try to order others’ lives. They have found the things of a more settled time, a time when their authority wasn’t dependent on persuading or relating to other humans. It was enough to have the office and the clothing. Things worked. Dig a little deeper in the closet and bring out the Latin texts, bring back the old documents, bring back the days when homosexuals were quiet and told no one about who they essentially are. Someone even found a canopy under which the royally clad leader can process.

Now that’s order.

Now that’s the church.

Bring up the lights a little higher so all can see.

Before it all fades to irrelevance.

National Catholic Reporter, November 24, 2006

Evensong

Braving the rain and the traffic, after our afternoon on the Mall, Matt and I headed over to St. Paul's K Street for Solemn Evensong and Benediction Sunday evening. Unfortunately, the boys were all over at the Kennedy Center singing in some Carmina Burana production, so instead of the Choir of Men and Boys, we just got the Choir of Men.

We'd planned to go to the solemn high mass at St. Paul's earlier in the day, but he and Jon (with whom he was staying) managed to talk all night long and not go to bed until after 5 a.m. Needless to say, a morning church service became less of a priority. So, we resolved to do Evensong; I think Matt was able to get his expected dose of incense.

The Mag and Nunc setting was Evening Service by living composer James Bassi (b. 1961). It was one of those modern works with all the bad clichés of modern choral music and nothing particularly interesting about it; the choir seemed to struggle with it from time to time, too, what with all the atonality, and I'd guess that they probably should have rehearsed it a bit a time or two instead of their usual sightreading of these sorts of things (it naturally speaks to the quality of the choir that they are able to sightread so much, but that was one of those things that probably needed a run-through in advance). The anthem was Sicut cervus desiderat by G.F. da Palestrina. Office hymn was Lucis Creator. The preces and responses were done congregationally to the familiar chants.

The organist played Fugue—Duo—Trio by Louis-Nicolas Clerambault for the prelude and Grand plein jeu, also by Clerambault, for the postlude.

After church we met up with Robert and Jon at Bistro D'Oc for a quick dinner.

Anthem and incense

During All Saints Day's solemn high mass at St. Paul's K Street, I videoed the anthem during the offertory and planned to post it here for you all to see in my post that night. For some reason, I couldn't get it to play once I uploaded it to my computer, and neither Ryan nor Jean could fix the file, either, but finally Svet came to our rescue and "zipped" the video on my camera's memory card and pulled it off that way; now it works. Thanks, Svet!

So, at long last, here is the Choir of St. Paul's Episcopal Church singing Edgar Bainton's "And I Saw a New Heaven." Forgive the cinematography; this was a "surreptitious" recording on my little point-and-click digital camera primarily to capture the sound, not to be a pretty picture. An added plus to the video is you get to watch the incensation of the altar in the traditional high church style.

About three minutes in to the video, the tenors introduce a new melodic theme whilst singing the words, "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes," that continues through the end of the anthem; I've long thought this was one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies in the post-Anglican Revival musical literature.

Primatial investiture

It was a beautiful day this morning for the investiture of the Most Rev'd Dr. Katharine Jeffers Schori as the 26th presiding bishop and primate of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America at the Washington National Cathedral. The cathedral—the sixth largest in the world—was full for this historic occasion with a congregation largely composed of middle-aged and older women who were clumping together in gaggles, "squee-ing," and jumping up and down like they were about to pee their pants.

For those not familiar with Episcopal Church politics, the election of ++Dr. Schori has been controversial in some corners of the national church where egomaniacal local bishops still reject the church's decision decades ago to allow the ordination of women as deacons, priests, and bishops. There is also some international controversy in the larger Anglican Communion (national churches descended from the Church of England), where many national churches, especially in Africa and Asia, do not ordain women, and they are already displeased with the U.S. church for allowing the ordination of open homosexuals to clerical office, especially the bishop of New Hampshire.

The Archbishop of Canterbury (the titular—though powerless outside of England—head of the Anglican Communion) didn't come. The Archbishop of York didn't come either. Instead, Lord Canterbury sent the Bishop of Lincoln as his emissary, and Lincoln read a rather milquetoast greeting of congratulation and support from Canterbury to the new P.B., though it was carefully crafted in terms acknowledging challenges ahead and not really saying she has his full support and blessing. Of course, I don't think many in the congregation noticed that; often, I think, I'm the only one who listens for such things.

I don't know why the seven or eight whiny bishops don't like the new female P.B. She was taller than her two male deacons, she's very slender and has very short hair, and her voice is deeper than some male clergy I know. But, there's no accounting for the opinions of the Ikerites.

One of the problems of national church gatherings and big services at the National Cathedral is that they always try to be too many things to too many people and they try to demonstrate the diversity and inclusivity of the national church by getting too many people and concepts involved. They end up fully satisfying no one and offending everyone. Thus, I walked into the event expecting the liturgy to be dreadful, and my expectations were fully met. Of course, liturgy at the National Cathedral has been particularly unfortunate since Sam Lloyd became dean a couple of years ago bringing his low church eccentricities and his staff liturgists, all women, revel in experimental liturgies and inclusive language. So, the service included all the things I hate, including non-standard music, liturgical dancers, kite tail-type banners on long, flexible sticks wizzing through the air, use of a crossing altar instead of the high altar, leavened loaves of bread for communion, multiple languages, applause during the service, and not a whiff of incense. I almost felt like we should all have raised our hands in the air and pretended we were all Pentecostals.

I think most disconcertingly for me today was the use of American Indian drummers and singers to open the entrance procession and then again for the procession of the P.B. from the west doors. Now, I'm Indian. I've gone to Indian traditional religious ceremonies, dances, and social pow-wows my whole life where we dance all afternoon and all evening around the drum, and I love that part of my life. But, there's a time and a place for drums and Indian songs, and in my mind it wasn't in the National Cathedral for a bishop investiture. It would be too strong to say that I was offended, but I had a very uncomfortable feeling as I heard the drum echoing in the cavern that is the cathedral.

New vestments were commissioned for this morning's ceremonies, and I presume they'll be worn again on the morrow for the enthronement (why they didn't do that today, I've no idea). They were hideous. The P.B. had a purple and lavender mitre with what I can only presume was a gold metallic "sun" off to one side. Rather than in a cope, she entered in a chasuble that looked like a water colorist had spilled his palatte. The top was purple and lavender, the sleeves were green, the bottom was cobalt blue, and it was just a messy splotch of contemporary color. I certainly hope that the predominant purple hue—the liturgical color for Lent and funerals—is not a bad omen. The P.B. had some kind of ruff around her neck that I couldn't tell if it was an attempt at a pallium, a collapsed chorister ruff, or some kind of wide, floppy top to a contemporary alb. The deacons and concelebrating clergy were attired in bright yellow—not gold—chasubles with double-wide yellow stoles. I guess the vestment designers have no concept of liturgical colors or traditional liturgical symbolism.

One of the things I didn't really understand about the liturgy was the inclusion of the renewal of baptismal vows and the asperging of the congregation, something that took up a substantial chunk of time in the middle of the service, and which is not a part of the traditional consecration service for bishops. They had the font on a platform in the middle of the nave. What's worse, when it was time for this part of the service, they had more streamers and the liturgical dancers carried large urns of water on their shoulders in procession to the font, looking like a line of pagan priestesses at an ancient Greek ceremony. For the sprinkling, instead of aspergellia, the dozen or so assisting clergy used branches of green plant (evergreens??).

One of the frequently featured musical acts was a gospel choir from Philadelphia and a jazzy-sounding combo to accompany them. They were pretty good as far as gospel choirs go. I didn't like that kind of music in this setting, though. The service music also included a couple of bad Catholic hymns, complete with guitar mass accompaniment. Gag.

The whole service was well choreographed, but choreographed almost as a stage show. Every time there was a procession, those liturgical dancers ran up and down the aisles waiving great big colorful flags; it was distracting and I felt like I was watching a flag team during half-time at a football game.

The good things, though, were some of the things that make the National Cathedral tolerable these days. It's a beautiful building. The acolytes, vergers, and ushers are well-trained. The organ is awe-inspiring. And the cathedral choirs are amazing, inspirational, and a blessing to all who hear them. Their "Hymn to the Mother of God" by John Tavener as the opening choral offerring of the procession was exquisite. The offertory anthem was a Magnificat setting by Brian Kelly that I found to be one of those unfortunate modern-to-be-modern, trite, contemporary works; the choir was redeemed with the communion motet by David Hogan, "Draw nigh and take the body of the Lord." They also did a lovely little ditty called "Vidi aquam" written by the cathedral's choirmaster Michael McCarthy used for the aforementioned procession to the baptistmal font.

There was a huge selection of organ and choral prelude music. For the postlude, the cathedral organist played an improvisation on "Christ Is Made the Sure Foundation" that had been sung as the P.B. was escorted to the crossing at the beginning of the service. A small brass ensemble and a tympanist joined the choir and organ for some hymns and for the Sanctus, but I really only heard them during the Sanctus (we common people got to sit in the rear of the nave, more than a football field's length from the crossing altar).

The P.B. preached a sermon-length homily on shalom. She's not a particularly engaging preacher; she was one of those essay-reader type speakers. Both her sermon and her liturgical celebration were marked by a very slow, steady pace that constantly had me restless and wanting to urge her on. I know the cathedral space is a cavern and has a six second sound delay, but she didn't need to speak that slowly. Naturally, she was the principal celebrant at the eucharist. There were a number of concelebrants, but the only ones I recognized were former presiding bishops Frank Griswold and Edmond Browning, and Dean Sam Lloyd. I expected Bishop Chane of D.C. to be a concelebrant (the National Cathedral is his cathedral) and he was listed in the program as a concelebrant, but I didn't think I saw him.

One of the neat things they did was during the procession of the House of Bishops (which started before the service), they seated two bishops on each side of the aisle on each row of chairs all the way up and down the center pace. Since the non-participating bishops were all vested in their red rochets, it made for a colorful and beautiful sight. I kept looking for my friends the Bishops of Oklahoma and Northwest Texas, but I never did see either of them.

Oh, I saw Madeleine Albright in the congregation (and no, I don't know her, so I didn't go say hi).

After the service, they had two big locations set up for receptions, one at the school and one at St. Alban's parish. I didn't go to either. There was plenty of activity on the cathedral close, so I just stood around and chatted on the grass. The service was very nearly two hours long....longer when you consider showing up an hour early and then needing 15-20 minutes to get out of the nave after the service. I was going to write this up when I got home about 2:30, but LJ was down today! So, I may have forgotten stuff, but, hey, this is all I can remember. :-)

All Saints and Vaughn-Williams

Wednesday was All Saints Day. To celebrate, I went to the procession and solemn mass at St. Paul's K Street. All Saints is a feast day that goes all the way back to the Fourth Century in the very earliest years of the Church.

I got to the church a little early so I could get a decent place to sit. St. Paul's has this tradition of inviting Ascension and St. Agnes over for All Saints, and then everybody goes over to Ascension and St. Agnes the next night for All Souls, so I knew it would be crowded and fill up fast, and it did. My friend Doug popped in unexpectedly and came and sat by me. Considering he's the head usher at St. Matthew's Cathedral, I was kind of surprised to see him at St. Paul's instead of being over there, but he, too, had come to see a friend in the choir.

They sang Sine Nomine for a formal procession around the nave. Once the clergy arrived at the font in the narthex, they had a quick collect and then sang Lasst uns erfreuen for the procession to get everyone situated and back up in the chancel and sanctuary. Other hymns were Rhuddlan as the sequence, Land of Rest during post-communion ablutions, and All Hallows for the recessional. All Hallows was a trip. It's one of those old late Victorian/Edwardian hymns no one really sings anymore, no doubt because of all the big, high Fs in the last line.

The mass setting was Mass in G minor for soli and double chorus by Ralph Vaughn-Williams. Between the mass setting and the first two hymns, it was quite the V-W festival! My friend John was the counter-tenor soloist, and his beautiful and ethereal voice just soared out....he was fabulous, as always. Of course, he should be good, since he did his music degrees at Indiana University. Supplementing the mass setting, they did plainsong chants for the alleluia, Nicene Creed, prayers of the people, Our Father, and antiphons for the introit, offertory, and communion. The Anglican chant for the psalm was by Thomas W. Hanforth.

The choir did one of my favorite anthems, "And I Saw a New Heaven and a New Earth" by Edgar L. Bainton as the offertory. This is another anthem to sing at my funeral! :-)

The organist played "Choral III in A Minor" by Cesàr Franck as the prelude and Placare Christe servulis, Op. 38, No. 16, by Marcel Dupré as the postlude.

The curate, Fr. Humphrey, was the celebrant. The headmaster of St. James School up in St. James, Md., was guest preacher. He seemed like a nice guy, but was rather a sleepy preacher; I found his talk rather more suited to the first mass of the academic year up at his school than to a mostly all adult congregation at a festal holy day service. I forgot what he was talking about other than comparing one of his school's non-resident founders who has been canonized as a saint to the relatively unknown first headmaster of the school who had a great impact on generations of boys and later became a bishop but who isn't "officially" a saint.

After Mass, there was a big reception in the parish hall with heavy hors d'oeuvres and cases and cases of Korbel champagne. I got to chat with John up there and met Doug's friend. The "party" was still going on a nine o'clock when I finally got tired and left.

Happy Hallowmas!

Happy All Saints Day!

For all of us who are still recovering from last night, today is what makes Hallowe'en possible.

All Saints Day is one of the great festivals of the Church, a holy day of obligation, and probably the third or fourth most important Christian festival (behind Easter and Christmas—the question is which is more important, All Saints or Ascension Day) in the Church's Kalendar. There are some great hymns and anthems associated with All Saints, and it's one of my favorite holy days. It's a shame that so many churches choose to ignore the celebration and they "transfer" it to a sort of second class observance on what they call "All Saints Sunday."

Anyway, as with all the big holy days, the Church traditionally started the observance on the previous evening, hence "Christmas Eve," "Easter Even," and "All Saints Even." All Saints Even? How do we get Hallowe'en out of that?

Blame the British. Instead of calling today All Saints Day, the Brits call it All Hallows Day or Hallowmas ("hallow" being a synonym for holy, sanctified, saintly, etc.). So, over there, they have All Hallows Even, or, more commonly, Hallows Even, which eventually metamorphosized into Hallowe'en.

I'm going to Mass tonight at St. Paul's K Street. It'll be exciting! My cute and talented friend John is one of the soloists for the Vaughn-Williams G-minor Mass they're doing during the service.

The bell tower

Many people who have walked around the Dupont Circle have gone by a traditional gothic-looking church flying a big rainbow banner down the front of their facility. A lot of people have never been in the building, but they kind of think of it as the "gay church" in Dupont. Well, it isn't a "gay church." It's the Church of the Pilgrims, one of the "More Light" Presbyterian churches that, while still in the Presbyterian mainstream, is open and welcoming to all in the GLBT community.

Yesterday happened to be the day of their annual fall festival and art market. After our brunch and agricultural experiences, Robert and I Metroed over to Dupont for a look-see at the art, and most especially we were going so we could make the rare climb (they only do this once a year) to go up in their bell tower for spectacular views of Rock Creek Park and the fall foliage.

The tower was an adventure in and of itself.

Viewers first had to make their way inside the church and then up to their rear balcony and choir loft. Once there, while we waited to go up, we got to look around a bit. It's a pretty church on the inside with traditional gothic-themed architecture and some particularly beautiful stained glass windows. The organ console and many of the organ pipes were in the balcony, but they had the console closed up, so I couldn't examine the organ specifications.

Once the traffic cleared and we were allowed up, we began to climb this tight, small, cast iron, spiral staircase in an opening passage just wide enough to accommodate the staircase. The stairs were so narrow, I had to climb up sideways, and it seemed like a joint project for both feet and hands. Finally, we got to the top of the stairs and walked out onto the floor in the small tower.....only to find out that we had to climb up two more staircases! So, up we went again, up another narrow spiral staircase. On the next landing, I could see that Robert, who is both acrophobic and claustrophobic, was less than excited about this process, but we could see the light at the top of the tower shining down from the top of the final staircase, and we pressed onward. At last we made it up! The top of the tower was an open-air room with a double-height ceiling that allowed for tall, pointed arch window openings. And the view was lovely.



Here's Robert, all the way on top of the bell tower!

Seasonal user pic

Announcing my new Hallowe'en season user pic!

I've long sought something "appropriate" for the witching season, and finally found this picture to use as my user pic. It's a drawing depicting a jack-o'-lantern made from a big, purple turnip, with a few black bats flying in the background.

Turnip, you ask?

Carved vegetable lanterns during harvest season arise out of an old Irish legend. A man named Jack tricked the Devil and made a deal with him never to admit Jack into Hell. After Jack died, he didn't go to Heaven and since he'd made the agreement with the Devil not to be admitted there, he was forced to wander the Earth in quest of a final resting place. Jack carved one of his turnips and put a candle inside it so he would have a lantern on his journeys.

The first reference to "Jack-o'-Lantern" appeared in 1663, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

Turnip jack-o'-lanterns are still popular in Ireland and Scotland today. Many vegetables are used including potatoes and rutabagas. When the tradition came to North America, the variety of squash we call pumpkins became a natural vegetable for these lanterns and the species has been bred over the years for large, hollow pumpkins.

Jack-o'-lanterns weren't originally a Hallowe'en thing, though. They were a general symbol of the harvest and of autumn. The vegetable lantern didn't get its Hallowe'en association until after the Civil War, and some sources date that as late as the early 20th century.

One of the advantages of turnip lanterns over pumpkin lanterns is portability. If one pulls the turnip up from the ground and keeps the green leaves intact, the turnip jack-o'-lanterns can easily be carried about by holding on to the leaves.

So, in honor of old tradition, this year's Hallowe'en user pic is the turnip jack-o'-lantern!

Mozart and bagpipes

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. I decided to walk to church, where I was meeting my friend Max, who'd invited me weeks before to come to this service because they were having a small orchestra to play a Mozart Mass setting. As I began to approach Lafayette Square (the park just immediately north of the White House), I heard the distinctive wails of a bagpipe band. As I got closer, there was a big crowd in the center east part of the square watching a band of pipers and drummers from the French Army. Not sure what the occasion was.

Anyway, as you can probably surmise, I was going to church at St. John's Lafayette Square, the "Church of the Presidents." It's an old, 1815-vintage cracker box-style church that's still fairly intact with original (uncomfortable) furnishings and design. The rather simple stained glass windows inside were designed by the artisans at Chartres Cathedral in France. This is the church where President Bush goes on those rare occasions he goes to church in D.C. They have valet parking here, but I've no idea where they take the cars. Max met me on the plaza outside the west doors before the service and began introducing me to folks....I do believe that he knows everybody....but he has been a member there for years.

It seems as though the parish has a Mozart service with special music and orchestra every fall. There was no particular holy day that Sunday, so it's just a tradition they have. This year, the Mass setting was the Missa brevis in F, K. 192, from 1774 when Mozart was but 18, and they used selections from Vesperae solennes de confessore, K. 339, for anthems. An orchestra of ten with organ continuo played the service. St. John's has a tiny choir with just a dozen singers, but they sound good in the space. In the east end of the church, the space narrows for the rather small and crowded sanctuary, with the northern corner filled with the organ pipe chamber and the southern corner for the organ and, on this Sunday, the orchestra. The choir sat in front of the organ pipes.

The service began with the Kyrie movement sung as a choral prelude. They would later sing the Gloria and the Sanctus/Benedictus in their proper places in the liturgy; the Agnus Dei was sung during communion, rather than prior as part of the liturgy. I noticed the conspicuous absence of the Credo, and they didn't even recite a creed during the service, even though the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer direct that the Nicene Creed is to be said or sung on all Sundays. Hymns for the service were Creation for the processional, a very slow King's Weston as the sequence, two verses of Forest Green as a presentation hymn following the offertory, and Austria for the recessional. An Anglican chant by the parish's organist/choirmaster got sung for the Psalm; I wasn't sure if the congregation was supposed to sing along or not, so I sang it quietly. From the Solemn Vespers, Dixit Dominus was the offertory anthem and Laudate Dominum was the communion anthem. I thought the soprano soloist for the Laudate, Claire Kuttler, was particularly good. The postlude was Church Sonata in B-flat, K.212.

One of their priestesses was the principal celebrant, but the rector and an assisting priest were there as concelebrants, so I was able to take communion. The liturgy was a kind of weird, quasi-inclusive language version of Rite 2. The priestess didn't chant anything. She also didn't do the elevations and genuflections during the consecration, but I gather she's rather low church. She didn't wear a chasuble during the consecration and was vested only in alb and stole. There was a bit of a comical moment when she started to continue with the prayer of consecration after the Sanctus but before the Benedictus. Because of all the extra musicians, they couldn't use the altar rail, so they had to do the distribution of communion Catholic-style. Their communion wine was really sweet; I suspect they used Mogen David or something similarly hideous.

The rector, Father León, preached. He's always a good speaker. The gospel reading for the day was that troublesome "easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle" passage from St. Mark, so he had to preach on that topic, noting the irony of being told to sell everything and give the money to the poor when he was standing in a rich parish in the middle of a capital campaign. He explained how nine out of ten couples who came to him for counseling about marital problems had money issues at the root. He also made one analogy I thought was interesting: in this gospel passage, he says the opposite of rich is not poor, the opposite of rich is free.

After the service and the postlude, there was a lunch in the parish hall, but Max and I didn't stay, as we were headed out to brunch. More on that in another post.


Choir and clergy during the Sanctus.

It's Friday the 13th!

Have you ever wondered why Friday the 13th is considered to be an unlucky day?

It all dates back to medieval times in the early 14th century. This was a time of constant power feuds between kings and even the Catholic popes. The period of the Crusades had ended only a century before. European inhabitants had discovered the benefit of trade with Asia, particularly from the Middle East and the Orient, and demanded spices and goods. Traders and businessmen made regular trade journeys into the Middle East. Christianity, the dominant religion in Europe, encouraged believers to take pilgrimages to the Holy Land. The Middle East, though, was a very dangerous place full of robbers and other threats. Into that environment arose the Poor Knights of Christ, later becoming the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, also popularly known as the Knights Templar.

The Templars formed in the early 12th century with the purpose of defending the ruins of King Solomon's Temple and the City of Jerusalem, with that task extending somewhat into protecting pilgrims and others coming to Jerusalem. The Templars were the people who developed what was to become our modern banking system, as they arranged to take deposits and serve as a sort of medieval ATM as the wealthy traveled across Europe and the Near East. They became a very large, wealthy, and powerful order.

Early in the 14th century, the French king Philip IV needed cash to continue his war with England, found himself broke, and found himself heavily in debt to the Templars. With the help of Pope Clement V, a man Philip had personally politicked into the Vatican, Philip arranged for all Templars all across Europe to be simultaneously arrested though a secret plan with Vatican imprimatur so the Templars could be charged with trumped up charges, tortured, and forced into signing false confessions. Many of the Templars were burned at the stake for alleged heresies.

What the king and pope didn't count on, though, was that the Templars were very popular with the common people. They were saddened when they saw what was being done to their beloved Templars, and it was the common people who began the tradition of an unlucky day, the day when the Templars were all arrested, Friday, October 13, 1407.