Putting “piss” in Episcopalian
Holy Faux Pas
Through thick pea soup fog we rode to the little stone 1914 Episcopal church for Christmas service.
Walker and I are not big church goers and I’m new to “Catholic lite.” I clearly needed a cheat sheet to navigate these dangerous waters of coordinated religion. Just a bulleted list of differences and I needed practice to coordinate various reference materials.
Some instances of churchy amusement:
You get a program at the door with an insert to some readings. That insert is not stapled and continues to fall on the floor. The program then has me dashing from insert to red hymnal (was just corrected: its a “bulletin”.) Whatever. By the time I find the damn song, we need to jump to insert, which is on the floor. Retrieve the insert and the reading is done. I missed it. Refer back to the program and now we are in the black hymnal. By the time I found the page, the last refrain was wrapping. Don’t get me started on the standing, kneeling, and sitting. Thank sweet God that Walker kept retrieving the insert off the floor.
If you start to work out a system with coordinating reference materials and stash the black hymnal on the floor by your feet, your dad will punt it when he heads for holy communion. Said punting might cause a spat of giggles.
The organist, while adept on the ivories, was not able to hit the same keys with the vocals. As there were only 12 people at church, her loud singing was really obvious and hilarious. Bless her heart for being so enthusiastic about the hymns though.
I was peer pressured by Mom into accepting communion even though I’m not really sure Jesus wasn’t more than a really cool, accepting liberal hippy. So, I’m standing up there at the altar and the priest doled out the holy wafer and I just popped it in my mouth and gobbled it down. No sooner had I swallowed then I noticed everyone in line with me still had their wafer; they were dipping it in turn in the wine. Oh shit! I was panicking. I had nothing to dip. I briefly considered ripping off a corner of my tissue, dipping it, eating it, and taking one for the team. But there was no time.
The priest arrived and I had nothing so I blurted out, wide-eyed and feeling very naughty, “I ate mine already!” I was nervously looking down at the pro-offered chalice. The priest started to giggle but handed me the silver cup. He said reassuringly, “you can still drink from the cup.” I had zero desire to put my lips on that communal germ fest, but I was cornered. I took it and sipped some nasty, sweet wine. The priest was biting back laughter. Little did I know my mom heard this whole exchange and was dying laughing. When we returned to the pew, she was doubled over laughing and that was starting to crack up Dad.
As we left church, I apologized to the priest for my “holy faux pas” and he laughed. Then I asked him what was the brand of that sweet wine. I had a sneaking suspicion that it was Manischewitz wine, which is Jewish and that my grandmother, who was wholly Catholic, loved. But he said it was Taylor port. Port! I don’t know why, but that surprised me too.
Now I’m told by my mom to get “off my fuzzy butt” and make sweet potato casserole. Things are so formal around here.
