Small But Significant
FROM THE RECTOR
When I was a seminarian, I spent two years of contextual education at St. John’s College in Cambridge. As a college chapel, the liturgical rhythms in that place were considerably different from those of an ordinary parish church. Instead of putting the most energy into Easter or Christmas, when students were away, the biggest service of the year was Advent Lessons and Carols. Our weekly schedule revolved around Sunday-night Evensong, which often featured a big-name guest preacher. Sunday-morning services were not as important, but the considerable resources available in that chapel allowed for exceptionally beautiful music and worship.
Every Sunday morning included two services—a simple, spoken Eucharist, which was primarily attended by students, and a formal, sung Eucharist, which attracted students, faculty, and many other worshippers from the Cambridge community. A few times each term, that second service became a “solemn high mass,” which sounds really fancy—and it was—but the label actually implies that there were three orders of ministry represented at the altar—priest, deacon, and subdeacon. Sometimes, they even let me be the subdeacon.
If you have never heard of a subdeacon, do not feel bad. We do not have them in the Episcopal Church. In fact, they are not really a thing in the Roman Catholic Church anymore either. Before the liturgical reforms of Vatican II, however, subdeacons had a particular role to play in the Tridentine Mass. They carried the cross, chanted the Epistle, held the Gospel Book while the deacon chanted the Gospel, and assisted the deacon with setting the table. Because at St. John’s we did not chant the Epistle and the deacon carried the gospel book and an acolyte helped set the table, my only real job was to wear a particular vestment called a tunicle and stand next to the priest and turn pages in the altar book.
I took my job very seriously. In fact, I took it too seriously. I turned pages and pointed to each paragraph that the priest was supposed to read with such intention that it became a distraction. I remember the Dean of the Chapel, who was presiding at the solemn high mass, whispering to me, “You know, I don’t need you to point to each paragraph.” It was his gentle way of telling me that the officiousness with which I was gesturing was interfering with worship. I took the hint and toned it down, but I did not give up entirely. “This is the only job I have to do,” I pleaded back in a whisper. “Please, don’t take it from me.
At St. Paul’s, whenever I stand at the presider’s right and turn pages in the altar book, I think about that moment and how important it felt to have something to contribute to the life of the worshipping community. Even if it was something as simple and potentially distracting as turning pages and pointing, I wanted to know that I had something to give—that what I offered was acceptable to God.
I think our church becomes its best and truest self when everyone knows that whatever they have to give is welcome—that their offering belongs on the altar. I believe that is what the reign of God looks like—when the entire community is able to celebrate God’s goodness by giving their best back to God. Admittedly, things get pretty messy when everyone is encouraged to share. Sometimes the gifts that are presented can be distracting or seem unnecessary, and sometimes leaders like the Dean of the chapel need to help us learn the best way to share our gifts, but, if we are going to fulfill our calling as the Body of Christ, in which every member is an integral part of the body, we must make it possible for everyone to contribute.
Though I mean it figuratively, the next time you pass the offering plate through the pew, think about putting yourself into the plate. Imagine climbing in and being passed along and then carried down the aisle and placed on the altar. Imagine giving yourself to God in a real, tangible, actual way. To use the language of the prayer book, think about giving yourself to God not only with your lips but with your life. Sure, money is the currency of value in our society, but, whether it is time, talent, or treasure, be sure that whatever you give is a way of giving God your best.
Not every job at St. Paul’s gets a lot of attention. Volunteers clean up the garth and make sure the columbarium beds are well maintained. Someone goes to Hiland Dairy to get milk for Community Meals. A team of people comes to the church each week to take care of our recycling. Volunteers take turns cleaning out the Friendly Fridge. In addition to all the ministries we normally associate with a parish, there are countless ways that people contribute to our common life. Even if no one has noticed it yet, there is a way for you to give yourself to God at St. Paul’s.
Perhaps the most important thing we can do as a church is to give people the opportunity to give themselves back to God. That is, after all, the essence of worship. God desires our hearts—the very essence of our lives. What you give does not need to be flashy or impressive according to worldly standards. It can be the smallest of gestures, maybe even unseen by anyone but God. Instead of worrying whether your contribution will be important enough to make, trust that whatever you have to offer will be acceptable to God. As one of the offertory sentences suggested by the prayer book states, “Let us with gladness present the offerings and oblations of our life and labor to the Lord.”
Yours Faithfully,
Evan D. Garner