But alas, Mr. Perkins did not have a church with a long nave, nor a four-part choir, nor did he have a boy treble. He certainly did not have a full church, nor did he have the voice of Richard Burton. Mr. Perkins was not the rector of a quasi-cathedral city church, but the rector of Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners – a little church, tucked away in a little corner, almost forgotten in the vast diocese of which he was a part. While Mr. Perkins dreamt about someday being able to offer such a service, he knew his dreams were only that, and so he would escape into the memories of Lessons and Carols of youth with a mixture of sentimentality and sadness. From time-to-time (each year, in fact) he thought that perhaps he might raise the idea of a Lessons and Carols service with his faithful organist, Mr. Jack Organ, but Jack would emphatically reject the idea. “Impossible,” he would bellow, “We’re not a cathedral.” And that was that. But Mr. Jack Organ now worshipped on another shore, and his daughter-in-law, the young widow, Mary Organ, was now at the console, faithfully directing the six octo- and nonagenarians that made up the choir of Christ Church. It was Mary who first broached the idea with Mr. Perkins that maybe this year they should give it a shot.

“Mr. Perkins,” she said one Sunday in early November as they were leaving the church after the parishioners had departed, “I know you have always wanted to have a Lessons and Carols service here at Christ Church. What do you say we give it a go this year?”

Mr. Perkins’ heart leapt within him. It was like all he had dreamt was about to come true. Without missing a beat, without thinking, completely caught up in the excitement that comes when what you thought could never be is offered freely and unexpectedly, he said yes. And so, the plan was hatched.

If Mr. Perkins had stopped to think even for a moment, he might have thought better of it. He might have demonstrated some reservation. He might have considered the obstacles that stood in the way of executing the sort of Lessons and Carols service about which he so regularly fantasized. Perhaps amongst the readership of this little story there will be some of you who have participated in a Lessons and Carols service as choristers, or perhaps as a choir director, or even as a cleric. It is a service that takes considerable planning, considerable rehearsal, and considerable talent. I don’t think any of these three things were on the side of the people of Hampton’s Corners. Now, I don’t mean to disparage them, but to say that they would have been up to the task might be a disservice to the truth. They could put on a church supper like no one else. They were experts at running an annual dance. They could decorate the church more beautifully than any church in the diocese and they were famous for their Christmas bazaars. But Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners was not the liturgical or musical centre of the diocese, and Mr. Perkins knew it.

In spite of this knowledge – willfully ignoring it, in fact – in blissful pursuit of a sentimental return to the Christmases of his childhood, Mr. Perkins barrelled forward, enthusiastically preparing the service. He got his dog-eared copy of Carols for Choirs 1 down from his shelf and blew the dust off it. He busily selected the lessons and prepared the program. Mrs. Mary Organ put out a call for choristers, hoping to bring in a few ringers to round out the ranks, and selected some classic carols and well-known traditional anthems. Reginald Canon, the scrupulous people’s warden, was elected to conscript readers from the community and assign them the lessons. The time-honoured tradition would be that outstanding members of the local community would read the lessons, with the rector himself concluding with the lesson from John 1, “The Word Made Flesh.” Reg was delighted to inform Mr. Perkins that Marcus Alderman, the reeve of Hampton’s Corners, had agreed to be a reader – a wonderful coup, given that Mr. Alderman was a Presbyterian! Thus, the preparations unfolded.

The first sign of trouble came when Mr. Perkins learned that while a number of parishioners had volunteered to join the choir and fill out the ranks, Mary had been unable to procure any “ringers.” On a couple of occasions, he had poked his head in the church and listened to a bit of the rehearsal. He winced once or twice at the sour notes he heard and the dissonances amongst the voices, and then quietly closed the door and told himself, “Well, there are still three weeks…”

At last, the sacred night came – Dec. 24, Christmas Eve. The church was beautifully appointed and adorned. There were poinsettias, and holly, and Christmas lights, and a magnificent tree topped with a star. The lights were dimmed, the church was packed (thanks to a thoroughly effective advertising campaign led by Reg Canon), and silence fell over the congregation as the organ sounded a single note so that the solo verse of “Once in Royal David’s City” could begin. There was no boy treble, rather Miss Lillian Littlestature, the diminutive, aged spinster, had joined the choir for this occasion, having told Mary Organ that she had once sung this same part, eight decades ago in this very church. As silence fell, after the note had sounded, Lillian, with the sort of vibrato that can only be attained with age and decades of underused vocal chords, began, “Once in Royal David’s City, stood a lowly cattle shed…”

A tear came to Mr. Perkins’ eye, but not the sort of tear that comes from nostalgic reminiscences of Christmases of yore, but rather the sort of tear that comes from the sound of fingers crossing a chalkboard. The first verse of this hymn seemed much longer than he remembered, and he was serenely comforted when the whole congregation joined in on verse two and the choir began to process.

Upon reaching his appointed place in the chancel, Mr. Perkins began…

“Beloved in Christ, at this Christmas-tide let it be our care and delight to hear again the message of the angels, and in heart and mind to go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass, and the Babe, lying in a manager…”

However, in the middle of the prayer, in which he was admonishing the congregation to remember the poor and the helpless, the cold and the hungry, seven-year-old Tommy Tornado set his older sister’s hair on fire with his vigil candle. Fortunately, Reg Canon (who had been skeptical about the use of open flame in the church) was at the ready with a bucket of water, and doused the flame, and young Suzy, saving the day. The shrieking subsided and as the whole row of the Tornado family noisily departed the church, the service continued. Several individuals quietly snuffed out their own candles, just to be on the safe side.

The readings began, telling of Man’s first disobedience in the garden, God’s promises to Abraham, Christ’s birth foretold by Isaiah, all punctuated by familiar congregational carols. Then came the first anthem, “The Angel Gabriel,” an old Basque carol. Mr. Perkins had owned that this might have been a bit ambitious for the little choir, but he trusted that Mrs. Organ would have told him if the choir could not have pulled it off. Perhaps she was just as overly optimistic as he was. We will leave it by saying that it was a rendition for the ages – ages past, and best forgotten.

On the bright side, the readers chosen from the community were all quite good and read most competently. When the sixth lesson came, the reeve, Mr. Marcus Alderman, approached the lectern, and then a feeling of horror overtook Mr. Perkins, for he had chosen the alternative sixth lesson, which might not have been the most appropriate to be read by an elected official. Mr. Alderman boomed: “And so it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.” The congregation erupted in laughter that their reeve should be chosen to read the “taxation” passage. Reg Canon, who had chosen the readers, sat with a self-satisfied look on his face, amused at his own cleverness. Mr. Perkins hung his head in shame. This was certainly not going as planned.

Thankfully, though, there were no further disasters that evening. The second anthem was a bit better than the first, but not by much. Aside from that, the evening continued with some lusty congregational belting of favourite carols, and at last Mr. Perkins took to the lectern one final time to read the Ninth Lesson: St. John Unfolds the mystery of the Incarnation.

“In the beginning,” he began, once again calling up his Richard Burton voice, attempting to restore a sense of decorum and gravitas to the evening’s proceedings. But then he paused and simply continued in his own, gentle Mr. Perkins voice:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
The same was in the beginning with God.
All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.
In him was life; and the life was the light of men.
And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.
The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe…

Mr. Perkins continued,
And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (Mr. Perkins emphasized the “us”) and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

A hush fell over the church as he read, and at that very moment the Mystery of the Word made flesh came to Mr. Perkins, and dare I say to his little church, in a way it never had before. It was not into a perfect world that Christ came, but a flawed world, a world marred by sin, by pride, by vanity, filled with broken people, imperfect people, silly people, sad people. Christ came into a world that did not sing in perfect harmony, to people who did not speak like Richard Burton, to people who accidentally (or even intentionally) lit fires, to the mistaken and mischievous alike. For each and every one of us, the Word was made flesh, and manifested forth his glory.

Following the service, in very Anglican fashion, the congregation met in the hall over sherry. Across the room, Mr. Perkins caught the glance Mrs. Mary Organ. She approached him with a silly smile that was full of all the evening’s tragedy (or was it comedy?), and raising a glass asked him, “Well, Mr. Perkins, was that everything you dreamed of?”

Touching his glass to hers, he responded, “Not exactly Mrs. Organ, it was oh so much more. Merry Christmas… and thank you.”

“A very Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Perkins.”

The post Lessons and Carols appeared first on The Toronto Anglican.

The custom was this: On the final Sunday of the month, after the service had concluded, during the announcements but before the recessional hymn, he was to ask if there were any birthdays in that month. Hands would go up or people would stand. The organist would strike up a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday to You!” and the small, but faithful congregation would lustfully warble along. Following the service, a big slab cake would be served to the ever-diminishing cotton-topped congregation. I suppose that at one time in the parish history, in those halcyon days of yore, when the pews were packed and the Sunday school over-flowing with children, a slab cake was appropriate. Yet, in these latter days of church decline, with which we are all so sadly acquainted, a slab cake was more than enough – too much – way too much for the dozen-and-a-half octogenarians who made up the congregation. They were always pushing half a cake on Mr. Perkins to take home. He was not a big fan of Costco cake.

In his early days in the parish, on the first Sunday when this little ritual unfolded, Mr. Perkins knew he would soon “nix” it. Mr. Perkins, especially in his earlier years, was what we might refer to as a “liturgical fusspot.” Being the Trinity College man that he was, he liked things done with order and decency, according to the rubrics of the authorized liturgies of the Church. After that first Sunday in which he experienced the strange phenomenon of the monthly birthday celebration, he thought to himself, “Well, this is the first thing to go.”

And so, when the next month rolled around and the last Sunday of the month arrived, that Sunday being a Sunday in Lent, and certainly inappropriate for the singing of “Happy Birthday” and the eating of cake, Mr. Perkins knew the moment had come. He rolled through the announcements without a breath, singular in his purpose of arriving at the announcing of the recessional hymn. The recessional hymn played and Mr. Perkins was faced down by angry stares as he processed down the nave to the back of the church for the dismissal. The hymn ended and before Mr. Perkins could say a word, old Judy Jumblejump barked, “We forgot the birthdays! Who has a birthday?!” Miss Lillian Littlestature, that ancient spinster, cried out, “I do! And so does Charlie!” referring to Charlie Strawblade, an old farmer whose family had been founders of the parish, one hundred and fifty-three years ago. The organist struck up “Happy Birthday” and they all began to sing. Judy Jumblejump began to cut up the cake and pass it around to people when they ought to have been on their knees saying their final prayers in silence.

Needless to say, Mr. Perkins heard about it for weeks. He was told how deeply offended people were and how important the monthly birthday celebration was to the parish. A certain Marjorie Mayhem, a stalwart member of the flower guild, confronted him mid-week with considerable rage. She told him that last month was her husband George’s birthday and that she had almost missed the opportunity to celebrate it. “Hasn’t George been gone for a several years?” Mr. Perkins asked, somewhat confused.

“Yes, but it’s very important to be able to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him in church every year. It makes me feel close to him.”

Mr. Perkins didn’t know what to say. The idea of singing happy birthday to a dead person in church seemed beyond the pale. He tried to explain this to her, but she became more indignant and furious. This is the moment when most wise clergy would re-evaluate their decision and ask that time-honored question of themselves, “Is this the ditch I’m going to die in?” But Mr. Perkins was undeterred, resolute. He would hold his course no matter how stormy the seas and root out this para-liturgical abomination from the Lord’s temple. In more a reasoned moment, he said he might allow them to continue to have their “happy birthdays” and cakes in the church hall, but certainly not in the church proper. Such festivities were more suited to a coffee hour than a service in the church. He was drawing his line in the sand. Much grumbling and murmuring ensued over the following month after Mr. Perkins had communicated his decision, but Mr. Perkins paid it no mind. He was firm in his determination to kill this thing.

And thus came that fateful day and one once again the last Sunday of the month rolled around. All wondered what would happen. The service was tense. Mr. Perkins’ sermon, not touching on the topic of “birthdays,” of course, seemed uncharacteristically cold. He was, of nature, a warm man and known for his compassionate preaching. This dissonance only made the congregation feel even more tense. The Sacrament being concluded and the service drawing to a close, he the made announcements with some haste and pushed forward to announce the recessional hymn. Before he could draw a breath to announce the hymn “Take up your Cross and Follow Me,” Judy Jumblejump called out, “What about the March birthdays, Mr. Perkins?!”  His countenance fell. With his head down, he felt a rage pulsing within his chest at this monstrous uprising, this sinister sedition, this blatant act of defiance. He drew in a breath slowly, tried to calm his mind and his heart. He would not make a scene of it. “Take the long view” he told himself silently. He was devoted to order and decency in Anglican worship as an article of faith. He would not lose it from the chancel steps.

“Alright,” he said, “who has a birthday in March?”

Silence. No one answered.

“Surely,” he continued, “there must be at least one March birthday…”

Silence.

“No March birthdays?” he asked, giving one final opportunity. “Alright,” he continued, “Our recessional hymn is…”

“Wait!!” a voice called out. It was Judy Jumblejump. “But we didn’t sing ‘Happy Birthday’!”

“But there aren’t any March birthdays,” he responded, confounded.

“But we always sing ‘Happy Birthday’,” she said.

“It’s true,” added old Charlie Strawblade.

“Indeed it is,” chimed in Miss Lillian Littlestature.

And so, knowing he was defeated, he directed the organist to strike the chord, and they all sang “Happy Birthday” to no one in particular. And when the singing was over, Judy Jumblejump called out, “And don’t forget! There’s cake!”

The post Birthdays appeared first on The Toronto Anglican.

A few weeks went by with Mr. Perkins sending around the text of his homilies by email, and even this was a bit of a stretch for him, for Mr. Perkins was an old-fashioned sort of cleric. People used to joke that the quill pen and the pad of paper were the most advanced technology he used. But a call from his officious churchwarden, Judy Jumblejump, convinced him, or shall we say coerced him, into making an attempt at broadcasting the Sunday service over Zoom. It was not something he really wanted to do, or even knew how to do, and thus it was with a sense of real failure that he answered the door of the rectory that Monday morning after his first attempt at “Zooming Church” to find the indomitable Judy standing there with her arms crossed, a mask over the bottom half of her face, and her brow furrowed. He knew what was coming next. Her arms began to wave and she began to rant, “Mr. Perkins, what happened yesterday must never happen again! That was a disaster! If you persist in having services like this over Zoom, people will never tune in again! And they’ll stop giving to the church as well!”

Poor Mr. Perkins. This was another one of those times in which his best efforts had not been well received. What did happen that first Sunday that Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners decided to go online? Perhaps, with the hindsight of a couple of years of Zoom church under our belts, it is easy for us to judge Mr. Perkins for failing to understand the medium. But perhaps we should be gentle with our old friend, given that he had plunged head first into dark and murky waters. Have we forgotten how quickly the world changed when it went online overnight?

Just what had happened on the previous Sunday morn to make Judy Jumblejump show up at the parson’s door in such a fluster? Truthfully, I think he had taken too much on his own shoulders. He had made a call to a Presbyterian minister friend who had taught him over the phone how to set up a Zoom account. He had conscripted a couple of participants to take a few parts. Reg Canon, another of the wardens, was to be the reader, and Mary, his organist, would play a few hymns on her home piano. He had set up his ancient laptop on his kitchen table, vested in his cassock and surplice, and “started the meeting.” At first, he couldn’t understand why no one was “joining the meeting.” It was nearly eleven o’clock, and he sat there staring at himself on the screen. Maybe no one was coming. Maybe this Zoom thing was too much for them. Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Mary.

“Mr. Perkins,” she spoke gently, “you have to bring people in from the waiting room.”

“There’s a waiting room? Where? How do I do that?”

She explained it to him, and with a combination of both horror and delight, he realized he had 35 people stuck in the waiting room. He pressed “admit all,” following her instructions, and in a minute they all appeared on his screen. He apologized and began the announcements. After a few moments he noticed the faces of his flock were all pointing to their mouths and ears. A message popped up on his screen from Mary: “You are muted. Press unmute. It’s the little microphone on the bottom band on your screen.” Once he got that sorted, he began again.

Clearly, he was not the only one struggling with the technology, though, for a loud voice interrupted, “Will you shut up!” He was taken aback, thinking someone was shouting at him, until he realized that it was the voice of Millie Muckering shouting at her husband, “Marty, will you shut your @*$ mouth, I’m trying to watch church!”

“Ahem,” Mr. Perkins interjected, “The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you,” other voices chimed in, all over the place and cutting in and out.

“Mary has agreed to play a hymn or two for us from home,” he said, “You are invited to join in. The words were emailed to you a few days ago.”

“Mr. Perkins,” another voice interrupted, “I don’t have email. How do I get the words?”

“When did you send the email?” another voice said.

“I believe it was Thursday,” he replied.

“Well, I didn’t get it. Did anyone else get it?”

“I got it,” said Millie, “Can we get this service going? I want to watch Coronation Street.”

“I’m opening my email now, Mr. Perkins,” said another ‘old dear.’ “Let’s see… Hotmail, open, new messages… oh, here it is. You can start now, Mr. Perkins. I’m good to go!”

“Thank you,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “Even if you don’t have the words, most of us will know it.”

Mary began playing “Amazing Grace” on her little parlour piano, and the people began to sing. It was an unholy cacophony of voices cutting in and out, with crackling and screeching feedback. It was the longest five verses of “Amazing Grace” he had ever had to suffer through, and he inwardly cursed his Presbyterian minister friend for not telling him he needed to mute the congregation while Mary played and sung.

Having discovered how to “mute all,” he asked Reg to lead the lesson from 1 Kings 9:11-14 about the prophet Elijah waiting for the Lord to pass by and reveal himself, and how God was not heard in the earthquake, wind or fire, but in the still small voice of silence. However, the still small voice of silence was Reg’s, for he could not be heard, for he had not realized that Mr. Perkins had muted him. By all appearances, he read the reading with great passion, but not a single word of it was heard. Mr. Perkins feverishly tried to unmute him, but after getting lost in the Zoom settings he was unable to do so, and Reg finished. You could see a few individuals sympathetically mouthing “Thanks be to God” as he concluded the lesson.

Having finally figured out how to unmute the congregation, he was barely into his sermon when he began to hear the sounds of laughter. The laughter began to grow as he proceeded. Finally, he stopped and asked his flock directly, “Is there something funny going on?”

“Oh Mr. Perkins,” laughed Miss Lillian Littlestature, that ancient spinster, “you look like a pirate.” He then caught a glimpse of himself on the screen and realized that somehow, while he was in the settings trying to unmute Reg, he had applied a filter to his face that gave him a pirate patch, a pirate hat, and a parrot on his shoulder.

“Ahem. Just a minute.” He turned his video off for a moment, and when he came back his pirate attire had gone away. “Let us continue,” he said with solemnity, but no sooner had he taken up his sermon again, someone shouted, “Shut the @&% up!” Again, he was taken aback, but soon realized it was Millie again, “No, Marty, church is not over yet. Just tape it for me.”

And so it went. Mr. Perkins tried to get through his sermon. Of course, since the reading had been muted, he had to rehearse the text of the day once more to the congregation in order for his sermon to make sense. Thus, he related again the story of Elijah waiting for the Lord to pass by and how he was heard not in the wind, nor the splitting rocks of the earthquake, nor the fire, but finally in the sound of sheer silence. As Mr. Perkins reached this crescendo a thundering noise sounded through his speakers, like rushing water. And that is what it was. It was the sound of a flushing toilet.

“Good Lord,” he thought to himself, “someone’s listening to my sermon in the john!” He hastily concluded his sermon, for he thought at this point that the only thing it would add to the service was length. He muttered his way through a few prayers, all the while Millie continued to yell at Martin, “Marty, just shut up, I can’t hear Mr. Perkins praying!” As the service ended, he invited everyone to come back next week and he quickly “ended the meeting” and the faces disappeared.

Perhaps now we can understand Judy Jumblejump’s consternation and rage that Monday morning, but who amongst us has not had a similar horrifying experience upon first engaging new technology in such a public way?

Judy suggested he go online and see what the Rev. Robbie Ready was doing for online church. He was leading a wonderful service, with so much polish, she related. Of course he was. Robbie had a couple of TV execs in his parish, and they had brought in a team of professional technicians to livestream a very flashy product. He knew that the best way to handle Judy was to let her rant, let her tell him how it should have been done, what he should do next, and then she would fizzle out. And when that inevitably happened after about 45 minutes, she left.

He was discouraged, even despondent. Back in his day at Trinity College, there were no courses in multimedia ministry. He was just a simple country parson. What was he to do?

Judy did have a point. The service was a disaster, and whether or not he was to blame, he carried the responsibility for it not going well. It had exuded anything but Anglican “order and decency,” and he was ashamed. He downloaded Robbie Ready’s service to take a look at it, and it was slick, indeed. He knew he could never pull something like this together. Maybe God was telling him it was time to hang up his collar.

He moped about for the rest of the day until another knock came upon his door. He stirred himself from his self-flagellation to answer it, and there stood two older men, Jim and Tim, twin brothers. They were wearing their masks but unlike Judy, he could see compassion in their eyes. Jim said, “Mr. Perkins, you have a problem, and I believe we can help you.”

They were not regular parishioners, but they attended from time to time and had tuned into his first service. They had witnessed all that had happened. Jim and Tim had owned the local Radio Shack back in the old days, and they were known around town as the local techies who could fix anything. They kindly and gently explained to him where he had gone wrong, and that they could help him. They could set up some wi-fi in the church so he could conduct his services there, at his beloved altar, in the beloved parish church.

Jim said Mr. Perkins needed something called a “Zoom master” to take the burden of running the meeting off of the celebrant’s shoulders. Tim said he could set up a proper video camera and some good sound equipment, put the service on a PowerPoint that he would control, and they could even get Mary to come in and play the organ. Tim continued, “You know, Mr. Perkins, I think this would significantly improve the viewer experience.”

Well, the two men went to work in the church immediately and got it wired for sound. They coached Mr. Perkins on what to do, where to stand, where to look, and rehearsed the service several times, broadcasting once to their wives to make sure that all was in order.

The next Sunday morning rolled around. Mary was at the organ console, Mr. Perkins was at his prayer desk, Jim and Tim were masked and distanced, working in their respective technological spheres.

It would be wrong to say that everything went perfectly smoothly, but just being relieved of the burden of carrying the whole weight of the thing on his own shoulders made a huge difference. Now he could be prayerfully and intentionally present, not hastily trying to construct an electronic mystical experience in the presence of the Saviour. That he could be in his church, in that sacred space, on that holy ground as the light shone through the rose window, and that people could see him in their much-treasured place of worship from which they had been deprived for several weeks now, meant so much.

Tim had begun his PowerPoint with an opening slide that read: “We are learning, but we are together, and no matter what happens, we believe Christ is present with us, shining his light upon us.”

If there was any yelling at spouses, it was not heard. If anyone was listening to the service in the bathroom, or while eating their bacon and eggs, it was not obvious. With a little help from his friends, things seem to come off not badly at all, and everyone commented later that they really felt like they had been “back to church.”

He concluded the service with the Doxology: “Glory to God whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine…”

Who could have imagined this a month ago, he thought? He had no way to imagine what might come next, how long this would all last, or if things would ever get back to normal. All he knew was that in this moment, whatever this was, together they were the Church, that Christ was truly present, and his glory shone around and within them, even in their floundering and imperfect efforts to worship him.

The post Transfiguration, or How Mr. Perkins learned to use Zoom appeared first on The Toronto Anglican.

Confession was a practice very dear to the heart of our Mr. Perkins. It was something he had adopted in his early days as a churchman, when with youthful zeal he had considered himself a member of the “Anglo-Catholic party,” those zealous Anglicans who loved all things catholic and ritualistic, and devoted themselves piously, perhaps even slavishly, to a catholic rendering of the Anglican liturgy and, of course, held a deep fondness for things like incense and lace. But after a short sojourn in that country, Mr. Perkins had left that all behind him, at least most of it. That was back in the day when Mr. Perkins liked to be called “Father”; now, “Mister” sufficed. Back then he reveled when he “put on Christ” in the form of a beautifully brocade silk chasuble to celebrate the sacred mysteries of the Holy Eucharist; now, he was just as happy with his black cassock and white surplice, and a simple stole or even a black preaching scarf. With age and maturity, his outward zeal had become less ostentatious, and as with many of us, as age softens our sharp edges, the simpler things had begun to prevail for Mr. Perkins.

The one thing, however, that he clung to from his Anglo-Catholic youth was the idea of private confession. He really did believe it was good for the soul. He felt strongly, both for himself and for others, that one should make their private confession from time to time as a sort of spiritual housecleaning, to cast off the things that stood in the way of a deeper, closer, more intimate relationship with the loving God. And what better time to encourage confession than the beginning of Lent? Without fail, Mr. Perkins preached about confession on Ash Wednesday. Every year he reminded his congregation of that old Anglican adage about private confession: “All may, none must, some should, few do.” And every year his congregation would dutifully chuckle at this pithy aphorism, very few taking him up on it, but every year at least a couple people gave it a try.

Like many Anglican clergy, Mr. Perkins would hear a very small number of confessions over the course of the year. Occasionally, someone who had been brought up a Roman Catholic or who, like Mr. Perkins, had once had Anglo-Catholic leanings, would come for private confession. For the most part, though, those who came to confess did not really set out to make their confession, but came to Mr. Perkins with a heavy heart about something that was troubling, some way they had treated friend or neighbour, some mistake over which they had great regret, something wrong they had done and the guilt they bore that they could not shake – these are the things that brought folk to Mr. Perkins for counsel.

As they would sit in his little study and unburden their souls to him, they were, in fact, making their confession. Mr. Perkins would offer them spiritual counsel, encouragement and love, and would finally say, “it sounds to me as if you have just made your confession,” and when they acknowledged that perhaps they had, he asked “would you like me to pronounce priestly absolution?” They would often pause for a moment, consider it, and many would say yes. And so, either right there in his little study or at the altar rail in the church, he would put on his stole, make the sign of the cross over them, and offer the words, “Our Lord Jesus Christ, who offered himself as the perfect sacrifice to the Father, and who conferred power on his Church to forgive sins, absolve you through my ministry by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and restore you to the perfect peace of the Church. Amen.” Mr. Perkins would invariably see the burden lift from his parishioner. It was as if Jesus himself were present and taking the weight away. Mr. Perkins really had nothing to do with it. His task was simply to be a witness to the pain of his brother or sister in Christ, to reassure them of God’s grace (for that is really all that priestly absolution is – it is not magic), and then to forget everything that he was told, keeping what was spoken between the penitent and God alone. The little ritual would always conclude with Mr. Perkins saying, “the Lord has put away all your sins, now go, and pray for me, a sinner.” Mr. Perkins was invariably reminded of his own need to unburden himself.

As hard as Mr. Perkins worked each Lent to help his little congregation understand confession and even encourage them toward it, there were some who never really got it, in spite of their best efforts to please him. Would I be breaking the seal of the confessional if I told you about the old woman at Christ Church who used to come annually to Mr. Perkins at the beginning of Lent for him to hear her confession? She was a pious old dear who was convinced she never sinned, and yet she knew that it was incumbent upon her, as a pious Christian, to make her confession from time to time. So, every once in a while, she would throw a bag of garbage over her neighbour’s fence so that she would have something to confess to Mr. Perkins, in order that she might receive the soothing and holy balm of priestly absolution. Mr. Perkins would gently counsel her that perhaps, just perhaps, her sin was rather one of spiritual pride, and perhaps, just perhaps, she might do some self-examination in this area. But she was adamant – she had not a proud bone in her body.

Perhaps it is like those folk who never really get the purpose of Lent altogether. Lent is a solemn time, and for 40 days the liturgy is built around penitence, self-denial, purity of heart and the sufferings of Christ. As a consequence of this, Mr. Perkins, like most other clergy, always made a point of ensuring the music in Lent was suitably solemn, to assist worshippers in assuming a suitably solemn mood in their devotion. By about his third year at Hampton’s Corner’s he could predict the individuals who would start coming to him by about the fourth week in Lent to complain that we were singing too many dirges. One well-meaning soul would always ask, “can’t we have something a bit more upbeat? The last few weeks all the hymns have been such downers.” Mr. Perkins was tempted to reply, “Yes, and so was Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness, and his betrayal by Judas, and his trial before Pilate, and his crucifixion.” But being nicer and less sarcastic was one of Mr. Perkins’ regular Lenten disciplines, something he had to regularly confess to his confessor, and so with difficult restraint he refrained from berating the person, and simply responded cheerily, “Easter’s a-comin’!”

And so, you may ask, did Mr. Perkins practice what he preached? Did Mr. Perkins make regular, private confession? Yes, he did. From time to time, not on any particular schedule – although almost always around the beginning of Lent – Mr. Perkins visit his confessor, a cleric of another denomination. During this particular Lent, Mr. Perkins had gone to see his confessor about a matter that had taken place many years ago, during his early days in priestly ministry. It was a matter that he tried again and again to put out of his mind, that he was successful in ignoring and forgetting a good deal of the time, and yet it would return again and again, weighing heavily on his conscience. And what was this matter that so plagued our diminutive priestly friend, that most pious of clergymen, whom anyone could scarcely believe had ever sinned?

When he was a very new priest, he was out celebrating with friends – I think it may have even been Mardi Gras. As often happens when Anglican clerics gather, and as 40 days of self-denial were about to unfold, a certain Scottish elixir was flowing most freely. The little gathering itself was most uneventful, and in fact rather jovial. The event that was to come to plague Mr. Perkin’s consciousness and trouble him for many years took place on the way home. As he and a couple of his fellows were walking through the city streets (for Mr. Perkins was but a lowly curate in a city church in those days), they passed a man lying outside the entranceway of an apartment. They conferred amongst themselves, and Mr. Perkins was elected to investigate. Now, Mr. Perkins, who we might say was “well beyond the legal limit” in terms of what he had imbibed, approached the man. He was breathing but quite still. When Mr. Perkins was sure that the man was alive, he returned to his comrades and pronounced with no sense of irony, “he’s just drunk.” And so they went on their way, each making their way home on foot or by cab.

Two mornings later, as Mr. Perkins was drinking his coffee and reading his paper, he came across a small item about a man who had been found dead the previous morning outside that very address that Mr. Perkins had passed. Doctors suspected that he had had a heart attack while trying to unlock the outer door of his apartment. A feeling of dread came over Mr. Perkins; dread and guilt. Was this the man that Mr. Perkins had encountered and so readily dismissed as drunk? The irony was not lost on him now, for as a result of his own intoxication that evening, his memory of the event was somewhat foggy.

Mr. Perkins had a busy day ahead and tried to put the thought of the man behind him. Eventually, as the days went on, his worry and guilt about what had transpired began to recede, as is often the case in such matters. His busy life pushed away the memories, only coming to the surface from time to time in the years ahead. When they did, he would box them up in some dusty corner of his mind (or heart?) and pretend the whole incident never happened… until several years later he began to dream about the man. The man began to haunt his thoughts and would come to him at unexpected moments. He never accused Mr. Perkins, but in Mr. Perkin’s mind’s eye, he just looked at him sadly and then would disappear. The truth was, Mr. Perkins had no idea what he looked like, for he had never even seen his face. Mr. Perkin’s subconscious would conjure up a withered, sad-looking visage of someone in need, someone whom he had passed by. Perhaps this is really why Mr. Perkins had such an uncomfortable relationship with the parable of the Good Samaritan. The man would haunt Mr. Perkin’s dreams on and off for years, and Mr. Perkins would push him away and try to forget. How foolish we are when we think that pushing down something deep inside will make it go away.

Back in the present, as Lent rolled around again, the dreams had returned, and added to it was Mr. Perkin’s wondering about the man’s family. What must it have been like for them to hear their loved one had died this way? Or perhaps one of them had even discovered him, cold and lifeless. And what if they learned that someone, a priest of the Church, who was drunk, had passed him by? The burden, after all these years, had become unbearable. Thus, after Mr. Perkins had preached his annual Ash Wednesday sermon on confession, he got immediately into his car and headed to the convent.

Within an hour he was kneeling before his confessor and tearfully making his confession. He let it all flow out – his shame over his drunkenness, his failure to see Christ in the man who lay dying on the pavement, his guilt over keeping it hidden so many years, his unworthiness of the mantle of priest, and especially his unworthiness to exhort others to confession and pronounce priestly absolution.

After his confession, there came a long period of silence in which he wept. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up and his confessor was looking down on him, with gentle, loving eyes, and she said, “William, I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the one who died for our sins, that we might live. For what you have done, you are forgiven, and for what you have not done you are forgiven. In the name of Jesus Christ, the God of love.” And these words followed intentionally, and slowly: “You are forgiven.” The weight began to lift, and she extended her hand and helped him gently to his feet. With eyes at level, she concluded, “The Lord has put away all your sins. Now go, and pray for me, a sinner.”

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Out there in the world it is a battle already lost. The Advent police are powerless against the consumerist forces of capitalism when, immediately following Hallowe’en, carols start being heard in malls and store windows are decorated. But in the Church, the Advent police still have real power, especially if they are the rector of a parish. When the first sign of giving way to the sin of early celebration begins to rear its ugly head, the Advent police begin their self-righteous admonishments and superciliously explain the purpose of “Advent waiting.”

“Advent is a time of preparation, of anticipation,” they explain to the faithful members of the altar guild on the first Sunday of Advent, who simply want to make the church look nice with some fresh cedar garlands. This unwelcome catechesis goes something like this: “So much of the world gives in to instant gratification, but we as the Church must not! It is a spiritual discipline to wait, as the rest of the pagan world is already celebrating the birth of a child they do not believe in, we are waiting in anticipation for his coming!” The look of saddened and frustrated faces does nothing to sway the Advent police. The Advent police are a heartless and hardened bunch. No tidings of comfort and joy, no peace on earth or good will to men must ever be proclaimed in Advent. They explain that traditionally Advent was something of a mini-Lent. We ought not to be celebrating, but considering our sinfulness, repenting, as John the Baptist directs us, lest we find ourselves fleeing from the wrath that is to come. We must be readying our lamps like the wise virgins. We must be preparing for the coming of the bridegroom. While the rest of the world is getting excited, we ought to solemnly reflect on things like the last judgement.

Our friend Mr. Perkins was an ardent defender of this policy, so much so that in addition to the elimination of the Gloria in Excelsis, he also banned the use of “Alleluia” as one does in Lent. Somewhere along the line, in utter devotion to Advent solemnity, he fell under the mistaken impression that this was required of the faithful.

This all fell apart one year for Mr. Perkins one Sunday in Advent in the early years of his ministry. The service had ended with the favourite Advent hymn, “Lo, he comes with clouds descending, once for favoured sinners slain.” The word “Hallelujah” is used no fewer than seven times in that hymn. Having forbidden the use of the word during Advent and replaced the Gloria with the Kyrie, he had preached vociferously on waiting and preparing and holding back on Christmas until Christmas Eve. As the little line of people exited his tiny parish church, Miss Lillian Littlestature, a spinster of 92, looked up at him and asked him quizzically, “Mr. Perkins, if we aren’t allowed to say ‘alleluia’ how come we get to sing it in the hymn?” Mr. Perkins was stymied. He had been singing the hymn lustily and with good courage, as John Wesley might have said, and had forgotten himself all the while. This was one of those rare occasions in which he was speechless on a matter of theology. He tried for an answer but could not find one. He simply did not know what to say.

After the service, he hurried back to his study and counted up the number of times “Hallelujah” was used in the hymn. Yes, seven times. Then he went through the Advent section in the hymn book and realized just how many Advent hymns included alleluias. Was he wrong all these years? It couldn’t be. He held a Master of Divinity from Trinity College. Surely, he knew what he was doing with respect to liturgical planning. But there it was, in black and white, in the sung tradition of the Church, again and again, alleluias in Advent. Celebration in Advent. In his own mind, and amongst all of his colleagues, at least the ones he respected, Advent was a time of deep reverence, solemnity, preparation and waiting, not celebration. Now, he was questioning everything he held sacred, his liturgical world had been turned upside down. What was he to do? Was he a fraud? That night he could not sleep as he pondered these things over and over again in his heart and mind. What had he gotten wrong?

Monday was his day off, and although he was sleep deprived, he drove into the neighbouring town for a trip to the mall. (In those days, Hampton’s Corners had not yet quite acquired that status of having a mall, although I am now told that there are several big box stores on the outskirts of town.) He hated trips to the mall. It felt to him like a trip into pagan territory. But Mr. Perkins had nephews and nieces to buy presents for, as well for his mother and for his brother and sister. Mr. Perkins took heart, stirred up his courage, and faced the inevitable and discouraging duty of Christmas shopping.

After some time of walking around the mall aimlessly, looking in store windows, he finally steeled himself for the task, and after a couple of hours his arms were full of packages and bags, and Mr. Perkins found himself feeling pretty satisfied about how well he had done with his Christmas shopping. He decided he should stop at the Tim Hortons in the food court and have a cup of coffee as a reward for his efforts. And so he did. Mr. Perkins placed his parcels and bags on the table and floor, breathed a sigh of relief, and began to take drink his coffee. Over the loudspeaker he could hear Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney…

Busy sidewalks, city sidewalks dressed in holiday style
in the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.
Hear the snow crunch, see the kids bunch, this is Santa’s big day
And above all this bustle you hear…
Silver bells, silver bells,
It’s Christmas time in the city…

Mr. Perkins found himself humming along, and finally, quietly singing the lyrics. His heart was warmed and he felt satisfied.

Then suddenly, he felt horrified. He was enjoying Christmas, and it was only December 13th. It was still Advent! In this consumerist frenzy, he had been led astray! He had let himself slip into the joy of the season that was reserved only for Christmas Eve and the twelve days that followed. Here he was, in this temple of pagan consumerism, enjoying Christmas! What had he done?

But then he looked around and saw the faces of the shoppers, and he realized that Bing and Rosemary were right, in the air there was a feeling of Christmas. Then, in the distance, he heard the silver bells of the Sally Ann kettle ringer. People were happy, excited, both anticipating and celebrating at one and the same time. Then, over the PA system, he heard Perry Como sing, “Hark the Herald Angels sing, Glory to the newborn King.” And for the first time, he realized that Advent was really something of a show, not a bad show, perhaps even a necessary show, but it was a show, a piece of theatre. It is not ultimately what is real. What is real is that two thousand years ago, a babe was born to us. And so, Christ has come, and while it is true we await his coming again in glory on the last day, and while it is true we wait for him to be born again in our hearts, the hearts of all, he has actually come. The waiting is over, and it has been over for a long time. The time to celebrate is now.

Here, in the profane setting of the food court of the mall, drinking his “Timmy’s,” Mr. Perkins realized for the first time that Advent is simply a sacred drama in which we ritually re-enact the waiting – a waiting that points to a sacred truth: Christ has come. We can both celebrate and anticipate at one and the same time. The faces of the people said it all. From the elderly woman placing a folded bill in the Sally Ann kettle to the little child skipping along, licking his candy cane. In the air there was a feeling of Christmas, and it was really quite wonderful.

It was on that Monday in Advent, many years ago, that Mr. Perkins turned in his membership card as an officer of the Advent police. Never again was he anxious about singing alleluias in Advent, and while he did hold back on the use of the Gloria in Excelsis till Christmas Eve, in subsequent years he permitted the tree to go up in the church, and yes, even to be lit. He allowed poinsettias to sneak their way into the chancel in mid-December. He allowed carols during the pageant on Advent IV, and when participants filed out of church on that last Sunday of Advent and wished him a “Merry Christmas,” he wished them a Merry Christmas back.

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Much been said in recent days of Elizabeth II’s own oath, given on her 21^st birthday, to serve her people all her days whether her life be long or short. Her sense of duty will long shine as a beacon of faithfulness both as our Queen and as a Christian. Duty is not something we speak that fondly of these days. In a world obsessed with liberty, and indeed a certain libertinism, with self-actualization and sovereignty of the individual held up as the supreme virtues, we may have forgotten the virtue of duty. But is duty a virtue? Not in and of itself, but it is reflective of and an expression of virtue. And what was the virtue that our late Queen upheld in her commitment to duty? It was that of obedience.

Like duty, obedience is not often looked upon that favourably in today’s world. Did we not remove “obey” from the marriage liturgy, after all? Yet, it is to be found in the baptismal liturgy as a virtuous response to the call of God in all our lives. Our modern baptismal liturgy invites us to turn to Christ, trust in his grace and love, and to obey him as Lord. In my experience preparing individuals for baptism, they don’t seem to have much trouble with the “turning” and “trusting” parts, but people’s backs seem to get up when we speak about obedience.

We can speculate much about the late Queen’s faith, but in truth, we will never know what she talked to God about in her quiet moments. Beyond her brief statements of faith in her Christmas messages, we have only her life before us as a witness to her faith, and it was a life of duty and obedience. Some recent biographers have revealed that had she never been Queen, she would have relished the life of a country lady, raising horses and dogs. To be sure, she was able to indulge these passions during her life, but first and foremost was her service to the people God called her to serve. She never asked to be Queen – God called her to it in the providence of her birth. She answered the call unswervingly, obediently and dutifully. How many of us can say we have been as faithful to God’s call as Her Late Majesty was?

This brings us back to the oaths and vows that we make to each other, to those whom we serve and to the one we serve, our Lord and Master. Each of us has been providentially placed in our own setting with a call of God on our lives. Many of us will have more choice than the late Queen as to how we will live our lives, where we will live, with whom shall we live and what we will do with our choices. Yet there is much we cannot change about where we find ourselves. Do we fight against what we cannot change? Or shall we lay hold of the hope of the gospel open to all, no matter where we find ourselves? Shall we ask, where we are, whatever our circumstances, “what does the Lord ask of me?” and “how shall I serve?”

Looking to the example of Elizabeth II, perhaps we might re-examine the concept of duty and the virtue of obedience. This is not to dismiss the promise of liberty and personal sovereignty, for the gospel offers both of these in abundance. Yet, let us always remember that in following Christ, in dutifully serving him, in obeying him, we discover a service of perfect freedom. The last photo taken of the late Queen, meeting the last prime minister of her reign, days before her death, shows a frail person, but one still radiating. Surely the oath of faithfulness to serve in the way God had called her was as much on her mind that day as it was that day on her 21^st birthday.

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​One of the individuals who sought out Mr. Perkins in his pastoral capacity at Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners was a parishioner named Grace Goodham. When she had asked him on Sunday after church if she might come and see him during the week, he really had no idea what she wished to meet about. Grace was the chair of the flower guild, that group of dedicated ladies who, week by week, the season of Lent excepted, adorn the altar and the chancel with beautiful arrangements and festive appointments according to the time of year. At Easter there are lilies, at Christmas poinsettias, on Palm Sunday there are palms and pussy willows, at Harvest time there are sheaves and gourds, and at other times all manner of colourful fragrant arrangements. I can scarcely think of any other little parish church in our whole diocese that is as beautifully and tastefully appointed with flowers than the parish of Hampton’s Corners. And like the arrangements she set out every Sunday, Grace was a beautiful person, inside and out. She brought joy and life into every room she entered. Everyone loved spending time with her. It felt so good to be around her, and when you were having a bad day, she was the one who would brighten it. She seems so self-confident, so kind, so forgiving of others, and so faithful. What was it that compelled her to speak with our favourite country parson in those Lenten days in which our story takes place?

​”Mr. Perkins,” she said, as she settled into the comfortable chair in his little office, “I don’t know where to begin, but… I felt like I needed to talk to you because…” She paused.

​”Because?” he asked gently.

​”Because I feel like such a fraud.”

​Mr. Perkins was taken aback. “What do you mean?” he asked quizzically. “You must be one of the most genuine people I know.”

​”That’s just it, Mr. Perkins, that’s what people think of me, but all my life I’ve had this feeling that if they only just knew me, the real me, not only wouldn’t they like me, they would hate me.”

​He could not see how this was possible, but he wanted to learn more. “Tell me, just what do you think you are hiding?”

​”I… I… don’t really know. I mean, I know — at least I know in my head — that I’m a good person. But I just don’t feel like I’m a good person. I do my best to try to make a difference, to be a kind person, to do everything I can to the best of my ability. As you know, I’m something of a perfectionist. I’m a bit obsessive about it, in fact,” she added.

​”Oh really?” he said coyly, knowing how much of a perfectionist she was. They both gave a little laugh.

​“Really,” she said, “And I can live with that, but when someone criticizes me, I just fall apart. I try so hard, I really do try to get it right, to be perfect, just like the Bible says, `Be ye perfect as thy Father in Heaven is perfect’, but I mean, how can any of us be perfect like God? It’s a bit much, don’t you think? It’s a tall order. And yet, I so want to be perfect, I strive to be perfect…”

​Mr. Perkins broke in, “and you are very near perfect, my friend, but none of us are perfect. You are a perfectionist, so what? You have high standards, but you don’t enforce them nastily on other people like some perfectionists do; they are standards to which you hold yourself.”

​”But I don’t think I can do it anymore… and I just collapse with self-loathing and disappointment when I think I have let someone down. When I let someone down, I feel like they see the real me, the me I keep hidden away, the failure.”

​They sat for a moment in silence, and then he said, “Grace, have I ever criticized you?”

“No, but last week Judy Jumblejump…” Now Judy Jumblejump was the church warden, who found fault with everyone. “Well, she snapped at me because she told me I had better not put out so many lilies this Easter, not everyone can cope with the scent… She told me that I am… excessive.”

​”Judy finds fault with everyone,” he said, “It’s her way. Don’t judge yourself on what Judy says. As I asked, have I ever criticized you? Has anyone else in this parish, aside from Judy ever criticized you?”

​”No… but I’m so worried you might, that you might see me, the real me, especially if I make a mistake and then…”​

​”And then?” he asked.

​”And then you would hate me. I’m scared you and everyone else would hate me if you really saw me — the real me.”

​Now what made Grace harbour such secret self-loathing, so expertly hidden under a joyous, loving, kind-hearted exterior? It’s not easy to say, and again, this is not psychotherapy, but I expect most of us experience this sort of imposter syndrome at some time or another in our lives, in which we mistake the authentic self we project out into the world as an imposter that hides and protects our true, hidden self. Sometimes we just cannot believe we are actually good people, that others like us, and that we offer something good to the world. Mr. Perkins knew this is what was going on with Grace and so he asked her a question: “Grace, I think I get what you are talking about. When I was singing the liturgy on Sunday, what happened?”

​”What do you mean?”

​”Did I sing it perfectly?”

​”Well,” she began tentatively, not wanting to hurt his feelings, “I think last Sunday you might have got a little tongue-tied at one moment.”

​”Grace, you are too kind. I got more than tongue-tied! I lost my place, repeated the words of institution over the bread twice and didn’t consecrate the wine. I got things all out of order. My pitch went south. Grace, the liturgy was an absolute mess.”

​”Oh, Mr. Perkins, it wasn’t that bad, I think most people didn’t even notice. You’re too hard on yourself.”

​”Maybe I am. I was so embarrassed, though — ashamed, actually. Do you know how long I have been a priest? Did you know I learned to sing the liturgy at Trinity College? I know the whole thing by heart, I have sung it a thousand times. I have done it perfectly many times, but last Sunday it was a disaster. I should have been able to sing it perfectly but didn’t. To be honest, I felt like a complete failure.”

​”Don’t be ridiculous. The last thing you are is a failure, Mr. Perkins.”

​”You’re right. I’m not a failure, and it is ridiculous, and you know why? Because immediately after the service you approached your parish priest who had just sung a train-wreck of a liturgy and asked to speak to him, and here you are, being so vulnerable, sharing your fears about yourself, your anxiety, and your doubt. You placed your trust in me, even though I am far from perfect.”

​She smiled and looked down.

​”Grace,” he continued, “I can’t make you be kinder to yourself, love yourself or forgive yourself. Self-compassion is not an easy thing, but you are a kind and compassionate person. Would you be so critical of others who make mistakes? Would you be so critical of me?”

​”Of course not.”

​”Grace, come with me. I want you to listen to something.” He led her into the church where Mary, the church organist, was practicing. Grace thought at first that maybe he was taking her into the church to say some prayers with her, but instead, as they sat quietly in the back pew, he put his finger to his lips to motion her not to let on they were there. Mary was hidden behind the console and could not see or hear them. She was working on a complicated Bach piece to be played as the postlude on the upcoming Easter Sunday — just a few weeks away. The piece was nowhere near being ready. Mary would play, and stop, and grunt, and sometimes even swear, and then she would start again, or pick up and play a measure or a section until she got it. Some passages were easier than others. Some flowed, and some seemed to defeat her. In her playing, at times you could hear her longing, and at times you could sense her rage and anger at Bach and at not being able to get it, or get him, and when she finally conquered a difficult passage, you could sense her ecstasy, and how much she was in love with old J.S. Bach.

​”I often do this,” he whispered to Grace with a smile, “I love to hear her practice.”

Mary continued, sometimes attacking the music, sometimes pulling back, sometimes taking a break, and yes, sometimes soaring to the heavens. Sometimes it was hell on earth, and sometimes it was sublime. Sometimes she was caught up in the clouds, and sometimes she came crashing to the ground.

​”Beauty,” he whispered, “is birthed in the maelstrom and chaos of imperfection.”

​And so they sat listening for quite awhile. They could hear the relationship Mary had with Bach — the struggle, the connection, the distance, and reconnection. Mr. Perkins knew Mary would bring the piece to near perfection by the time it was to be played on Easter, but the truth was, Mary never played perfectly, even when she was at her best. There were always a few little mistakes, but on Easter Sunday, mistakes and all, it would be beautiful. It would be magnificent. A worthy offering.

This moment was beautiful, too. For him, there was nothing lovelier than sneaking into the church mid-week and listening to her struggle away. He loved being a silent witness to her struggle, for the struggle itself was beautiful, and full of grace.

​After some time listening, he turned Grace. He saw a tear escape from her eye, but he also noticed that the corners of her mouth were curled heavenward in the holy communion of human imperfection and heavenly grace.

“Grace” is part of the collection of the Rev. Daniel Graves’s short stories, Mr. Perkins: Stories of a Simple Country Parson.

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This year, we were profoundly blessed by the erudition and teaching of Canon Dr. Paula Gooder, who spoke on the topic, “Preaching Luke: Hope for our Times.” Dr. Gooder is the theologian-in-residence for the Bible Society (UK), the canon theologian of Birmingham and Guildford cathedrals, and a lay canon of Salisbury Cathedral. She is also the author of several books.

While an expert in the writings of St. Paul, Dr. Gooder writes and speaks on a variety of New Testament topics, both to clergy and lay people. At this year’s clergy conference, she spoke on “the parables of the lost and found” in Luke 15 – the lost sheep, the lost coin and the lost son. In her excellent lectures, which invited much audience participation, she exploded our notion of parables in general, and, in particular, challenged some conventional readings of Luke 15. Parishioners around the diocese will likely hear some refreshing interpretations of these and others parables from the pulpit in the coming months. It was widely acknowledged that Dr. Gooder’s presentation was one of the best in recent memory. It was refreshing to be able to examine scripture together as clergy and to reconsider many of our assumptions around a very familiar set of biblical texts.

One afternoon of every conference is given over to rest and relaxation. Several activities were available, the most popular being the wine tour. Other opportunities included fencing, golf, walking, biking, jogging the local trails or simply browsing the excellent displays provided by suppliers of church goods.

The event is always shaped by worship and prayer, and concludes with a celebration of the Eucharist. This year, in place of a homily, Archbishop Colin Johnson moderated a panel with Dr. Gooder, Bishop Philip Poole, and the Rev. Dr. Catherine Sider-Hamilton, in which we were given the opportunity to reflect on Dr. Gooder’s lectures.

This year’s conference was organized by Bishop Peter Fenty and the York-Simcoe Episcopal Area. Many thanks to the members of the committee and especially Jennipher Kean and Swan Li for their support.

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