I’m really a lot like Sherlock Holmes. Except for the drug addiction.
Tonight I got ashes. I was looking forward to seeing what a Catholic church in England was like. Would it be any different from the American Catholic church after facing years of official, political oppression? Technically, that oppression mostly ended in the late 18th century, but the English hang on to things-old buildings, old traditions. Another American Catholic found the church, St. James the Greater. The beautiful old building came as a bit of a surprise to me. I had been under the impression that the Church of England had seized all of the nice, proper churches back when they split from Rome and had assumed that they hung on to all of them, forcing the papists to worship in hovels. This church was obviously neither a hovel nor a recent construction built by all of those Eastern European Catholics I hear are invading England’s shores.
I began to suspect something was wrong when I noticed the cross. It was huge, it was beautiful, and it was definitely a cross, not a crucifix. Unfortunately, my knowledge of Catholicism is embarrassingly limited, but I was fairly certain we always had crucifixes. The two boys wearing red riding hoods who led the choir in also seemed suspicious, as did the choirboys with vicar collars. It was hard to tell if these oddities were Protestant or just English eccentricies. There were three priests and I thought that one was a woman-which would have been a definite giveaway-but with the androgynous haircut and robes, it was very hard to tell.
Around this point, a horrendous bought of coughing cut my keen observations short. The acoustics in the church were wonderful. I have no doubt that even the people on the front row could hear me coughing as if I was right beside them. It will be sad when I have coughing fits in America; England has spoiled me. Here, when my coughs get embarrassing to the point where I have to retreat and be alone with my hacking, old ladies frequently appear with a glass of water and sometimes candy.
It was while I was lurking around the entry, trying to regain control over myself, that I found the final evidence for my Church of England theory. A poster on the bulletin board had bright young faces on it, urging parishioners to find their vocation. I had seen similar posters in Catholic churches, but not ones with “the Church of England” written in the corner. Unless the Catholics were recruiting for the Protestants now, I thought I had solid proof.
Flushed with the success of my brilliant observational skills, I slunk back to my seat (I might have been flushed with success, but I had still caused a distraction coughing and hurrying out in the middle of the sermon). The kindly old lady who had given me the glass of water had disappeared, so I took my now empty glass back to my seat. I had some trouble with my knee rest (a pillow hanging on the back of the chair in front of me) and ended up kicking my glass. I have a feeling I won’t be pressured to convert to Church of Englandism any time soon.
I began to suspect something was wrong when I noticed the cross. It was huge, it was beautiful, and it was definitely a cross, not a crucifix. Unfortunately, my knowledge of Catholicism is embarrassingly limited, but I was fairly certain we always had crucifixes. The two boys wearing red riding hoods who led the choir in also seemed suspicious, as did the choirboys with vicar collars. It was hard to tell if these oddities were Protestant or just English eccentricies. There were three priests and I thought that one was a woman-which would have been a definite giveaway-but with the androgynous haircut and robes, it was very hard to tell.
Around this point, a horrendous bought of coughing cut my keen observations short. The acoustics in the church were wonderful. I have no doubt that even the people on the front row could hear me coughing as if I was right beside them. It will be sad when I have coughing fits in America; England has spoiled me. Here, when my coughs get embarrassing to the point where I have to retreat and be alone with my hacking, old ladies frequently appear with a glass of water and sometimes candy.
It was while I was lurking around the entry, trying to regain control over myself, that I found the final evidence for my Church of England theory. A poster on the bulletin board had bright young faces on it, urging parishioners to find their vocation. I had seen similar posters in Catholic churches, but not ones with “the Church of England” written in the corner. Unless the Catholics were recruiting for the Protestants now, I thought I had solid proof.
Flushed with the success of my brilliant observational skills, I slunk back to my seat (I might have been flushed with success, but I had still caused a distraction coughing and hurrying out in the middle of the sermon). The kindly old lady who had given me the glass of water had disappeared, so I took my now empty glass back to my seat. I had some trouble with my knee rest (a pillow hanging on the back of the chair in front of me) and ended up kicking my glass. I have a feeling I won’t be pressured to convert to Church of Englandism any time soon.