NOT ANGELS BUT ANGLICANS

It's quite a large, regional conference. Not only are the clergy expected to attend, but most of them actually do. You see, morning tea is part of the deal, and St. Impious', the parish playing host, or at least the godly women of St. Impious, have a well-earned reputation for their catering. But, to proceed more slowly, we have to earn our morning tea by joining in a Eucharist, the Bishop himself presiding.

Though they'd have frowned if they’d caught any in their own congregation at it, there is a hum of chatter from the assembled priests, Rafferty among the others, while they wait for the service to begin.
All is going well as we approach the Great Thanksgiving. The flowers are attractively arranged, the altar splendid, candlesticks and communion vessels shining, hymns well chosen, all that kind of thing. The priestly congregation participates in loud voices, as well it might! All is indeed well. So far all is well.

As there is such a goodly gathering, the Bishop has taken a large chalice, and filled it generously. He has just recited Jesus’ words of institution over the chalice of wine, and every heart, soul, and mind is focused on the Presence of Christ now among us under the form of Bread, and now, Wine, when disaster strikes. The disaster every priest dreads.

The Bishop stretches out a hand to the chalice – and sends it flying. Wine goes all over. All over everything. He may be a Bishop, but Rafferty and co. are really quite fond of him, and they all, every one of them groan for him. Not just inwardly. Audibly, too. Then, after the groan, a silence fit to flush out Elijah! Broken only by the Bishop, visibly distressed and devastated, asking in a stage whisper, “Pass me a purificator, please.” Now a purificator is a piece of white linen, about as big as a man's handkerchief, folded, and used to wipe and clean the chalice. Every priest sees the problem. But Rafferty, forgetting himself, bursts out in a voice heard throughout the church, "Poor old ******! It's not a purificator you need; what you need is a ****** beach towel!" The silence that follows is as dramatic as the event out in front. The the titters!

However, in a few minutes the damage, material & spiritual is undone, not with a beach towel but several purificators. Communion is distributed and received; the congregation dismissed.

There is an outpuring both of priests and tea and coffee, followed by a fruitful conference, all in a spirit of `There but for the grace of God go I!' Rumour has it that the Bishop pondered repeating his act at the next conference to see if it would have the same salutary effect on his priests as at St. Impious'. Certainly not, as was uncharitably suggested, so he could identify whose voice it was boomed forth when disaster struck!

Fortunately, wise counsel prevailed, and the next conference returned to being the normal fizzer!