Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon (16 page)

"Maybe. But it was a cut on his head. Not blunt force trauma. Nope. I don't think it was the dwarf."

•••

The FOOSCHWAG was in full swing when I showed up at St. Barnabas on Saturday afternoon. Meg wasn't in attendance, but I saw Mr. Christopher mincing down the center aisle. He was shouting at the fifteen or so volunteers.

"Stop! It's time to take a Luo Pan reading!"

Mr. Christopher stopped in the middle of the church where the nave intersected with the transepts, pulled a chart out of his fanny pack and started humming. The others soon mimicked his humming.

"The Luo Pan is a compass," he said, stopping suddenly. "It not only tells us the direction, but investigates the energy of each direction."

The FOOSCHWAG gathered around him, eagerly trying to see the Luo Pan at work.

Mr. Christopher then walked around the church amid the hushed whispers of his admirers. Finally returning to the center of the church, he pulled another chart from his pack, unfolded it and studied it for a long minute.

"The information found in the Luo Pan is condensed into the Bagua. The Bagua represents the journey of life and it will tells us what we need to know." The FOOSCHWAG held its collective breath.

"There!" he said and pointed to the West transept. "That is where the energy is flowing from. It is the home of the rabbit. The altar must therefore be placed…" He looked around as if deciding, then pointed the opposite direction. "There!" he cried. "In the house of the monkey!"

The FOOSCHWAG applauded.

"What about the rooster," I asked from the balcony when the adulation had died down. "I thought we didn't want to offend the rooster."

Jelly Barna looked up at me with contempt. Mr. Christopher decided to ignore me and continue with the new arrangements.

"Let's move the altar over there," he said, pointing to the East transept. We have to rearrange all the pews as well. Everything must point to the East."

I watched for a few more minutes, knowing that they'd have a bit of trouble with the altar. It had a marble top and probably weighed close to four hundred pounds. Unless they had a Feng Shui moving company stashed out back, they'd be at it for a while.

"The altar cloth, paraments and stoles must be changed as well," said Jelly. "I've had bright yellow ones made." She smiled at Mr. Christopher and he nodded his approval.

"Colors are nothing more than vibrations," said Mr. Christopher. "Yellow will add to the Yang energy. Purple is the Yin. It's a bad color for the monkey."

I left on that note, heading back to the house and what I hoped was a peaceful Saturday afternoon.

•••

Sunday morning was chaos. The processional had to be rerouted because the center aisle was now full of pews. The FOOSCHWAG hadn't been able to move the altar – at least on such short notice and with no moving equipment – so they had hidden it with a bamboo privacy screen and set up the elements for communion on a folding table they had brought in from the parish hall. Covering the table was an obviously handcrafted, bright yellow altar cloth with appliquéd chickens. Behind the table was the "water feature," a five-foot high fountain that, due to some plumbing problems, was spurting water only sporadically and making a noise like an intermittent whoopee cushion.

Although Jelly and Mr. Christopher were trying to direct traffic, the congregation was very confused; most of them were milling about when the service started. After all, many of them had sat in the same pew for generations and the rest of the parishioners certainly weren't prepared for the rearrangement. Wenceslas, clad in his black velvet verger's outfit, ostrich plume aloft, kept trying to point the acolytes and readers to their positions. They were, however, as lost as the congregation. Father Barna and his two attendants couldn't get through the crowd so the two boys finally dropped his train and retreated. This caused the priest to trip over his poultry-covered cope until, in disgust, he slung it over his shoulder like a Roman Senator. The choir, with no room to process, simply came up the stairs to the loft.

"Are those chickens?" Rebecca asked, pointing to the decorated paraments.

"We're in the house of the monkey," Megan answered in a whisper loud enough for the entire choir to hear. "But we don't want to offend the rooster."

"This is insane," said Elaine. "How long can we keep this up?"

"There's an emergency vestry meeting right after church," said Meg. "Maybe we can put a stop to this."

"Let us worship the Lord in the beauty of His sanctuary," Father Barna called out.

"Fffrrrraaaap," said the fountain.

Instead of replying with the printed response, the entire congregation started laughing.

"I'm feeling pretty tranquil," said Marjorie, pulling her flask out of the hymnal rack. "This Fing-Schwing stuff must be workin'."

"That's the chi you're feeling," said Bob Solomon from the back row.

"It ain't the chi," said Marjorie, taking a swig.

Chapter 13

"It was Race," Rocki said as she opened the door on her way out. "He put me up to it." The door slammed shut quicker than a white man's application to the University of Michigan law school.

I knew Race. Father Race Rankle. We had a past of course. He was an old college buddy. We once opened and ran a very profitable Liturgical Charm School for beauty pageant contestants although we had to close up shop after a particularly bad fire-baton incident. I had told him to cut down on the hairspray, but he wouldn't listen. That poor girl's hair went up like Bananas Foster at a Pentecost breakfast. If the next girl's talent hadn't been gargling communion grape juice while singing "I Come To The Garden," we could have had a real disaster. Luckily she was able to spit enough juice on the other girl's head to quash the flames. But that was ancient history.

•••

Rhiza and Malcolm Walker had invited Megan and me out to supper on Sunday night. Although they'd been separated since Christmas, Rhiza had decided to give Malcolm another chance because he said he still loved her, he agreed to go to marriage counseling and he was the richest man in four counties. I knew this because she called me and asked my advice. Rhiza and I went way back.

"How was the meeting?" I asked Malcolm and Meg over the second glass of wine.

Malcolm was the Senior Warden and Meg was on the vestry. Rhiza had been on the vestry last year but her term had ended in December.

Malcolm shook his head. "I called the bishop last week and told him what was going on. He was…" Malcolm paused. "Unsympathetic. It seems that the Christmas incident is still fresh in the minds of the diocesan offices. Until we call a new priest, we have to keep this one."

"Can you rein him in?" Rhiza asked.

"Not really," said Malcolm.

"Not only that," interrupted Meg, "but you wouldn't believe the support for his application. It's about a third of the vestry."

"The search committee will be interviewing right after Easter," said Malcolm.

•••

The weather had finally broken and Monday dawned fair and brisk. There was that almost imperceptible hint of spring in the air, although the temperature hovered around forty degrees. Most of the patrons in the Slab were in sweaters, but some had even gone to shirtsleeves in utter defiance.

"I see that y'all are putting on a show," said Noylene as she poured coffee for Nancy, Dave and me.

"Who y'all?" I asked using the correct mountain grammar.

"Why, all y'all Episcopals. It's in the paper. A big ol' ad."

"Let me see that," I said. Pete reached across from an adjacent table and handed me a section of the
Watauga Democrat.
It was open to a half page ad in the Living section.

"Oh my," said Nancy, looking over my shoulder.

There, underneath the small ad announcing First Methodist's weekly activities was St. Barnabas Episcopal Church's announcement of the first ever
Edible Last Supper
.

"I've got to go," I said, getting up and grabbing a biscuit off my plate. "I'll see you back at the office."

•••

"If you'd come to a staff meeting once in a while, you'd know what we are doing," said Brenda.

"The
Edible Last Supper
? That's the
stupidest
thing I've ever heard of! What are you thinking?" I was past being polite.

"You just get out!" she screamed.

I stormed out, still furious, and paused at Marilyn's desk. She got up and poured me a cup of coffee.

"She's seriously unbalanced," Marilyn whispered.

"Yep," I said, calming down and taking a deep breath. "Tell me about the
Edible Last Supper
."

"Remember when we did the Seder meal? It's sort of like that."

"It's this Wednesday?"

"Yep. Part of the Wednesday night programming. Brenda and Jelly are setting up a long table at the end of the hall. It's supposed to look exactly like DaVinci's
Last Supper
."

"Uh-huh."

"They were going to use real people as the disciples but they couldn't get enough volunteers so they're borrowing thirteen mannequins from Harrell's Department Store in Boone. They'll be posed and dressed like the painting." Marilyn smiled. "You know, you should really show up for staff meetings."

"Traditional Jewish food will be placed in front of each disciple. The people will walk past the Last Supper and take some food off each dish. Sort of like a Biblical buffet. The runners will be dressed up as Mary and Martha. It's their job to go back and forth from the kitchen to the table and refill the platters. As I understand it, there won't be any narration, but there will be soft music playing in the background. When people are finished they're supposed to go into the sanctuary for some meditation time."

"Who's bringing the food?"

"It's like a potluck. Dishes have been assigned so folks will know what to bring. There are some bitter herbs, unleavened bread, roast lamb – that sort of thing. They leave it in the kitchen and Mary and Martha serve it."

"My Lord," I said, shaking my head. "This is worse than
The Living Gobbler
."

"I remember that! That was great fun!"

"Yeah," I said with a grin. "The entire choir of Sand Creek Methodist dressed up like the four major food groups. But this…" I shook my head. "I've got to go back to work."

"Wait! I forgot to tell you about the Mary Magdalene Coffee Bar."

"Oh no."

"Yep," said Marilyn. "Four flavors of coffee plus a cappuccino machine. By the way, you
do
know about the donkey, don't you?"

"Donkey?"

Marilyn laughed out loud at my panicked look.

"Connie Ray bought a donkey a couple weeks ago."

"I know. It's a watch-donkey for his cows."

"Well, Father Barna found out about it and thought it would be a great idea to ride the poor beast of burden into church during the Palm Sunday Procession. Connie Ray's bringing it in on Sunday morning."

"Because?"

"Because Emil Barna is the living image of Jesus Christ, head and shepherd of the church to this congregation," said Marilyn demurely. "He explained it to me."

"That's all very well. But how will they be able to tell which one is the donkey?"

•••

Megan and I met Karen at the middle school. I had my typewriter tucked under one arm and my manuscript under the other. Meg was carrying four of my old Raymond Chandler books.

"Good morning," said Karen. "I see you brought the infamous typewriter."

"I did."

"Well, you're right on time. Marty Nelson is waiting for us."

Karen led us through the halls and to an English classroom. When we entered, the students stopped talking momentarily and studied us for a moment before deciding to ignore the interruption and resume their banter. Their teacher, Mrs. Nelson, brought them to attention a moment later.