Liturgy is Dangerous

Here is a brief experience with which all of you old Altar Boys out there can resonate:

This morning, as the forty hours of adoration came to a close, I joined the community in praying Lauds. As you might know, this is a form of prayer that involves the recitation of Psalms, a Canticle from Scripture, a short reading, and the recitation of the Canticle of Zachariah. It is common practice, especially on days of great solemnity, to incense the altar as the Canticle is being chanted. Thus, I was assigned as thurifer this morning. It was my duty to ensure that the thurible with its charcoals was brought to the priest at the proper time. Now, anyone who has served for very long will tell you that the top of the thurible whereby one opens it allowing for the imposition of the grains of incense gets extremely hot if the thurible remains closed for very long. Apparently it was closed for too long today.

I suppose that it is in this way that the test of one's liturgical mettle occurs. Can you grasp the little nob without gasping? Can you lift it, and hold it as the priest, with devilish deliberateness, scoops one, two, then three tiny spoons of incense onto the burning coals. Can you avoid grimacing as you grow more and more convinced that part of the rising smoke must be originating from your own fingers. Can you resist the temptation to wave your hand in the air or put your fingers in your mouth when the priest finally relieves you of the thurible?

I didn't gasp. I think I might have grimaced. I'm certain I didn't wave my hands in the air.

On a related note, what is the best way to remove wax from the top of one's head?

I was also a candle bearer for Mass this morning. It was all pretty straightforward - nothing out of the ordinary for a Sunday Mass here at the seminary. We use these tall torches that sit at the four corners of the sanctuary. Each is perhaps seven feet tall, made of metal, and atop each is a simple beeswax candle. I carried mine in the entrance procession and was then assigned to take one of these torches and lead the Deacon of the Word from the Altar to the Ambo for the Proclamation of the Gospel. It was all going fine until I started up the steps into the sanctuary. I stepped high to avoid tripping on the hem of my cassock, and as I did so, I heard a splatter at my feet - I had sent wax all over the floor. That in itself isn't so bad. It happens with a certain regularity. Call me paranoid, but it can be difficult to walk in procession when the candle burning over your head promises to send a shower of hot wax into what remains of your hair at any moment.


So, liturgy can be dangerous. But this story does illustrate a point: Jesus, in his great love, comes to us and becomes immanently accessible to us in the midst of very ordinary, sometimes very messy, circumstances.