How to ruin a clergyman’s Lent
After a break from taking a break in the Covid years, Will Gore has given up chocolate once again – but an innocent error with a chalice left him red-faced this week
I used to give up chocolate for Lent – religiously. Every year I’d swallow that bitter pill of not swallowing either bitter mint or dairy milk between Shrove Tuesday and Easter Day. I might treat myself to a Twix on a Sunday, or perhaps to a midweek Milky Bar (white chocolate not counting, obviously), but otherwise my observance would be exceptional. An Easter egg blowout would be more than justified.
But in the mean Covid years, my Lenten zeal went out of the window – or maybe got locked down. Pathetic though it may seem now, life felt challenging enough without taking away sweet treats. I tried to make up for it in other ways, but with limited success. God’s brow might have furrowed, but I’m sure he/she understood.
Anyway, now we’re in apparently post-pandemic times, I have no excuse – never mind that half the people I know seem to have Covid at the moment. And so last Tuesday, I troughed a large number of pancakes, a chocolate biscuit, an Elizabeth Shaw mint and a dozen wine gums, before unpacking the sackcloth and ashes for a full-on barren period. I’ve even chucked sweets and crisps onto the banned list for good measure, which – allied to my Protestant(ish) work ethic – should secure my salvation in the long run. Or at least delay the clogging of my arteries and the onset of diabetes.
By the time I arrived at church for a service on the evening of Ash Wednesday, I was suffering the twin perils of Anglican smugness and a sugar dip. I was on the rota to provide some assistance to the clergy, and so dutifully robed up and prepared the Eucharistic goodies for later on, filling a couple of chalices and ensuring there was a ready store of bread wafers for communicants, who, like me, might be in need of non-choccy sustenance.
As a 15-year-old altar boy I was asked by a priest to drink about half a chalice full of Christ’s blood ... I did the honours on that occasion and swayed through the final hymn
If it’s your thing, the imposition of ashes is a very affecting liturgical event, a reminder that “you are dust, and to dust you shall return”. But shortly after having my forehead marked, I felt equally moved by a sudden pang of anxiety, as I realised belatedly that there were far fewer people in the pews than for a usual Sunday morning service – and yet I had made no allowance for that in my pre-service preparations.
It wouldn’t be a problem for the bread; any unconsumed wafers could be retained in the locked aumbry. But the wine, once consecrated, would have to be finished. Indeed, my inaugural experience of feeling the effects of alcohol was a result of this doctrine: as a 15-year-old altar boy I was asked by a priest to drink about half a chalice full of Christ’s blood which had not been consumed by communicants, and which he could not imbibe himself because he had to drive to another service. I did the honours on that occasion and swayed through the final hymn.
Sure enough, once the congregation had received the Eucharistic elements on Wednesday, both the chalices I had earlier over-filled in the vestry remained conspicuously well-stocked. The presiding priest kept a dignified poker face as he drained the fuller of the two, while the retired priest alongside him took the other.
Shortly afterwards, a final prayer and blessing said, and a hymn sung, we processed out for the end of the service. I sheepishly fessed up and offered an apology for my oversight.
“Never mind,” said the priest with a smile, “but it did rather ruin my Lenten vow to give up alcohol!”
Well, forgive me father, and if it’s any consolation, I must admit to accidentally eating a handful of cheese and onion crisps at an event on Thursday. Will I get through to Easter without further mishaps? God only knows.