As a child, I went to church every Sunday with my parents. It was a weekly routine that I gave little thought to. I didn't see God as a source of comfort and protection. Church was just a part of life.
My Christian life became more active when I was in high school. I followed in my older brother's footsteps and became a server. I wore a long white robe; actually, it was more like a dress, with a silver cross on a blood-red necklace. A white silk rope called a cincture was tied tight around my waist. It was held in place with a "mystical" knot that you can now look up on YouTube. The belt, I mean cincture, had to be positioned in a specific way to designate my ecclesiastical rank.
I never rose above server though my priest often encouraged me to consider a degree in theology, specifically Anglican. After all, our team was British; we prayed for the Queen every Sunday, so of course, we had to be the right brand. At that time, in our small town, the only competition was the Catholics and the Baptists.
There were two servers at each service with two very distinct duties. The first was the crucifer who processed the cross in and out of the service. I held the long oak staff high, with its impressive silver cross on top. The choir, the other server, and the priest all followed as I led them from the back of the church to the sanctuary at the front. I had to walk at a specific pace. It had to be dignified but not too slow. A little bit faster than a "look at me" wedding procession. The goal was to reach the front sanctuary at the start of the last verse of the processional hymn. It took practice, but I soon nailed the timing. I took my cue from the organist, who literally pulled out all the stops on the final verse.
In addition to leading the procession, I had to collect the money. Happily, I didn't have to go pew by pew; that would have been awkward for a sixteen-year-old boy. The sidesmen did the dirty work. Once they received as much as the congregation was willing to give, they brought the silver trays to the front of the sanctuary, where I would meet them like a gatekeeper. They piled their trays on top of mine, then I would turn around, walk up to the altar and hold it above my head. The priest, in turn, would raise his hands and bless the offering. I would then hand the loot back to the head sidesman, who would then take it to the back office to calculate the morning's haul. Every Sunday was the same routine.
The second server's duties were to assist with the eucharist. In the procession, you followed behind the choir and before the clergy. Once I reached my pew at the side of the altar, I took a rough count of how many parishioners were in attendance. I then relayed this information to the priest while he counted the wafers and measured the wine. He didn't like leftovers. Who could blame him? The wafers were dry and tasteless, while the wine was awful. Anything blessed had to be consumed, so any overestimation would leave the priest with an unfortunate brunch.
The biggest show was the midnight Christmas Eve service. That was when the church was packed to the rafters with the annual xmas crowd of prodigal sons and daughters. I remember being nervous while waiting in the "ready room" - the back office. Even more so when the head server told us point blank, "Tonight's the big one, boys, don't fuck up!" That really didn't help. Then the priest came in singing, "While shepherds wash their socks by night." Everyone was both excited and nervous. Although I have to admit the midnight Christmas Eve service was magical. It was the one time church felt truly special, where it felt connected to something more. The music was full of familiar carols. The goodwill and joy of the congregation were genuine. Everyone was happy. Even more so when delicate, magical snow floated down as we left the church.
For the first 18 years of my life, church was about routine and tradition. Prayer was not personal; it was scripted in the Book of Common Prayer. I never felt a spiritual connection, so when I was in crisis, I didn't even think to reach out to the church for help. And so when I made my first suicide attempt in Grade 13, I did so alone and didn't miss a single server shift.
After high school, I moved away and stopped attending church. Even if I was back home from university for the summer, I still didn't go, and I didn't feel I was missing anything. It was no longer part of my routine. If I was back home for Christmas, I tagged along with my parents to be part of the rafters but nothing on any level of frequency.
It wasn't until middle age, after I had been hospitalized for the second time in the same year, that I reached out to God, or rather, he reached out to me.
