Despite my nefarious forays and international adventures,
there are still a few things that frighten me a little. One of these areas of
dread is the daunting task of trying to socialize at church. I have no problem
standing in front of a group of teenagers and telling them what to do. Ask me
to speak to the faculty, and I’ll be happy to oblige. But throw me into a
church and ask me to find a random stranger and make up a conversation out of
thin air, and I’m lost. The typical coffee hour fills me with terror. If I do
steel myself and enter the dangerous arena of crumb cake and donuts, it won’t
be long before I find a friendly wall to lean on and then busy myself with
looking unbelievably absorbed in the texture of banana bread in the hopes that
nobody comes to interrupt my feigned culinary raptures.
However, my strong feelings against the obligatory coffee
hour have led to the discovery of other ways of forming relationships besides
the weekly battle of the coffee social. I’m an unwavering believer in the
importance of shared experiences when making friends, rather than hammering it
out with the typical fifty-questions-everyone-asks-on-a-first-date method. Hence,
making acquaintances at church goes far better for me if I find something to actually
do with my fellow churchgoers.
Thus, after attending St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Athens
for a few months, I decided that it was high time I find some activity to
engage in at church. So—like a reasonable human being—I decided to join the
choir.
My decision was well-timed. Not shortly after landing upon
this great resolve, a paragraph appeared in the bulletin proclaiming that the
recent return of several expats to their native countries had depleted the
choir, and more members were needed. The note was kindly, assuring newcomers
that singing was good for one’s health and that no experience was needed.
It had been some years since I sang in a church ensemble,
but I found the choir mistress, introduced myself, announced my intention of
joining, and asked when rehearsals occurred. I was informed somewhat curtly
that they began at nine on Sunday mornings (service begins at ten-fifteen).
Unfortunately, I missed the right metro when I headed to my
first rehearsal and had to wait for the next one, so I was about ten minutes
late. When entered, the choir mistress could not remember me, and simply
said briskly, “Who are you?”
I said my name and explained that we had talked previously.
She then took no further notice of me, and began to lead the choir in a
startling manner. The choir of St. Paul’s is made up almost entirely of an
adorable set of little old British ladies. One would think that such a crowd
required only a light touch in terms of leadership, especially when it came to correction.
The choir mistress, a Greek school teacher (I’m guessing in her mid-thirties),
was a great deal more abrupt with them, singling out those who sang a line
wrong, and asking particular choir members to stop talking because it was
annoying. In short, she used the mannerisms that one often adopts when teaching goofy teenagers rather than what one does when leading adults.
Fortunately, I landed besides one terribly nice lady who did
the very best she could to help me out and make sure that I had music. I
muddled along for the rehearsal, and at the end, Choir Mistress told the group
to get on their robes. I leaned over and asked my neighbor where to procure
said robe. My lovely neighbor informed me that I had better ask Choir Mistress
if I was to get a robe or not—because most likely I would be asked to sit off
to the side.
Thinking this rather peculiar, I asked Choir Mistress where
I was to sit and if I was to get a robe. The answer to the last question was
no. I needed to sit by the choir, but
not with the choir.
At first, this seemed a grand injustice. I had answered the bulletin
advertisement. I had volunteered my time. I could singlehandedly bring the
average age of the choir down by at least twenty years and simultaneously increase
the number of hairs that weren't gray or white by an astonishing percent. Why,
for heaven’s sake, not let me put on a robe and sing with the choir?
There wasn't any point in arguing, so I betook myself to a
pew near the choir. Suddenly, however, the whole thing struck me as rather
funny, and so the next week when I was again told to sit near the choir (but
not with—and certainly not wearing a robe), I found myself deeply amused rather than insulted. The
choir at St. Paul’s, it seems, is a selective club: one must demonstrate
worthiness. One must prove one’s self like the knights of old. One must be a
novice before wearing the robe. In an instant, a fit of tenacity struck me. If
the choir was hard to get into, if Choir Mistress thought I could be put off so
easily, if I seemed too weak to join the fray, by golly, I was going to prove them
wrong! I would sit near the choir for a month, six months, a year—whatever it
took—to demonstrate that they weren’t going to get rid of me so easily. I would someday wear that robe and sit in
the choir pews, and I was going to laugh off the ridiculousness of being a singer-on-trial
instead of giving up in defeat.
After Christmas and New Year’s had passed, we once more
gathered for rehearsal. Choir Mistress seemed in a better mood. I and another
novice (someone else was going through the same process, having volunteered a
week after I did) were told that now we could sit in the back row of the choir
section. Still, we would not wear robes, but we had proved ourselves enough to
be let into the outer circle the club. Joining the inner circle still lay
beyond us, and these things must not be rushed.
Finally, this Sunday, the choir was down by quite a few
members. Choir Mistress was in an even better mood. Hope hung in the air. At
the end of rehearsal, we were offered the chance to wear robes. At last, the
day had arrived! It was time for the initiation.
However, I had no idea where exactly the robes were, so I queried
the woman in front of me.
“I’ll take you there,” she offered. “They’re in the crypt.”
That was almost too much for me. I was going to finally be
welcomed as a full member of the choir, and where was the initiation to take
place? Where was this robing ceremony to be held? The crypt. The place of the
dead. It was hard not to grin and envision this group of seven old British
ladies hooding us, lighting candles, killing small animals, and then topping it
off with a civilized bite of crumpets and a drop of tea.
In the end, I was given one of the crimson-colored robes and
told to take it home and sew my initials in the back of the collar. As I left
church today while clutching the robe, it was with a sense of giddy accomplishment.
I had joined the choir. I had passed the test. I had been given the robe. Besides that, in the previous months, I had
begun to get to know some of these delightful elderly women a little better. My
plan is working, and I can now avoid coffee hour without the slightest hint of
guilt—which is good because however ridiculous it is to go through such a
drawn-out process to join a choir, it was still a thousand times better than
pretending to be so wholeheartedly fascinated by banana bread.
Excellent post!
ReplyDelete