There is a moment in every priest’s life — usually about three minutes before the procession — when a creeping sense of doom begins to set in. It starts innocently enough: the choir is lined up, the servers are ready, the organist is limbering up their fingers in a spirited prelude, and you think, “Ah yes, we are well-prepared.”
That’s usually when you realize your alb is on backwards.
Or that your stole, in some mysterious act of ecclesiastical rebellion, has decided to strangle you halfway down the nave.
I call this the theology of liturgical humility.
It began one Sunday when the new alb arrived — freshly pressed, gleaming white, with the promise of heavenly dignity. It also came with Velcro fastenings, which I naïvely assumed would simplify my life. Velcro, I reasoned, was a gift of modernity — a small triumph of engineering to make the ancient mysteries slightly more manageable.
But as with many things in parish life (and most things involving Velcro), it did not go as planned.
As I prepared to vest, the Velcro refused to cooperate. It either clung to itself in a passionate embrace or repelled all attempts at closure. I was locked in mortal combat with my own alb, spinning in slow circles like a bewildered monk in a laundry commercial.
When I finally emerged from the vestry — breathless but victorious — the choir was already halfway through the opening hymn. A parishioner whispered encouragingly, “You look very… secure, Father,” which I took as a kind lie.
Now, I have long believed that God works through human frailty. And nothing demonstrates that more convincingly than a priest attempting to bow gracefully while his chasuble catches on a rogue pew. Or when a deacon’s stole suddenly detaches mid-Gospel like a startled dove taking flight.
These are the holy reminders that worship is not performance art — it is participation in something divine, which occasionally includes slapstick.
We plan, polish, and rehearse. We polish the silver, arrange the flowers, fold the purificators with military precision. And then, just when everything gleams — someone’s bulletin catches fire from the Advent wreath, or a thurible refuses to smoke like a noncompliant parishioner at a potluck.
And there, in the absurdity, grace arrives.
Perhaps the lesson is that liturgical perfection is not the goal — presence is. God is not waiting for us to get our Velcro right. God is already in the laughter that follows when we don’t.
When the microphone fails, when the candles sputter, when the priest trips on the chancel step (again) — the holiness isn’t diminished. It’s deepened. Because it’s real.
We are, after all, only human: a community of slightly wrinkled vestments and good intentions, doing our best to proclaim something eternal in the midst of our temporary clumsiness.
And if ever I forget that, I have only to hear that unmistakable rrrriiiipppp of Velcro during the Gloria — to remind me that even heaven must be having a quiet chuckle.
A Prayer for Liturgical Mishaps
Gracious and patient God,
who smiled, I am sure, when Peter dropped the net on the wrong side of the boat,
grant me a measure of that same divine humour
when my alb refuses to cooperate,
my stole turns itself into a necktie,
and the sound system decides to join the heavenly choir a beat too soon.
Teach us, Lord, that perfection is not the goal — presence is.
That even when our vestments wrinkle, our candles sputter,
and our Velcro betrays us mid-procession,
your grace still holds everything together (often more securely than we do).
Bless the laughter that follows,
the humility that grows,
and the worship that continues —
imperfect, joyful, and wholly yours.
Through Christ our Saviour,
who knew the holy art of sanctified chaos.
Amen.