There are few artifacts of Anglican life as enduring, adaptable, and mysteriously indispensable as the humble church bulletin. Yes, the 1549 Book of Common Prayer set our liturgical rhythm, but it was the accompanying leaflet—copied on the parish’s one reliable machine (the Holy Spirit, obviously)—that truly carried the weight of the faithful.
The bulletin has always been the Swiss Army Knife of parish life: part guide, part shield, part distraction, part family newsletter. If the chalice veil is “a covering for a mystery,” the bulletin is “a covering for everything else.”
Let’s start with its first historic function: preventing ecclesiastical embarrassment. The Reformation gave us many gifts—scripture in English, a robust sacramental theology—but it also introduced a level of congregational participation that required knowing what was happening. Imagine the first time a Tudor parishioner was expected to say “Amen” at the right moment without a leaflet: chaos. The bulletin became the Anglican’s trusty cue card, sparing generations from the dreaded liturgical solo—that moment when one well-meaning soul says the creed a full line ahead of everyone else.
Then there’s the bulletin-as-fan, a ministry in its own right. By July, every Canadian parish—no matter how modern—suddenly remembers that air conditioning is aspirational. And so, in the heat of Ordinary Time, the faithful do what they’ve always done: fold the bulletin in half and engage in the ancient rite of Personal Temperature Regulation. It’s not in the BAS, but it’s in the hearts of the people.
There is also the art of bulletin origami, a spiritual practice perfected by bored but imaginative children (and, truthfully, a number of adults). My father was a great sermon listener. He was always prepared to enter into converstaion after the service about what the preacher had said, but in order to keep his mind on the homily, he had to keep his hands busy. Week by week, He would fashion his bulletin into an origami creation of some sort. Some might have thought that he wasn’t paying attention, but as I said, he followed every word, and listened attentively. While clergy wax eloquent on Paul’s theology of grace, some parishioners quietly craft paper cranes, boats, or aerodynamic pew-darts that—if thrown accurately—can hit a sibling three pews ahead during the Offertory Hymn. This is, of course, why bulletins are collected after the service: not for recycling, but for evidence.
We must not forget the bulletin’s role as emergency greeting-avoidance equipment. Few items have given such courage to the introverted Anglican as the well-timed “Oh—just reading the announcements” maneuver. With a raised bulletin held like a diplomatic shield, one can avoid small talk with surprising pastoral effectiveness. Truly, the Spirit moves in mysterious ways.
And finally, the bulletin’s most underrated ministry: the emergency note-taking device. How many grocery lists, sudden inspirations, pastoral concerns, and brilliant sermon points (sadly not the ones being preached) have been scribbled on the back of a Sunday leaflet? I have seen parishioners exit church with bulletins covered in so much ink they resembled early drafts of the Dead Sea Scrolls. If only we had an archaeological record of what has been written on the backs of bulletins over the centuries—what a spiritual treasure that would be.
Yet for all its whimsy, the bulletin is also a quiet companion in worship. It steadies the scattered, guides the newcomer, anchors the distracted, and gives the fidgety something to hold. It is the great leveller: choir member, bishop, toddler, and visitor all cling to the same folded bit of paper like a lifeline through the liturgy.
So let us treasure this simple sacramental-adjacent artifact. For long after our screens go dark, the printer jams, or the livestream freezes at the exact moment the priest is making an unflattering face, the church bulletin will remain—faithful, multipurpose, and forever there when needed.
Even if only to fan yourself during the Gradual Hymn.
Companion Prayer
Holy One,
who meets us in pews and papers, in silence and in smiles,
we give you thanks for the simple gifts that guide us through worship.
Bless the humble church bulletin—
its pages that steady our voices,
its folds that cool our brows,
its blank spaces that catch our wandering thoughts.
As we gather in community,
use even the smallest things to draw us closer to you
and to one another.
Teach us to see grace in the ordinary,
joy in the whimsical,
and your presence in every folded corner of our common life.
Through Christ,
who sanctifies even our scraps and scribbles.
Amen.