Old rituals, new faces

I am a God-fearing citizen and try and get along to a service every so often, Easter being a certainty.  It just so happened that the Baralaba Easter service was held on Friday evening, April 11^th and I was in Baralaba.  The subject arose when Gail and I were in Major’s General Store chatting to proprietor, Polly who is also the facilitator of all things to do with church.

     ‘Can ya do a reading?’ asked Polly as she packed supplies for the hordes at Hinemoa.

     ‘Sure.’  How hard could a church reading be?

     The wonderful thing about religious rituals is they are just that.  Rituals.  I am pretty sure the first Christian services 2000 or so years ago were pretty similar to those of today.  There’s a priest, parishioners, a homily, breaking of bread and general worship.  And readings by the parishioners.

     Except my glasses were no match for the yellowed pages of the prayer book and the dim light of the old church.  Fellow worshipper Louie was born in 1938 and he reckons the present church building has been there as long as he can remember.  I reckon the lights were at least as old as Louie.

     ‘Polly,’ I whispered, ‘I can’t see the words on the page’

     ‘Ya can use mine.’  
     Gee, I thought, the locals are so friendly.

    There was a hymn and Father Joe emerged, fully robed, to take his place behind the altar.  He was Indian from Biloela a hundred kilometres away.

     ‘Good evening everyone,’ he said in a heavy accent.  ‘How are we tonight?’

     I’ve never known a priest to be so casual.  I immediately liked Father Joe.

     And the service was underway.  

     Now ever since I was little, when I take a pew in a church, I drift off. I cannot help it.  Perhaps as a kids I drifted off to cope with the boredom and it’s now a habit.  Perhaps it is a way to cope with being still when I am usually hyperactive.  Perhaps I am in a transcendental state.  Who knows?  It happens when the priest starts talking.

     In the Baralaba church we stood, made the sign of the cross and when we sat, I drifted off thinking, how wonderful it was that an Indian priest with a strong accent was giving an Easter service in Baralaba in central Queensland.  Earlier I’d seen a young girl of Chinese or Korean heritage playing in the door way of an old house, the doctor was Philipino and the receptionist at the hospital was African, perhaps Sudanese.  I love diversity, especially when it pops up in unexpected places.

     I was brought out from my musings with a sharp jab to my ribs.

     ‘You’re on,’ whispered Polly, extracting her glasses from between my ribs.

     I did my reading without incident, returned Polly’s glasses and resumed my musings for the remainder of the service with proceeded like every other service for the best part of 2000 years … except for the chocolate eggs, sparkling like gems in their foil wrappers, Father handed out at the end of the service.

     The post-mass yarning had me in stitches as we stood in the back of the church while I nibbled on too much kabana, cheese and pastries.

     I’ll be back in Baralaba one day, I thought and I’ll certainly come to church because there are always churches in country towns and the ritual of services never change.  But next time I'll be bringing a magnifying glass in case I get to do a reading!