In the mid 1990’s, I worshiped at an Episcopal church in New York’s Greenwich Village. Taking the same pew week after week, as most people do, I often found myself sitting near an older woman named Barbara. Each week during the prayer of consecration, when the priest said, “Take this, all of you, and eat it: this is my body which will be given up for you,” he or she raised the host for all to see. The congregation, in response, made the sign of the cross. Barbara did that too, but invariably I also heard her whisper something. Likewise, when the chalice was raised, we made the sign of the cross and Barbara whispered something.
An imposing woman in her late seventies, Barbara had been very active and influential in the parish for many, many years. Her formality and her position on the Vestry rendered her completely unapproachable, exacerbated by her austere features and her hair, which I am convinced she kept in the freezer. More important, I did not want to appear ignorant or stupid or just plain nosy. I was relatively new to the church—a “baby Episcopalian,” as the Rector called me—and I didn’t want anyone to know how little I knew, even though I neither saw nor heard anyone else whispering. Therefore, instead of simply asking Barbara what she was mumbling under her breath, I tried each week to sit closer and closer to her, straining to hear what she was saying during the elevation of the elements. Thinking about it now, I wonder what Barbara thought was happening, as each week I seemed to be more and more interested in her!
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