I have good memories of the liturgical practice we seminarians at Virginia Theological Seminary underwent many years ago now. I try to remember why those good memories, for I am preparing to lead a practicum with our ordinands at the St. Augustine Theological School.
A few weeks ago they baptize a doll, again and again, at a makeshift font in our classroom. This time we go to the Lady Chapel at Holy Cross Cathedral. It is getting dark, but light still shines from the round stained-glass window high above the altar, a window showing the seals of the four dioceses in relationship with one another: Botswana, North Carolina, Newcastle, and West Missouri.
A small group is just finishing Evening Prayer as I arrive, and I busy myself getting things from the sacristy before belatedly joining them.
The ordinands ask earlier if we will vest for the Eucharistic practicum, and I say yes, thinking they mean the celebrant. But they mean all of them, all the time, so as the Evening Prayer folk leave and our ordinands prepare, I go back to the vesting room, find a white cassock short enough to keep me from tripping over it, and I join them, eight of us surrounding the altar looking nicely priestly and reverent.
I have set the practicum up so that they do differing Eucharistic prayers for differing seasons of the year. That keeps them on their toes, sorting out the proper prefaces and staying attuned to the epiclesis and whatnot – all things a new priest (an old one too, for that matter) needs to be attentive to, even though congregations may give them little thought.
The celebrant puts on her stole and begins, and then another, and another. After each I ask the celebrant to comment on what they have done, then I critique it and others add their comments. At the end, I also consecrate the bread and wine, and we share in communion together.
I never am able to answer why I have such good memories of my own practicum at Virginia, maybe it is just that we were discovering what it is actually like to carry out the liturgical ministry to which we feel we have been called. Maybe that is what happens here in Gaborone tonight too. But what is clear is that our ordinands are taking this all very seriously, critical of themselves – ‘it is so different, when you are the one,’ they say apologetically – yet encouraging to others. I think they do well.
‘We need to do it again,’ one tells me the next day. And God willing, they will.