The joys of Anglo-Catholicism

Last night I was roped into playing The Messiah (and he won - b'doom ching).

But seriously, I was playing second violin in a rare attempt to use parts of Handel's most famous oratorio liturgically in an advent service.

I shall refrain from naming the church or the priest involved, but it was a high-churchman of some repute whom I have not seen these past 20 years, ever since I used to sing in the choir at one of his previous churches - a full-on 'bells and smells' Anglo-Catholic place.

My abiding memory of the style of his ministry was the post-Easter 'renewal of baptismal vows' service during which the officiant processes slowly to the back of the church, accompanied by an acolyte carrying what I can only describe as a bucket of holy water, from which the officiant flicks the congregation in a symbolic baptism. When this particular priest reached the choir at the back of the church, he handed his flicking-stick to the acolyte, seized the bucket, and threw the entire contents over the choir.

He now has a sign outside his church reading "The Marquess of Queensberry's Rules Apply to All Mobile Phones and Chiming Watches."