02/08/2026
https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1D2ZrHD6Cb/
FROM OUR VERGER – MR ALAN DOBBS
(Posting this because Mrs Crowther has discovered that Facebook is, and I quote, “an efficient way of managing expectations.” Which is Admin-speak for “Dobbs, stop muttering in the vestry and mutter in public.”)
Right. Vergers. We are the people who arrive before everyone else, leave after everyone else, and somehow get blamed for the weather in between. Officially, we “prepare the church for worship” and “support the ministry of welcome”. Unofficially, we spend our lives preventing the House of God from becoming a community centre with candles.
So, in the spirit of Christian confession (and because I can feel my blood pressure increasing like the organ swell on a dramatic hymn), here are a few things that get under this verger’s collar.
Firstly: the sacred art of moving things and not putting them back.
Some people enter a church and immediately think, “This chair is not living its truth. I will move it.” Friends: the chairs are not having a personal journey. They are where they are because last Sunday you asked for “more space”, and the Sunday before that you asked for “more intimacy”, and the Sunday before that you asked for “something between a concert hall and a monastery.”
If you have rearranged half the nave for Reasons, please return it to its original position afterwards. Do not leave it “for the verger to sort”. I am not the Holy Spirit of Furniture.
Secondly: candles.
I love candles. I love the way they speak of prayer. I love the way they turn a gloomy Tuesday into something tender and human. But if you light a candle and then push the match into the wax like you’re sealing a medieval treaty, do not be surprised when I sigh deeply enough to power the church boiler. Also: if you are going to pray for “Auntie Jean’s hip” (valid), please do not place the candle directly under the notice that says 'DO NOT PLACE CANDLES DIRECTLY UNDER THIS NOTICE.' That is not faith. That is testing the Lord.
Thirdly: the holy war of doors.
In winter: everyone shuts every door “to keep the heat in”, including doors that should not be shut, like the one that stops the fire exit being a fire exit.
In summer: every door is flung open “for a breeze”, including the one that invites pigeons to experience a profound sense of belonging in the sanctuary.
I have, at various points, conducted a one-man ministry to both draught exclusion and wildlife management. I do not feel called to either. Yet here we are.
Fourthly: microphones and “helpful” adjustments.
If you find a microphone and think, “I’ll just turn this up a bit,” please don’t. Sound systems are like parish politics: one small tweak can unleash a howl that raises the dead and frightens the living. The number of times I’ve been told “the mic’s not working” when it IS working: it’s just not pointed at the mouth… honestly.
And, readers and intercessors please note: microphones are unable to pick up a mumble and instantly transform it into an oration from the steps of the Roman Senate. They are just not built for that. So kindly speak up (with the thing actually pointing into your gob). Then we'll all be able to benefit from your erudition and praying power.
Fifthly: weddings.
Ah, weddings. The day when people who have never been inside a church discover the aisle is, apparently, a catwalk. A gentle reminder: the service is not improved by a photographer doing press-ups in the chancel for “the angle”. And if someone says, “Can we just have the candles moved to that side for symmetry?”—yes, of course we can. We can also re-enact the Reformation while we’re at it. Shall I pop the kettle on?
Sixthly (and I say this with love): treating the church like a museum—OR like your front room.
Some folk behave as though God is terribly easily offended and must be approached on tiptoe, preferably in Latin. Others behave as though the nave is an overflow café and the credence table is a convenient shelf for a half-eaten biscuit.
May I suggest a third way?
The church is holy because people are HERE: grieving, rejoicing, doubting, bringing toddlers, bringing walking sticks, bringing questions, bringing themselves. Which means: yes, it is a place of reverence. And yes, it is a place of welcome. The tension between those two is not a problem to solve; it’s the Christian life in miniature.
Because here’s the thing. The longer I do this job, the more I realise my “pet peeves” are often just my fear in a hi-vis jacket.
Fear that something will go wrong. Fear that someone will be hurt. Fear that the sacred will be trampled by the casual. And the Gospel keeps nagging me (worse than Mrs Crowther, and that is saying something): "Perfect love casts out fear."
Not perfect tidiness. Not perfect choreography. Love.
So yes: please stop hiding old service sheets behind the radiator. Please don’t wedge a fire door open with a hassock. Please don’t feed the pigeons “because they look lonely”.
But also: if you are new, unsure, scruffy, noisy, anxious, late, or burdened—come in anyway. Sit down. Breathe. God is not peering over the top of the pulpit waiting to tell you off. That’s my job. (Joke. Mostly.)
Right. I feel better. I’m off to find out why the processional cross has migrated again. It does that.
Mr Alan Dobbs
Verger
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This is an archive story, re-presented for newer members of The Faithful.
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