02/04/2026
If you want a chuckle you will like this page.
FROM OUR VERGER – MR ALAN DOBBS (AGAIN, APPARENTLY)
[But first an editorial note from Judith - this post was previously supported by a picture of Dobbs collecting some wine-soiled linen from the Altar. However, this has evidently caused distress to some people (who have perhaps a higher theology of 'presence' than we do here at St Faithful's). Since the point of our posts is to inform and entertain, but certainly not to offend, we have replaced the image. - Judith M. Crowther - Parish Administrator]
Well. This is awkward.
I wrote one small note on the Facebook Web-thingy, mainly to stop myself muttering audibly behind the hymn books, and suddenly I am being informed that it has been shared. Repeatedly. By Vergers. All over the country. Some of whom, I am told, have printed it out and pinned it in porches, vestries, and one alarming report suggests, the staff loo.
I am touched. Genuinely. Also slightly concerned about the state of Verger morale nationally, but that is a matter for Synod.
Several of you have written (typed?) to say, “Yes. That. Exactly that.” Others have said, “You forgot something.” Which, as a Verger, is a sentence I hear a lot.
So, in the spirit of mutual consolation and mild exasperation, I feel duty bound to offer a few further reflections, drawing on the wisdom of the gathered Vergerhood, while adding my own lived experience. I’m also monitoring my blood pressure while I write this.
Let us begin with the pews.
We have free‑standing pews. They stack. They were eye‑wateringly expensive. This was explained. Demonstrated. Documented.
And yet.
They are dragged. Twisted. Dropped. Left leaning at jaunty angles like modernist sculptures entitled “I’ll Just Put This Here For Now.”
There are tape marks on the floor. Literal tape marks. Showing exactly where they should go. Friends: these are not suggestions. They are not “a creative starting point”. They are where the pews live.
If pews could speak, they would not ask for freedom. They would ask for helpful lumbar support and precise alignment.
Next: altar rail cushions. They are, as you will agree, designed for kneeling. Prayer. Reverence. They are NOT for resting secateurs, dead foliage, floristry off‑cuts, elastic bands, or half a mince pie.
May I be clear: the altar rail cushion is not a compost heap.
Nor is it a side table.
Nor is it “just somewhere for a moment”.
There is no such thing as “just for a moment”. There is only “until Dobbs finds it”.
Then we move gently into flower clearing. I am grateful to all who arrange flowers. Truly. They lift the heart. But I feel constrained to point out that clearing flowers does not end with “remove vase”.
It also involves:
– sweeping window sills
– removing leaf fragments
– not leaving mysterious green sludge rings
– and crucially, not redistributing detritus onto pews as if hoping it will simply… migrate.
Window sills remain unswept. Detritus migrates mysteriously onto pews, and onto the floor, as I discovered last week when lying flat on my back in the Nave, as a result of slipping on a fragment of moist dahlia.
Keys. I’m afraid we really do have to talk about Keys. Or, more accurately, “The Mystery of the Disappearing Keys”.
We have a keypad-controlled key safe. It was hideous expensive, and bought to replace the crumbling wooden box we used since the 15th century. Only a handful of authorised people have access. And yet keys vanish, reappear, migrate, and occasionally return after a long spiritual journey in someone’s coat pocket.
It has been suggested—purely hypothetically—that the Vicar sometimes walks off with them when distracted by a parishioner in distress. Or a squirrel.
I would never accuse him.
I merely observe patterns.
And finally, for now anyway, several of you, my fellow Labourers of the Verge mentioned church linen. Yes. Yes indeed.
At great personal expense and effort, church linen is freshly laundered and starched under my watchful eye (and thanks to the tender ministrations of Mrs Dobbs). Crisp. Lying on the altar like the promise of order in a fallen world.
And then: wax. Then wine.
Both applied with a casual abandon normally reserved for toddlers with felt-tips.
I know accidents happen. I know grace abounds. But if wine is spilt on the altar cloth, please do not fold it neatly and pretend nothing has occurred.
I will find it.
I always do.
And I will despair quietly, which is worse than despairing loudly.
Please understand: none of this comes from anger (well not ONLY anger). It comes from love. Love for this building. Love for what happens here.
The Vicar has been introducing us all to Progressive Theology of late (I think he bought a book about it, and it seems to have excited him). Well, Progressive Theology has taught me this much (when I get a moment to listen to the occasional sermon): Holiness, apparently, is not about being precious. It is about being present. And presence involves noticing. Not rushing. Treating shared things as shared gifts, not indestructible props.
So thank you, fellow Vergers, altar guild members, sacristans, and weary custodians of the sacred and the slightly sticky. You have made me feel seen.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to investigate why the corporal smells faintly of Ribena.
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Disclaimer: St Faithful’s is a fictional parish, imagined by a real-life parish priest. It reflects familiar church cultures, observed with affection and humour, in the belief that theology still has something to say. Images are created with the assistance of Artie Fishal, who is very intelligent.
We recommend books by Canon Tom Kennar, including his recent publication of some of OUR Facebook posts (called 'The Parish life') which can be purchased (by 'print and deliver' service) at www.books.by/tom-kennar. Or search for 'Tom Kennar' on Amazon (especially for Kindle editions)
