My mother called him the “Kahuna”. Originally the Hawaiian word for a priest, expert, teacher, or advisor, kahuna was adopted by the surfing community as a term to imply a certain level of expertise or group leadership . I don’t think I learned his full name, Wayne Fowler, until I’d known him for several years. I was a short, shy, twelve year-old acolyte, and he was a tall, confident man who always wore a black robe and carried a short, wooden staff. I couldn’t help but associate him with the Grim Reaper. I could always see my scrawny reflection in his large, slightly-tinted glasses, and his deep, toned voice was rivaled only by James Earl Jones. The Kahuna scared me.
I first met him in the sixth grade at the acolyte training session my mother forced me to attend. The Kahuna, our church’s Verger, would lead the sessions each year at St. Columba’s, an Episcopalian church located atop a steep hill in a residential neighborhood of Washington, D.C. After receiving the mandatory instruction, I slowly ascended the acolyte ranks. Like all novices, I began at the bottom: the torch bearer. The rules were simple; hold your torch level with your forehead, follow the pace of the crucifer, and never play with matches in the sacristy. Once I learned to ascend the three stairs in front of the altar in unison with the crucifer, the Kahuna promoted me to banner-bearer when I was fourteen, though I nearly lost the job on my first day. Not only did I wear a highly visible “Stone Cold Steve Austin” T-shirt underneath the thin white robe that came with the promotion, but I also lost my balance and nearly took out the first row of the choir with the “Alleluia” banner during the Recessional.
Despite these early mistakes, the Kahuna was forgiving and eventually asked me to become a Sacristan. Having observed my brother go through this process, I knew what I would be getting myself into, so I agreed.
To become a Sacristan, I had to complete a seven-week training program during which I’d learn every aspect of the church service. Once completed, the Kahuna would assign me two or three Sundays a month. My responsibilities were both numerous and broad, including things like bread, wine, music, readings, usher assignments, decorations, and lighting, to name a few. If anything went wrong during a service, I would most likely be responsible. One month later, my seven-week training program began. This meant arriving at St. Columba’s an hour and a half before the eight o’clock mass and staying until early afternoon.
Although the church was completely empty when I arrived each Sunday, I never felt alone. Despite the high ceiling, the darkness, and the overwhelming silence, I could always sense some presence lingering among the pews, which often gave me the chills. The head usher frequently broke the silence with a simple greeting, after which he’d smile, wink, and give me one of those firm but fragile handshakes that only men above seventy years old can give.
One of my first responsibilities was the Gospel procession. I had two choices: torch-bearer or Gospel-bearer. Unfortunately, it was a no-win situation. As a torch bearer, I had to execute turns and pivots with military precision, and hot wax might drip on my wrists for an entire page of Gospel reading. As the Gospel-bearer, I might encounter bad breath or spit while holding the book open for the priest. In his era, my brother was the only Sacristan to ever hold the heavy Gospel book straight out, elbows locked, for an entire reading. It was a competition he both created and won.
As a Sacristan in training, the Kahuna also gave me responsibility for the Children’s Eucharist. Located in the banquet hall in the north wing of the church, the Children’s Eucharist was the result of a brilliant idea to isolate the young, restless members of the congregation in a room separated from the main service. It was always a clash of formality and chaos. A priest, impressively dressed in cassock and albs, attempted to hold the attention of dozens of toddlers for nearly an hour, the majority of whom were crying, screaming, or playing tag underneath extra Sunday school chairs. The altar was a plastic table draped in fine linens, and the microphone rarely worked. The newest priest nearly always led this service, much like the newest Sacristan would serve as assistant. During this intra-parish form of initiation, I’d often catch the Kahuna standing quietly in the back of the room, subtly checking in on me from time to time.
When my training ended, the Kahuna began to prepare me for the Christmas season, a wonderful time for the congregation but punishment for the Sacristans. While most teenagers enjoyed home-cooked meals and spent time with family, the Kahuna mechanically directed us around the church to prepare for the festival services. In addition to assisting with flowers, wreaths, and garlands, we had to prepare and organize the bread and wine in mass quantities to compensate for the “twice-a-year” congregation, or those extremely well-dressed yet notably awkward families that came to Church only on Christmas and Easter. Unfortunately, most of the decorations didn’t even smell festive. Due to an incident involving a Sacristan and a fire, the Kahuna insisted that only plastic decorations be placed by the pews with candles nearby.
During these long festival services, my brother would often find ways to entertain himself, even if it was at my expense. During my first Holy Week, just before the Maundy Thursday service, I was worrying about my roles and responsibilities for the night and asked him for the easiest job, if possible. Midway through the service, he came out of the sacristy with two large bowls, a cruet of water, and some linen and told me to simply give them to the Rector and follow his lead.
Minutes later, I was on my hands and knees in front of the first pew staring at ten pairs of smelly bare feet. My brother had given me the easiest, yet worst responsibility in the service. I was to soak and replace the linens for the priests as they washed the feet of members of the congregation. Near the end of the ceremony, I was dunking the linen into bowls of water full of suspended, floating clots of toe jam. I didn’t even bother making my brother wash the bowls; I just took care of it myself, which elicited a rare laugh from the Kahuna.
My favorite part of a festival service was the music. The church would use a brass quintet and all its choirs to accompany the massive organ located adjacent to the altar, and the combination of the three would fill the space to the brim with the unique harmonies that one can only hear in church.
My brother’s favorite part, though, was the opportunity to be the thurifer, or the Sacristan who swings the incense. He often bragged to me about the two “around-the-worlds” (swinging the incense above your head in a circular motion) he had pulled at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve the year prior, and he was already planning on attempting a “figure-eight” on Easter, something he’d seen on TV in a National Cathedral advertisement.
The Kahuna ended up giving him the Easter morning thurifer duty, but he didn’t like the idea of the “figure-eight” maneuver he was preparing, citing yet another incident with a Sacristan in which the top of the censer was left untightened prior to one of these maneuvers, resulting in burning hot charcoal and flaming incense powder flying all over the congregation. Recommending we should just stick to the basics, he took the censer and executed a flawless around-the-world with a flick of his wrist, humbly handing it back to my brother.
When Easter finally arrived, my brother began the day by preparing the incense in the “Waynerator”, a wooden contraption with a custom exhaust fan that was named after and built by the Kahuna to prevent false alarms from the smoke detectors when preparing the incense charcoal. As I sat in the sacristy before the service, at least eight well-dressed strangers came in to see the Kahuna, one after the other. At the sight of each visitor, his eyes would light up, the bags under his eyes vanishing as a smile enveloped and stretched the deep wrinkles on his face. He embraced and hugged each of them like a beloved grand-child even though they were all young adults, a rare but unfiltered display of affection in comparison to his professional, stoic demeanor.
The Easter service ran relatively smoothly for a festival. As we began to prepare for the Recessional, I heard the organist playing the familiar prelude to “I Am The Bread of Life,” the hymn that gave me my first goosebumps and always made my mother cry. A verse or two in, I realized that I’d forgotten to light the candles for the young torch-bearers in the sacristy. As I turned around, I saw Wayne in the doorway, softly singing the words he knew by heart along with two of his Sacristans from years past. One of them put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
The congregation soon rose to their feet in unison for the final chorus, and Wayne, making eye contact with me, reached up underneath his glasses to gently wipe his eyes. Though his thick, reflective glasses prevented any sight of tears, he quietly laughed to himself and softly shook his head, briefly looking down at his feet, as if I’d seen something backstage that wasn’t to be revealed until the encore.
He smiled as the hymn ended, and for just a few seconds, as the organ’s final chord faded away, the church was silent, as if it was dark, cold and empty on an early Sunday morning.
Wayne Fowler died peacefully on January 19th, 2022. This piece, originally written in 2005, was edited and revised to honor his memory.