The taxi pulled into the curved driveway at 140 Sussex drive. I paid the fare and stepped out into the early dusk of a crisp autumn evening. A heavy black gate barred the way. I stood for a moment gazing through the bars at the beautiful stone residence with white cladding along the eaves. Except for my high heels and pinstriped suit, it felt rather Dickensian. To the left there was a gatehouse, that sat empty, with an intercom built into the side pillar. I pressed the button. A formal British male voice invited me in and with a low buzz, the gate swung open.
The nerves that were already wringing my stomach tightened. I was at the British High Commission for a formal dinner with a group of economists, and I felt very ill placed. Earlier that afternoon, my boss – the Chief Economist of the organization – asked if I would attend the dinner in his stead, as he had a conflict. Of course, I said yes. I always said yes. I was new on the job, I was young(ish) and up for anything. As I made my way to the front door, the sound of my heels on the asphalt driveway were like little punctuation marks: what will the topic of conversation be? Will I have anything to contribute? Will I embarrass my company? My boss?
There were eight of us that night at the dinner party. After drinks in the sitting room, we were ushered into the dining room by the formal male voice that belonged to the butler. There was a lush blue carpet and a shiny wooden table set with silver and China, and name places. We all moved to our place and for a moment everyone stood behind their chairs. And here is where I made my big blunder. I thought – or perhaps I should say I didn’t think- but perhaps subconsciously I thought that someone needed to take the first step, so I pulled out my chair and sat down. I expected others to follow suit. But in an instant, I realized my mistake. They were waiting for the host- the British High Commissioner- to sit before they did. I was mortified. Quickly, but with as much grace as possible, I slipped out of my seat and stood behind my chair, my hands resting on the back. My gaffe went unnoticed- or, rather seemingly so, for that is the way of good manners. I was mortified because in that one small move, it was like I had shouted: “I have very poor manners! I am ill-bred and don’t even know that I should let the guest of honour sit first!” Oh, the shame, the humiliation.
Many years later I was at Mass at St. Patrick’s basilica. After the Collect, the people in the pews sat while the elderly priest made his way – slowly- over to his seat, from the altar where he had been speaking. But I noticed, a few people remained standing. The priest sat and then they did. I immediately recalled that night back at Earnscliffe. I had just done the same thing: I had sat before the guest of honour!
I felt embarrassed but for the opposite reason. At the diplomatic dinner, I was embarrassed because my actions had shown my lack of manners – the incident reflected poorly on me; at the Mass, I blended in with others, but I felt ashamed for the rudeness towards the priest. But even more, I could see that there was an underlying truth that existed in the supernatural order, that I was not respecting. Part of the difference lay in my (infinitely) higher respect for the office of the priesthood than that of the British High Commission, but it was a difference of degree, not in kind.
I know people who mock those who stand – ‘like little soldiers’ – until the priest is seated. As much as I try to avoid being mocked, I would rather that than to be rude. I imagine that dinner at Earnscliffe many years ago, but it is Christ Himself hosting the dinner – I will not be the first to sit!
