Yesterday, I was distracted during the proclamation of the gospel. At risk of being sacrilegious, I confess that instead of listening to the words that were read, I contemplated textiles and seamstresses.

Allow me to explain.

The way things are arranged at my church is likely the same as at many Episcopal churches. We generally have two priests at a service. One of them preaches, and the other is the celebrant, meaning that their main job is to celebrate communion. Other participants include the organist/choir director, the choir, the acolytes, and the lay reader. It’s a nice division of labor.

Yesterday, I served as the lay reader. This means that I read two of the four Scripture readings of the morning. The third, a psalm, was chanted, and the choir led this. The fourth, which was from one of the gospels, was proclaimed by the priest who preached. The gospel reading is a very big deal because it involves the words and/or acts of Jesus. The acolytes (three teenagers—one carries the cross, and the other two carry candles) lead the priest into the main aisle of the church and stand, with candles burning and cross held high, while the priest proclaims the gospel. Everyone in the church turns to face the cross, meaning that some turn around completely.

The area in the front behind the pulpit and lectern is called the chancel. Because the chancel is relatively narrow and deep, rather than the typical wide stage, it is sometimes a challenge to fit the choir in when the choir school sings with the adults. On the lectern side of the chancel (stage left, as opposed to the pulpit side at stage right), six seats are built in. During a typical service, the celebrant sits in the seat closest to the front, with the lay reader beside them and room for one more participant. The acolytes occupy the back three seats, which allows them to get in and out easily.

Yesterday, as I said, when the gospel was being proclaimed, I found myself distracted. Since we were all facing the cross which was in the main aisle, the celebrant stood directly in front of me. (Side note: until I came to my present church, it had been a long, long time since I’d seen clergy in robes. At my former church, the pastor sometimes wore a sweater vest and occasionally didn’t bother with a tie. I tried not to see this casual attire as disrespectful—after all, Jesus didn’t wear a tie, either—but I do like the formality of clergy in clerical garb.)

All of which is to say that as the gospel was proclaimed, I stood mere inches from the celebrant’s vestments, including his chasuble, which is the sleeveless outer garment worn over his alb (the official name for his robe). The chasuble is an oblong piece of cloth with a hole for the head, not unlike a fancy poncho. The chasuble is decorated with the colors of the particular season within the liturgical calendar, which is a whole other topic. The celebrant wears a white alb with a hood (which hangs down in back), and the chasuble is worn on top of the alb.

In any case (for the third time now), as I was supposed to be listening to the gospel, I was instead fascinated by the celebrant’s chasuble. The main fabric was a lustrous white-on-white jacquard. To see its drape was to recognize its substantial weight. Down the back and across the neck (though partly hidden by the hood) was a strip of deep navy velvet about three or four inches wide. It was stitched on with gold thread that formed open boxes along the edges of the velvet.

As I studied this garment, the fabric and the finishing, I found myself thinking of the people who made it. Who designed the jacquard fabric? Was it intentionally designed for priestly garb, or is the same fabric used for other purposes? Who crafted it? Who did that perfect stitching to attach the velvet strip? Did these people know what they were creating? Did they care? Was it simply another job to them, or did they see their work as their contribution to the priest’s ministry? Did they recognize that in dressing the priest in such beautiful garments, they were participants in his or her work?

This wasn’t the first time I’d had such thoughts, i.e., who came up with that? When I had surgery several years ago, I ended up staying overnight. For reasons not relevant now, I was in the cancer wing. This hospital spared no expense for cancer patients, from free parking to rooms nicer than I’ve seen in some hotels. In this case, the bathroom (which was larger than mine at home) had lovely blue-green tiles on the walls, and the bedroom blended hospital necessities with tasteful, serene décor. The color scheme evoked the peace of the beach when the water is calm. As I waited for my friends to arrive to take me home, I wondered who had designed this space. Did the creator of those tiles know that they would be in a hospital bathroom? Did the person who blended this color of paint intend it to be used to create a low-stress space for someone who might be overwrought and terrified? Did the people who designed the network of hospital-specific connections and outlets think about the extent to which they might be making a task easier for a hospital professional who was in the thirteenth hour of an eight-hour shift?

So many invisible, unknown people contribute so much to our days. It behooves us to think of them, at least occasionally. In one of her novels, the magnificent Laurie Colwin’s pregnant main character looks around at everyone else on the bus and thinks, “Every one of these people was born.” In the same way, I look around my living room as I type, and I think, “Every thing in this room was made.” The fabric of the chair, the lamps and their shades and bulbs, the artwork, the books on the shelves (which were made both in terms of content and in their physical selves, with paper and ink and covers and artistry). Someone thought of them, someone designed them, and someone figured out how to turn that design into a tangible object that now occupies space in my house (which someone else designed and built). Someone hand-embroidered the tablecloth on the side table, which means someone wove the fabric (maybe the same person, maybe not) and dyed the thread. Someone else crafted and placed each of the strings inside the piano, attaching them to the pins. Another person designed the narrow metal bookcase that folds up flat. Someone else figured out that adding ridges to nails, i.e., screws, can hold the wooden pieces of the bookcases together more securely. Yet another person operates the machines that create the chips that make it possible for me to write on this computer. And so on.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that only certain types of jobs or professions are “creative.” In fact, I suspect that most, if not all, of us possess an element of creativity. Maybe it’s obvious to the world, such as if you’re Monet or Chopin, Meryl Streep or Yo-Yo Ma. But maybe your creativity is of a quieter, less public variety. Maybe you baked cupcakes for a child’s birthday party, or you planted a garden of potted herbs on your fire escape. Maybe you fashioned a cat bed from an old fleece blanket so that a terrified formerly-feral cat will have a soft, safe place to sleep. Maybe you figured out how to create a new wiring harness for an old car where the original harness was chewed up by chipmunks and the car is old enough that the manufacturer no longer makes that part. Maybe you run the loom that creates the jacquard fabric that someone else will sew into a priestly garment that will ultimately be worn by a celebrant while celebrating the Eucharist.

I did listen to part of the gospel reading yesterday, honestly. But I also contemplated the skill and artistry of the people whose names I’ll never know, who combined their gifts to create a beautiful garment for a sacred purpose. Both, I think, were holy uses of my time.