Taking on the Final Hurdle at King’s College Chapel Cambridge

I Know What You’re Thinking: She’s Back. Another Article About Chapel. Not Again.

But dear reader, please, before you roll your eyes and look away, hear me out. This one is different. This one involves me swinging a smoking medieval death-orb in a sacred space whilst praying I don’t clock a small child in the face. This is, in other words, peak King’s content and almost a whole academic year in the making!

Besides, this is also by popular demand. The Tab Instagram inbox overflows with messages from students begging for more behind-the-scenes drama from the chapel stalls. (Okay, begging might be a stretch. Let’s say… politely inquiring. Or mildly curious. We got what, three messages? One of which might have been a bot.)

But still, three! That’s a movement. That’s momentum. That’s practically a fanbase.

Consequently, I am once again subjecting you to the niche, high-stakes world of King’s College Chapel, as between the semi-anonymous Instagram DMs and the loyal readership of my mother, the people have spoken. And as your loyal co-Editor-in-Chief, a humble servant of the masses, I must answer the call.

So settle in. Another chapel tale is coming, equal parts spiritual, ridiculous, and lightly terrifying. This time, the thurifer calls…

And I must answer. (Untrue. I had many chances to say no.)

Boat Bearer:

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The start of this journey began with the role of boat bearer. The boat bearer assists the thurifer during the service by carrying the incense boat, a small metal container that holds the incense grains. During the service, they present the boat to the Dean, who uses it to spoon incense into the thurible. The boat bearer then accompanies the thurifer in the procession and remains nearby throughout the service to assist as needed.

Picture a boat bearer. What do you see? I’ll tell you, A ten-year-old choir probationer with big eyes and a dangerously slippery grasp of the incense boat. Now picture me, a 5-foot-9-inch adult woman, standing about two feet taller than anyone ever envisioned for the job.

I agreed to be a boat bearer after some enthusiastic encouragement. The kind of encouragement that starts as a friendly suggestion and ends with you clutching an incense boat, wondering how your life took this turn. Jonathan, our new chaplain, tried to boost my morale by saying I was probably the first adult woman to ever serve as boat bearer. “Maybe even the first adult at all!” he beamed. You’d think that would feel empowering. History-making. Trailblazing.

Nope. Just made me feel 100% more like I’d accidentally crashed someone else’s school play. But hey, good practice for being thurifer, I kept telling myself.

Who better to train under than the man, the myth, the music maestro himself: Nick Marston. Professor of Music Theory and Analysis at King’s. The very same Nick Marston who once patiently explained to me what Evensong was when I turned up to my first service in October with a glazed look and an order of service I held upside down.

When it came to serving as a boat bearer, there was, I’ll admit, a moment of true fear. It happened when someone floated the horrifying joke that I might have to wear, brace yourselves, the choirboy cassock. You know the one, “I’ve just been cast in Oliver!” energy. Thankfully, sanity prevailed and I was handed a tasteful, dignified white robe, which made me look less like a medieval pageboy and more like someone auditioning for a Scandinavian detective drama. A win.

Robe acquired.

The service itself? Fine. Lovely. Reverent. I half expected someone to say, “Spin clockwise thrice when the deacon coughs, then curtsey westward toward the lectern.” Still, I did it; the boat bearer role was completed.

The next test: Thurifer training itself.

The thurible. That silver, swinging, threatening medieval bauble known as “the incense thing”. It smells holy. It looks dangerous. It’s essentially a religious conker on a chain, and it has haunted my nightmares ever since I once stood too close to the lectern during the Gospel and the deacon nearly took my head off with it. Picture it: me, frozen in place like a meerkat, while the thurible flew past my ear like a silver meteor of doom.

And now I had to prepare to wield said conker of doom itself.

Nick and I had a practice session. It mostly consisted of the two of us walking around the chapel while he clanged it and reassured me in soothing tones that I probably wouldn’t drop it. Which is the liturgical equivalent of a flight instructor whispering, “You might not crash.” Comforting.

The smoke is thicker than you expect. And the internal panic? Oh, it’s robust. But I trained. I walked the route. I practised the double-swing repeatedly. The thing is, this isn’t just about serving. This is about conquering. It’s about looking the ancient, incense-huffing beast of Chapel tradition in the eye and saying, “Yes, this is the last thing. Yes, I will learn to do it.”

For those who don’t know what this role entails, let me break it down. The thurifer is essentially the person in charge of the thurible. You arrive about 20 minutes before the service, load up the thurible with charcoal that looks suspiciously like posh BBQ briquettes, get changed into your robe, and collect your boat bearer, a small, angelic child.

You then hover nervously outside the vestry until the Dean arrives to put the incense into the thurible (a move that somehow feels both ceremonial and vaguely ominous). From there, you lead the procession toward the altar, desperately trying not to trip, drop, or swing the thurible into a congregation member.

Once at the altar, you hand it off to the Dean, who uses it to cense the altar and later the Gospel. You then resume your sacred duty of perpetual thurible swinging, a soothing, theatrical motion that continues throughout the service. And just when your arms are turning to jelly, you must clang the thurible against its chain at precise moments, like when the Body and Blood of Christ are being blessed before communion.

The long walk to the altar

Action time:

You’d think the transition from boat bearer to thurifer would be a graceful ascension, a natural progression in the sacred hierarchy. It was not.

I wish I could say I strode into my first thurifer service with poise. I did not. I was internally spiralling so hard I nearly achieved lift-off. My hands were shaking. My brain had gone completely blank except for the haunting words: “Don’t drop it. Don’t swing it into a chorister. Don’t set anything on fire.”

Thank God (literally) for Nick. There he was: serene, all whilst I was crumbling like a communion wafer, Nick was calmly helping me prepare the coals like he wasn’t about to hand a silver, flaming orb to a first-year student on the verge of a breakdown.

Once the thurible was prepared, I entered the antechapel. My small boat bearer, blessedly more age-appropriate than I had been in the role, stood beside me, wide-eyed and dangerously enthusiastic. His face said, “This is the best day of my life.” Mine said something more along the lines of existential terror, I imagine.

He amused and concerned me in equal measure. Particularly when, during the Gloria in Excelsis, he started singing along with the choir. Not just mouthing it, fully singing. I’m glad he was moved by the Spirit, but I was trying not to pass out. We all cope differently.

At one point, in what I can only describe as a moment of divine comedy, I spilt ash all down the side of my white robe. Not a little. A lot. Suddenly, I looked less like a dignified servant of the chapel and more like I’d crawled out of the Easter Vigil fire pit. I tried to stay calm on the outside. Even as my boat bearer began having coughing fits like a Victorian chimney sweep from the very incense I’d just fervently wafted past his tiny lungs.

I felt like I was one tiny mistake away from disaster the entire time. Yet, just like that, it was over.

We were in the vestry again. I had survived. I had thurified. I had managed not to drop it, not to cry, not to run screaming from the chapel in a trail of holy smoke. I hadn’t even hit anyone.

Jonathan, ever gracious, said in the vestry, “Congratulations to Evie on her first service as thurifer!” All whilst I remained in a daze, genuinely thinking I was going to collapse on the floor from sheer relief. I smiled. Nodded. Accepted the applause with the dignified air of someone who had not just panicked for an hour straight while pretending to be in complete control of a ceremonial smoke bomb.

So, there you have it. I’ve now completed every role a server can in King’s College Chapel. Every single one. Boat bearer. Crucifer. Sub-Deacon. Acolyte. Reader. Thurifer. The lot. (Except Dean and Chaplain, but hey, there’s always time. Watch this space. If I’m still here in four years, someone’s getting ordained.)

What have I learnt?

Those thuribles aren’t as heavy as they look. That ash gets everywhere. That no one tells you how much cardio is involved in serving. That Nick Marston deserves a knighthood. That small boat bearers may spontaneously sing at inopportune times.

It’s been a journey. A slightly smoky, occasionally mortifying, always unforgettable journey. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything, except perhaps a new set of lungs and a strong drink.