it seems there is no end to the number of analogies to the married life you can make to the priesthood.
so. i have just finished a month of relative 'spiritual seclusion'. During this time, I have been saying mass (almost) every day at home; getting more fluid, more confident. Mostly, getting used to this new world. This new 'deep magic of the earth' (using a 'Narnia' analogy) is so strange and so wonderful. The Mass is simple, complex, benign, terrible. It is a raging lion, a lamb. I don't know. Thank G-d I am only the conduit. Although, as the prayers say "for ourselves too we ask some measure" of the grace of G-d. And, of course, as the conduit, some of the God-substance sticks to me, an unworthy vessel. Yet he covers over my foolishness and warts and holes and infections with his Motherly love and grace. I am like a child rocked to sleep, so safe.
In fact, the only thing 'wrong' about Eucharist, is having to be done. I have sat after Mass, especially when offered alone, so unwilling to snuff out the candles, to put away the beautiful linens, to strip off my vestments. Oh G-d! Why must the Eucharist end? Yet, as a good Father, he finally guides me, helps me out of His clothes, puts on my own small shoes after carefully stowing his large, manly ones, and I go back to my insignificant and silly life. At least I am grateful for each moment in which I can love someone else. It is like a drop of cold pure water on my parched tongue. Surely, we live on an earthly hell, in which glimpses of the beatific vision descend sporadically--for most, rarely and almost not at all. G-d grant that no soul go from this world without at least a single drop of that cold clear water.
May the whole earth rejoice in a gentle rain that covers all her children; that fills and cleans all cisterns. That washes away the putrefaction of evil in all of us--and especially, drowns our spiritual foes. Drive back our constant enemy o Lord! And set us, once again, on your Rock. This time, let's put in a guardrail so we don't slip off so easily . . . . .
