Priesthood

Art by Peter

 I prostrated myself in front of the priest.

A heavy silence blanketed the catacomb.

The air was thick. The cold stones pressed into my forehead and elbows and knees. The crenulated piece of wood that separated the consecrator from the consecratee seemed like a two-story rampart. Then he spoke.

I dutifully listened to his words.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Tripartite. Singular. Three leaves of a clover. Three points of a triangle. Three arms of a cross.

The cross. The sacrifice. The mystery.

How does the Almighty inhabit flesh? How does an immortal die?

Questions wrestled for my attention with the more pressing issues in my body. A pose, held, becomes its own torture. A mortification. A requirement for purification.

It was only through pain that i might understand a fraction of The Sacrifice. It was only through pain that I might find purity. It was only through pain that I might find a holy union of my flesh and my spirit.

My joints stung. My muscles shivered and ached. My brain boiled trying to balance the Lesson - the Unification. Words became noise merely spoken in front of me. Pain became a noise of its own - signals and inputs, but no longer calls for action.

I *noticed*. I felt. I heard. I felt the sensation in my right big toe. I felt the sensation in my right second toe. I felt the sensation in my right third toe. From toes to feet to ankles I found myself. I slowly explored, the message of the Church pushing into my ears the whole time. When I reached my eyebrows and forehead I moved back down my body again. My body? The body I was in, at the very least.

I drifted. I floated above myself. I saw a body in pain and felt the pain and watched as I dealt with it.

I was pulled back into my self with a slap.

The priest had slapped me.

I fell over, suddenly present. Suddenly stunned.

He welcomed me back and extended his hand. I stared at the hand for a moment, unable to discern what was expected of me. He gestured for me to stand up. I awoke and grasped his hand and pulled myself up to standing.

There was an exquisite painful pleasure in my joints as the found new expression. I did my best not to acknowledge it as I realized I was still in the Ceremony. I focused on the consecrator.

A few more words pushed into me and some oil was rubbed upon me. Skulls watched silently. I was aware of the dead. I was aware of being alive.

The priest finished the ceremony with the sign of the cross and we both bowed.

He welcomed me to the Order.

I looked forward to more.