Ordained

And now his knees hurt.

At this  moment that was all he could think of; that, and the fact that there was no one there to see him ordained and when he left the Cathedral he must catch the train, and that meant a rush because there was only one train to the parish and his new life as curate of St. Agatha’s.  

The Bishop, preceded by his Chaplain came nearer, and now the words

that accompanied the outstretched hands were pronounced solemnly

and formally, the words of ordination from the old book, and there

it was, Neil, now ordained as a deacon in the Church, seemed to

relax and as he relaxed, seemed transformed as though by a new and

deeper spirituality, as though these words had made a real and

actual difference.

Somehow, it seemed, that Neil was transformed from the youth who had nurtured his dream of ordination for at least the whole of his teens into a rather more serious, considered and mature young man, the collar clearly suiting him.

The ordination retreat had been the most confusing experience. The group now kneeling along the altar rail had spent four days and three nights, in quiet reflection, a Chaplain had been with them, and had preached at the ordination a few moments ago, even though the pain in his knees had made it seem that much longer.

The theme of the retreat had been the role of the priest as a bridging person. Pontiff, which gave the pope his name, it had been explained, coming from the Latin, Pontifex, ‘bridge builder’.

The retreat conductor had been well intentioned, kindly, but he was inevitably from another era. He was the classic study in the morning, visit in the afternoon, tea and sherry before supper kind of clergyman whose very existence had been challenged at the radical theological college he himself had attended.

Silence was broken after the Bishops Charge which had been a kind of valediction, ‘what has happened is preparation, now we are to discover, you are to discover, in your hearts, exactly what kind of priests you will be’!

As soon as all that was over there was only one topic of conversation, clerical dress, what to wear, slip in? slip on? Shirt? Stock? One inch? One and a half inch?

A strip cut from a fairy liquid bottle?

The following morning, after the evening sherry, which everyone seemed to think was fairly risqué,  there was the revelation of black suits, brand new unyielding dog collars, necks marked with red stripes where the collar was rubbing, and cassocks, from evangelical Sarum style to Neil’s fabulous walking Soutane with shoulder cape.

He had chosen a simple black polo neck with a pair of black jeans and his old jacket, the cassock was an old one that he had inherited at college and had held on to.

Now out of the corner of his eye he saw Neil's lips moving in earnest

prayer and wondered what he might be saying and to what God he

might be praying.

The Bishop smelt of aftershave or eau de cologne. The scent was

stifling and overpowered him instantly. He closed his eyes which

had started to water, so strong was the scent, and tried not to

breathe. He felt the smooth weight of the Bishops manicured hand

stroke his hair in an almost, but not quite, sensual gesture and

as it lay there he heard the words again, this time spoken to him directly;

Take thou authority to execute the Office of a Deacon in the Church of God committed unto thee; in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

And then the Bishop was gone.