I was looking for anything regarding being an immolation, as it seemed to me in the wee hours that when the Lord told me to "be an immolation", I had been told that in some way, before.
So here was this description of the odd occurrence in the Cathedral chapel where I used to live, with the host flying up and over and landing on the floor, and my sensing that it would be me--that I was going to be brought very low. I will reprint it; it is surreal as I have suffered yet again today with the maimed and pained right shoulder.
It was that very chapel floor upon which I fell and was immobile in the mystical state all during a morning Mass, June 13, 2011. Except I was at the end of the aisle from where the Host had fallen and from where I had kissed the ground. I was on that aisle, on that ground, humbled and to bear the wound and pain for the rest of my earthly life. Recently it has been the emotional and psychological pain in addition to the physical pain--of all that transpired.
My cousin called today. She reminded me, too, of how horrible it was--just that time period and the priest and bishops, plus reminded me of the first surgeon who missed the SLAP tear and was so cruel when I kept going back, saying something surely had to be wrong still. Finally, he was quite rude, and when I called again begging for any kind of help with the shoulder, his nurse said the doctor refused to see me. It all is so unbelievable, other than it all happened. But my cousin does not know the full truth of how terribly crushing and cruel were the priests and the bishop and then the new bishop, and the coldness of people. She did remind me how some humans can be very mean.
But this past three years prior to my injurious fall right in that very chapel, on that very aisle, at the other end of the altar--this somehow helps my faith tonight, for it was an uncanny prescience and response to that Host that leapt out and over and fell to the hard floor.
Last evening, in prayer, the
loveliness of Ash Wednesday lifted the nothing's soul into joy. There
had been a consolation. This seemed to lead to the understanding of the
soul, united with Christ, being lifted by the hands of the priest, as
the Host is lifted high above the altar--but then inevitably brought
down for the immolation, to be broken and shared: the Body and Blood.
This morning, during the Consecration, the nothing was reminded of this image, and that such a consolation as yesterday would be brought to the altar of sacrifice--so to ponder it and offer the soul to God at the point of elevation, and to offer the soul for the Bishop's prayer request.
Just as the priest was preparing to offer the Body of Christ to the extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion, a consecrated Host literally flew up and out of the chalice, and catapulted over the white-linened altar, and tumbled down the other side of the altar onto the black marbled floor where it bounced two or three times and sat immobile. A woman quickly reached down, picked Him up, and gave the Host to the priest who consumed.
The nothing watched that Host flying out, up, over and down. It saw it lying there on the black marble floor--not at the altar height, immolated on the white linen, but at the lowest point of the Sanctuary, where feet tred without consideration of having trod, where priests genuflect after Mass, their feet and knees touching that black marble flooring.
As the Host performed the gymnastic feat, the nothing saw within itself: I am that small species of Christ. I am not brought down upon the altar. No, I am going to be brought down to the lowest point--off the altar of sacrifice, in front of the altar, and on the floor. It is going to be some feat of perpetual humbling.
After Mass, the nothing went back to the Sacristy and shared this with the priest, for less than 24 hours previously he had been one of the three to be asked to pray for perpetual humility for the nothing during Lent--not that any of them must pray for the nothing at all! But the nothing asked him about that Host that flew into the air, and he remarked he'd not had anything quite like that. Then the nothing said: That is to be me.
The nothing explained about last night's prayer, of being elevated by the words of the Bishop, and having a foresight of being brought down upon the altar of sacrifice--but now knowing it would be even lower than altar height, and alone, bouncing and then lying still upon the black marble floor. The nothing said, "That Host is a sign to me."
This priest understood immediately. He said, "You'd better start praying immediately for fortitude and endurance for when it happens." The nothing said it would no doubt fall apart. Again he said, "That is why I say to pray now for fortitude to withstand it." Yes, the nothing is praying, but still, part of the humbling will probably be not handling it well. A chill of fear crept the spine as the nothing departed the Sacristy. Be not afraid. Do not become spooked. It is the Lord Who grants prayer requests, especially for a much-needed virtue.
The nothing returned to the pew, finished the morning office, waited until all had left the chapel. The nothing knew it was to accept whatever is to come. In the silence and emptiness, the nothing walked to the spot before the altar where the leaping Host had bounced and landed, knelt down, kissed the ground.
Lord, whatever it is that will grant perpetual humility, I am willing--even if it is worse than anything You've allowed me ever to endure. Even if it is beyond any expectation and takes me by surprise, which is how the gift of humility usually is given. Even if it is something slow and long-suffering. Now, Lord, I will try not to anticipate or fear, but to lend myself limpid for You this Lent.
So here was this description of the odd occurrence in the Cathedral chapel where I used to live, with the host flying up and over and landing on the floor, and my sensing that it would be me--that I was going to be brought very low. I will reprint it; it is surreal as I have suffered yet again today with the maimed and pained right shoulder.
It was that very chapel floor upon which I fell and was immobile in the mystical state all during a morning Mass, June 13, 2011. Except I was at the end of the aisle from where the Host had fallen and from where I had kissed the ground. I was on that aisle, on that ground, humbled and to bear the wound and pain for the rest of my earthly life. Recently it has been the emotional and psychological pain in addition to the physical pain--of all that transpired.
My cousin called today. She reminded me, too, of how horrible it was--just that time period and the priest and bishops, plus reminded me of the first surgeon who missed the SLAP tear and was so cruel when I kept going back, saying something surely had to be wrong still. Finally, he was quite rude, and when I called again begging for any kind of help with the shoulder, his nurse said the doctor refused to see me. It all is so unbelievable, other than it all happened. But my cousin does not know the full truth of how terribly crushing and cruel were the priests and the bishop and then the new bishop, and the coldness of people. She did remind me how some humans can be very mean.
But this past three years prior to my injurious fall right in that very chapel, on that very aisle, at the other end of the altar--this somehow helps my faith tonight, for it was an uncanny prescience and response to that Host that leapt out and over and fell to the hard floor.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Nothing Catholic Hermit Sees the Sign
This morning, during the Consecration, the nothing was reminded of this image, and that such a consolation as yesterday would be brought to the altar of sacrifice--so to ponder it and offer the soul to God at the point of elevation, and to offer the soul for the Bishop's prayer request.
Just as the priest was preparing to offer the Body of Christ to the extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion, a consecrated Host literally flew up and out of the chalice, and catapulted over the white-linened altar, and tumbled down the other side of the altar onto the black marbled floor where it bounced two or three times and sat immobile. A woman quickly reached down, picked Him up, and gave the Host to the priest who consumed.
The nothing watched that Host flying out, up, over and down. It saw it lying there on the black marble floor--not at the altar height, immolated on the white linen, but at the lowest point of the Sanctuary, where feet tred without consideration of having trod, where priests genuflect after Mass, their feet and knees touching that black marble flooring.
As the Host performed the gymnastic feat, the nothing saw within itself: I am that small species of Christ. I am not brought down upon the altar. No, I am going to be brought down to the lowest point--off the altar of sacrifice, in front of the altar, and on the floor. It is going to be some feat of perpetual humbling.
After Mass, the nothing went back to the Sacristy and shared this with the priest, for less than 24 hours previously he had been one of the three to be asked to pray for perpetual humility for the nothing during Lent--not that any of them must pray for the nothing at all! But the nothing asked him about that Host that flew into the air, and he remarked he'd not had anything quite like that. Then the nothing said: That is to be me.
The nothing explained about last night's prayer, of being elevated by the words of the Bishop, and having a foresight of being brought down upon the altar of sacrifice--but now knowing it would be even lower than altar height, and alone, bouncing and then lying still upon the black marble floor. The nothing said, "That Host is a sign to me."
This priest understood immediately. He said, "You'd better start praying immediately for fortitude and endurance for when it happens." The nothing said it would no doubt fall apart. Again he said, "That is why I say to pray now for fortitude to withstand it." Yes, the nothing is praying, but still, part of the humbling will probably be not handling it well. A chill of fear crept the spine as the nothing departed the Sacristy. Be not afraid. Do not become spooked. It is the Lord Who grants prayer requests, especially for a much-needed virtue.
The nothing returned to the pew, finished the morning office, waited until all had left the chapel. The nothing knew it was to accept whatever is to come. In the silence and emptiness, the nothing walked to the spot before the altar where the leaping Host had bounced and landed, knelt down, kissed the ground.
Lord, whatever it is that will grant perpetual humility, I am willing--even if it is worse than anything You've allowed me ever to endure. Even if it is beyond any expectation and takes me by surprise, which is how the gift of humility usually is given. Even if it is something slow and long-suffering. Now, Lord, I will try not to anticipate or fear, but to lend myself limpid for You this Lent.
No comments:
Post a Comment