The father stands at the altar, arms raised at either side,
his hands facing forward. We see the white length of his surplice from the
back, the white rope that cinches it at the waist, the gold-braided green
chasuble at his neck.
What we cannot see from here, but intuit, are the luminous
effects of the burst of sunlight whose rays filter in through the tall stained
glass windows at the east end of the church, illuminating the father’s whole person,
his vestments and his face, now upturned toward God. No, what we see is merely
the father’s figure, tall, and outlined in glorious luminescence. We hear the
euphonious sound of his voice as it intones the familiar liturgy of the Holy
Communion, rising high in the chancel.
The son stands behind the father, a little to one side. He
is perhaps ten years old. He wears a cassock and a short surplice. He is the
server. When the right moment comes, a gesture from the father will beckon him
to the small side table, where the wafers await, where the glass flagons of
water and wine await. He takes, first, the wafers and offers them to the
father, who places them on the paten, between the folds of the pure white cloth.
He takes the wine and the water and offers them, one by one, to the father, who
pours the precise amount needed into the gleaming silver chalice.
The father will now respond in kind to the reverential bow
with which the son has learned to follow this exchange, and returns to the
altar to offer the sacrifice of wine and wafer, now to be transformed into the
flesh and blood of Christ.
This is the father’s mystery, in which the son must learn to
believe. In his heart, he must learn to believe it. It is a mystery, yes.
Perhaps one day, when he is older, he will learn what it means.
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