On a chilly Sunday morning, an ancient priest fills in for the pastor.
He speaks softly, almost inaudibly at times.
He is careful when he moves and must even take a seat while the Gloria is sung.
Those of us in the back amid wriggling, restless masses must lean forward and focus our entire attention on him during the homily, so we can catch what he is saying above the low rumble that surrounds us.
He speaks of Peter. He pulls stories from here and there, across eight decades, I would guess, including a tale of his own trip to the Sea of Galilee with some other priests. They tried to get a fisherman to take them out in his boat, but he demurred, saying that he only went out at about 5:30 and fished all night - like Peter.
They convinced him, though, and so he took them out. Of course, he did not catch a thing.
The priest skips ahead a bit in the liturgical year and mentions Peter being recognized by his accent at the fire, in the dark, the night before Jesus was crucified.
He tells us that like Peter, all Christians are recognized by how they speak.
And he talks of brother apostles. How at one time in this diocese, there were six sets of priestly brothers. He names them all. He and his own older brother make up one of the sets.
“And now, ” he says softly, almost in wry, resigned wonderment, ”I’m the only one left.”
The slightest pause, and we think about that. ...
Be sure to read the rest at Amy's blog.
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