I am changing some
words to the sacrament prayer in my head while it is being spoken aloud by the
young men dressed in their crisp white shirts and colorful ties. They mostly look bored, sitting up there. I wonder if it would be any different if the
young women were allowed to bless the sacrament. Most likely they'd be hard-pressed not to
giggle and flirt. But as impressed as I
am by some of the serious faces of those young men--the ones who take their
priesthood responsibilities seriously, and feel the weight of the mantle they
have been given--I am still an outsider, listening to a prayer said to a male
god, about a male god, by males. And so
I change the words. Just a little
bit. And the overlapping sound of the
spoken prayer and my own words make it simply perfect for me. Oh Goddess, the Eternal Mother, I thank you
also, for the gift of your Son. I know
You were a part of that great plan, a wise and glorious designer, a loving
mother, an Eternal Guide. I acknowledge
You as the Mother of my Savior and Redeemer, my Comforter, my Brother, my
Friend.
Oh Goddess, the Eternal Mother Oh God, the
Eternal Father, we ask thee, in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, to bless and
sanctify this bread, to the souls of all those who partake of it, that they may
eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son oh
Goddess, the Eternal Mother Oh God, the Eternal Father…
I take the bread
reverently, feeling a small atom of what it must be like to sacrifice a son,
and I clutch mine tightly for a moment as I hope I am never asked to watch him
sacrifice himself--whether that be physically, emotionally, mentally,
spiritually… Thank you, Mother. Help me to be more like you.
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