Grace to you and peace
from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, we come together with thanksgiving as congregation and
Presbytery to praise the Lord who has brought us to this day of the ordination
Of Roger Jeremiah MacKenzie as Minister of this congregation and parish.
Notre Dame de Paris had a mighty organ and many choristers; he remembered how the sound had shaken the air and seemed to quiver in his bones. Here, there was no music but the calls of birds that came through the open windows, no incense save the smell of pine boards and the pleasant tang of soap and sweat among the people. Brianna, on his left, smelled of flour and apples, and Claire on his right carried her usual varying scent of green things and flowers. From the corner of his eye, he caught a wee movement; a bee had landed on her head, just above her ear.
She lifted a hand absently to brush at the ticklish feeling, but he caught the hand and held it for a few seconds, ’til the bee flew away. She glanced at him, surprised, but smiled and looked back at what was going on in front of them.
The elder ministers spoke, one at a time, and they laid their hands on Roger Mac, touching his head, his shoulders, his hands. Just so, the bishop had laid his hands on the young priests, and he felt the same sense of awe, recognizing what was happening. This was the keeping of a Word that had been kept for centuries; the passing on of a solemn trust, that the man to whom it was given would keep it, too—forever.
He felt tears come to his eyes, and bit his lip to hold them back.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ!
In His great mercy by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,
He gave us new birth into a living hope.
Lord our God, we praise You for Christ the Lord.
We praise You for the fellowship of the Church;
we praise You for the faith handed down
as one generation to another tells of Your mighty acts;
we praise You for the worship offered throughout the world,
we praise You for the witness and service of the saints through the ages.
Lord our God—Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we praise You.
Amen.
In Paris, the young men—there had been twenty, he’d counted them—prostrated themselves in their clean white garments, lying facedown on the stone floor, hands raised above their heads, submitting themselves. Surrendering.
God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
You call us in Your mercy;
You sustain us by Your power.
Through every generation, Your wisdom supplies our need.
You sent Your only Son, Jesus Christ,
to be the apostle and high priest of our faith
and the shepherd of our souls.
By His death and resurrection He has overcome death
and, having ascended into heaven,
has poured out His Spirit,
making some apostles,
some prophets, some evangelists,
some pastors and teachers,
to equip all for the work of ministry
and to build up His body, the Church.
We pray You now to
POUR OUT YOUR HOLY SPIRIT UPON THIS YOUR SERVANT, Roger Jeremiah, WHOM WE NOW, IN YOUR NAME AND IN OBEDIENCE TO YOUR WILL, BY THE LAYING ON OF HANDS, ORDAIN AND APPOINT TO THE OFFICE OF THE HOLY MINISTRY WITHIN THE ONE, HOLY, CATHOLIC, AND APOSTOLIC CHURCH, COMMITTING TO HIM AUTHORITY TO MINISTER YOUR WORD AND SACRAMENTS.
These were Presbyterians and not given to spectacle. Roger Mac drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, and Jamie trembled as he felt the witness of surrender cleave his heart.
Warm drops struck his hands, folded in his lap, but he didn’t care. A murmur of awe and joy rose up from the church, and Roger Mac stood up, his own face wet with tears and shining like the sun.
IT WAS NEARLY midnight before we reached our bed. I could still hear the celebrations going on in the distance, though by now the random gunfire had ceased and it was just singing—of a very non-religious nature—with a single fiddle dodging in and out among the voices.
I was nearly dead with fatigue and the aftermath of strong emotion; I couldn’t imagine how Brianna, let alone Roger, was still on her feet, but I’d seen them on my way back to the house, wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing in the shadow of a big black walnut. I wondered vaguely whether the profound emotion of ordination normally turned into sexual desire, if the legitimate object of it was at hand … and what young, new Catholic priests might do to express their own elation?
I shed my clothes and pulled a clean night rail over my head, sighing in quiet ecstasy at having nothing but air on my corset-constricted body. My head popped out and I saw Jamie, lying on the bed in his own shirt. His head was cocked toward the window and he looked rather wistful; I wondered whether he’d rather be down there dancing—but I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t be there, if that was the case.
“What are you thinking?”
He looked up and smiled at me. He’d undone his formal queue and his hair lay over his shoulders, sparking in the candlelight.
“Och … I was just wondering whether I shall ever hear Mass said again.”
“Oh.” I tried to think. “When was the last time? At Jocasta’s wedding?”
“Aye, I think so.”
Catholicism was prohibited in most of the colonies, bar Maryland, which had been founded specifically as a Catholic colony. Even there, the Anglican Church was the official Church, and Catholic priests were few and far between in the southern colonies.
“It won’t always be like this,” I said, and began to massage his shoulders, slowly. “Brianna’s told you about the Constitution, hasn’t she? It will guarantee freedom of religion—among other things.”
“She recited the beginning of it to me.” He sighed and bent his head, inviting me to rub the long, tight muscles of his neck. “‘We, the people …’ Brawly written. I hope to meet Mr. Jefferson someday, though I think he might have stolen the odd phrase here and there, and some of his ideas have a familiar ring to them.”
“Montesquieu might have had some minor influence,” I said, amused. “And I believe I’ve heard John Locke spoken of as well.”
He glanced over his shoulder at me, one brow raised.
“Aye, that’s it. I shouldna have thought ye’d read either one, Sassenach.”
“Well, I haven’t,” I admitted. “But I didn’t go to school in America; only medical school, and they don’t teach you history there, bar the history of medicine, where they point out horrible examples of benighted thinking and horrific practices—virtually all of which I’ve actually used now and then, bar blowing tobacco smoke up someone’s bottom. Can’t think how I’ve missed that one …” I coughed. “But Bree learned all about American history in the fifth and sixth grades, and more in high school. She’s the one who told me about Mr. Jefferson’s light-fingered ways with words.
“But then, there’s Benjamin Franklin—I think at least some of his quotes were original. I remember, ‘You have a republic … if you can keep it.’ That’s what he said—will say—at the end of the war. But they—we—did keep it. At least for the next two hundred years. Maybe longer.”
“Something like that is worth fighting for, aye,” he said, and squeezed my hand.