Leaving Church - Barbara Brown Taylor [16]
When I was ordained priest almost a year later, the bishop invited every other priest who was there to join him in the laying on of hands. I had just promised a whole lot of things during the part of the service called “The Examination.” Standing in front of the bishop and the congregation, I had said that I believed I was truly called by God and God’s Church to the priesthood. I had promised to respect and be guided by the pastoral direction and leadership of my bishop. I had promised to be diligent in the reading and study of the Holy Scriptures, to endeavor to minister the Word of God and the sacraments of the New Covenant so that the reconciling love of Christ might be known and received, and to be a faithful pastor to all whom I was called to serve. I had promised to do my best to pattern my life and the life of my family in accordance with the teachings of Christ in order to be a wholesome example to my people, and to persevere in prayer, both public and private.
“May the Lord who has given you the will to do these things give you the grace and power to perform them,” the bishop said. Then he invited all the other priests to come up to the communion rail. As I knelt before the altar, I heard their vestments rustling behind me while the congregation sang a hymn calling the Holy Spirit to come among us. With my eyes closed and my heart hammering, I felt hands lighting on my head, my shoulders, and my back. At first their weight was comforting, like the weight of a winter quilt. I felt energy pouring into me until my skin went all prickly and my face got hot. Then more hands piled on, and my neck began to hurt. Some of the hands felt wobbly, as if people were leaning in to reach me and were losing their balance in the process. I tried to straighten my back so that I could push back, but it was too late. There was no room left for me to raise myself even a little under that great weight of hands.
The singing had stopped. We had entered the period of silent prayer before the bishop said the prayer of consecration out loud, but I was not feeling prayerful. I was feeling panicky, wondering if I could make it through to the end without standing up and pushing all those hands away from me. Why hadn’t anyone warned me that the hands would be so heavy?
Please, please, please, I prayed, while the entire weight of heaven and earth pressed down on my head. I was getting exactly what I wanted, but I had not realized how much it was going to hurt. Was this God’s sly way of letting me know what priesthood was really all about? Under the weight of hands, I repented of all my vainglory: of liking the way I looked in a collar, of wanting my own parking space, of needing to be special in hopes of being specially loved. I would serve God, I promised. I would imitate Christ. Now please let up, just for now, please, let me up.
While I was repeating the words of this prayer in shorter and shorter bursts, I heard the bishop’s voice far above me. “Therefore, Father, through Jesus Christ your Son, give your Holy Spirit to Barbara,” he said; “fill her with grace and power, and make her a priest in your church.”
When he finished saying that, the weight began to lift. The priests standing around me took back their hands one by one until I could hold my head up again. As they returned to their seats, someone helped me up. I turned and faced the congregation, planting my feet far apart so that I would not fall over. People I loved walked toward me holding my new vestments in their arms. I held still while they tugged a red chasuble over my head and draped a red stole over my shoulders. Then the bishop gave me a Bible, the congregation clapped, and I did what all new priests do at that point in the service. I pronounced