He ushered me down the aisle and waited for my pupils to absorb the dark before lighting a candle beside the door. The pervading blue eyes of Jesus Christ examined me from the back wall; daring me to feel him as he stripped me bare. I sensed the unfolding of a tired journey here and turned to the boy-priest for an explanation. Purposefully, he uncovered artifacts he’d hidden long ago so I no longer had to guess at their significance. He pulled rich materials from boxes in storerooms and allowed me to run my finger along their textured patterns while I conjured visions of him robed in Grecian silks. Our eyes met momentarily and we shared a private exchange beneath the ceiling of painted theologians who watched us and waited for our evening to develop. Remembering my love of words he strode up to the altar and took out a collection of worn books from its shelf.
With unusual acuity he opened the first page and began to read.
Delivering paragraphs and paragraphs of holy gospel to no one in particular I observed him in an unusual state of calm. It was then, at that moment that I came to understand more of him than I ever had. A young man possessed of an aching wisdom that wrenched him uncomfortably in the middle of a frustated and polarising lifestyle. A piercing voice echoed throughout the church and brought my wandering mind back to the cold, timber seat I had found amongst the pews. Each ancient word he spoke lingered long after the next one had escaped.
'Marry me, Presbytera'...
What should I do?