From the Cathedral steps you could see the thin streaks of rain gently falling on swishing traffic and bobbing black umbrellas. A sudden breeze sullied the reflected light on wet bitumen and lowered the temperature a few degrees. My plastic poncho was proof against the rain but not the cold wind. I went inside.
I took my place in a back pew, just inside the narthex. Being a typical Anglican, I prefer to practise my public worship as privately as possible. The God who knows me better than I know myself is kindly accepting of all my fears and fetishes. My fellow worshippers, if they knew of them, might not be so charitable.
A young woman came swishing past my elbow, a sensation of crimson
satin and the aroma of warm rubber. When she genuflected the crimson satin flared
firmly out from her belted waist.. She sat on the aisle two rows in front of
me -- light brown hair, a beret, rippling satin shoulders. From that moment
I knew that the spiritual value of this Evensong in St. Paul's Cathedral, Melbourne
was going to be challenged.
For thirty minutes I sat through the service, singing the words of the hymns, uttering all the familiar responses, but absorbing none of the rich poetry of the liturgy or the comfort to be derived from it. My eyes and my thoughts were focused on the figure two rows in front of me. Prayers? What should I pray for? For release from the longing that surged through me, or for some modest satisfaction? Should I move two rows forward into her magic aura -- engage her in quiet conversation -- gently touch her rippling sleeve?
Or should I cringe within my closet of guilt, safe and private in the back row, meekly kneeling on my knees, mouthing the General Confession?
The sermon was a distant rumble of words spoken by some dreary academic so I chose to tune out and indulge my fantasies about my goddess in the mackintosh. Was she very young or approaching middle age? Was she married? Was she pretty? Towards the end of the sermon my reverie was interrupted by a light tap on the shoulder. They were two sidesmen short; would I lend a hand with the offertory?
I had performed this task many times before but the sudden sweet odour of her mackintosh intoxicated me and I fumbled alarmingly with the plate as I approached her pew. I could now see that she would be the wrong side of thirty, strong regular features, brown eyes, not pretty, quite plain in fact, no make-up. She smiled -- a quick, friendly smile revealing an array of false teeth. She was wearing a wedding ring.
After the blessing we shuffled out to the narthex. I moved next to her, the back of my hand brushing the rippling smoothness of her rubbered sleeve.
"I'm sorry I fumbled with the plate," I whispered, "almost dropped it at your feet."
"Pennies from Heaven," she laughed.
It was my golden opportunity to extend the conversation, to dwell for a few short minutes within the compass of her odour, but at the Swanston Street door the head sidesman grabbed my arm to thank me for helping with the offertory. Before I could escape she was already down the steps and melting into the crowd of bobbing umbrellas.
I stood for a moment within the Cathedral doorway and laid my dilemma before the God who knows me better than I know myself, but of course, He already knew.
Jake
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