December Seven

December 1941 Ordination to the Deaconate was December 6th, 1941. The next day, Sunday, a large crowd gathered to witness the first celebration of Fr. Gregory, Deacon Richard and four others ordained the previous day.
     The doors of the small seminary chapel opened at 9:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time on that sleepy Sunday morning in Boston. It was only 3:30 a.m. in Pearl Harbor. In Auschwitz it was already 5:30 p.m. and a yet to be discovered horror rose out of the chimneys. An old Ford pick-up truck outside Birch Clump rested in a ditch with its engine running and the driver shriveled up grotesquely behind the steering wheel with a stroke.
     The newly ordained Deacons and Priests were presented to the Greek-Syriac Catholic Community and took their places in the sanctuary, removing their shoes for they were in a sacred place, where the Kingdom of God joins Earth in the Divine Liturgy. Second year seminarians, and a 14 year old, serving as acolytes, draped their own vestments over their arms and approached the new priest for a blessing. The gentle jingle of bells from the incense bowl prepared by Deacon Richard called for respectful silence of all present.
     By 10:00 a.m., Boston time, everyone was vested and in place. The ritual offerings of bread and wine were prepared at the side table and a few drops of water added to the chalice, then covered with veils. The new deacon spoke these words to the new priest: “Master, it is time for the Lord to act.”
     Eucharistic Divine Liturgy began.
     Job, given a seat of honor, wore black trousers, and had a black dyed buckskin vest ceremoniously decorated Potawatomi style over his white shirt and tie. He watched as his brother scooped grains of incense, mixed with an offering of chopped sweet-grass Job’s aunts sent along, into the censer. Billowing clouds of sweet, sacred smoke rose up as the congregation and chief celebrants began the ancient chants praising God. The 14-year-old acolyte held out a rabbit fur pouch for the deacon. Reaching in, Richard pinched a bit of tobacco and dropped the herb into the burning incense. Few took notice of the rabbit pouch. Fewer still knew of its significance as a Native American custom.
     Once the Throne, Altar and Icons were honored with incense and every corner of the sanctuary purified in smoke, the baritone voice of the young deacon was already offering the first of the petitions: “For peace throughout the world, we pray to the Lord.”
     Smoke rose into the evening air in far off Poland. The ash from mankind’s largest crematorium fell inside barbed wire fences. What prayers, offered there, were in silence. In stealth, the crews of the Imperial Japanese aircraft carriers watched their smoke stacks as they crept towards Pearl Harbor like a cat ready to pounce on a large bird.
     In Boston the mid-morning congregation responded, “Lord, have mercy.”
     The congregation reverently bowed and blest themselves as the Priest held up the Book of the Gospel. The Minor Entrance, as this part is called, consisted of the acolytes, deacons and Priests processing the Gospel Book through the congregation, and then to the sanctuary. The Priest stopped at the berm, turned to the people, then opened the book and rested it on the forehead and raised hands of an acolyte. Fr. Gregory introduced the sacred reading while the crowd gathered around him. Deacon Richard, not far away, handed the incense to an acolyte.
     “Sophia, Let us stand and listen to the holy Gospel. Peace to all.” chanted the Bishop.
     “The Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Matthews,” the priest announced, and then stepped aside for the Deacon to take over.
     “Let us be attentive,” chanted the Bishop as he blessed Richard.
     In Holland, a farmer clutched his worn Bible. His family huddled about him while angry soldiers of the Third Reich tore up his house. In a sealed off section of the same house a Rabbi squeezed a bound copy of the Torah close to his heart. His family, the remnants of other families, huddled around him as bayonets probed the walls of their hiding place. Human ash continued up the chimneys in Poland. The Japanese Imperial Navy pushed closer to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.
     Richard put a fevered pitch to the final line of the Gospel, closed the book and blessed the people. All sang out, “Alethos Kyrie, Alethos,” as they stepped forward to kiss the Book of the Gospels. The new priest delivered his first sermon; then once again the Deacon belted out petitions: “For the sick, the oppressed; for the widowed and orphaned, let us pray to the Lord.”
     A passer by and his family pulled to the side of the road north of Birch Clump to render assistance to the poor, longhaired driver curled up in the driver’s seat.
     The Boston congregation chanted, “Lord, have mercy.”
     In bombed cities of Europe children and grandmothers searched the rubble for food. Tattered blankets were pulled closer to ward off the December chill in Asia.
     “For favorable weather and an abundant harvest, we pray to the Lord.”
     “Lord, have mercy.”
     Convoys of soldiers, tanks and ambulances inched their way along the warfronts across two great oceans. Japanese pilots readied their strike planes on board their carriers.
     “For all travelers this day, by air, land and sea, we pray to the Lord.”
     “Lord, have mercy.”
     The trampling of international boarders was not confined to the better-known regions of the world. In the tribal lands of India, stood a young, bare-chested boy, draped from the waist down in long, green, plaid skirting. He stared in wonder at the thundering objects flying overhead. He has never seen such things cross the sky before. Modern warfare, airplanes, had come to the interior of India.
     “For this city, and every city and village throughout the world, let us pray to the Lord.”
     “Lord, hear our prayer.”