I figured as much. On Wednesday, the tell-tale sign that the antidoron was incubating penicillin showed up. A quick pinch, a toss to the birds, and a portion consumed in prayer. This morning, the remainder had been taken over by the alternate green life form.
Antidoron is blessed bread. It is the portion of the prosphora that is cut away from the "lamb." The "lamb" is that heart of the prosphora bread that becomes the body of Chist and is mixed in the chalice with the wine that becomes the blood of Christ. The portion cut away, the antidoron, then, is blessed bread, though it is not the Eucharistic element. Anyone may eat the antidoron; one need not be Orthodox. So if you're at an Orthodox liturgy, and a worshipper hands you a small square of bread: take it, and eat it prayerfully with thanksgiving. But because it is blessed bread, even hard and moldy antidoron cannot just be thrown into the trash. It is to be returned to the natural cycle. A scattering of crumbs on our back porch, with which to bless the finches and wrens.
Still, moldy antidoron. How disappointing. One settles into a rhythm of observance and prayer. Then something happens and shakes up one's little prayer corner. Coming on the heels of yesterday's corrections (and my little rebellious post, humorous though it was intended to be, stings a little bit on the soul), this was a bit deflating.
I know those, my priest is one, who, in praying for a particular person, are suddenly overwhelmed by those intercessions. One begins praying the liturgical prayers of the Church by heart, struggling to match words and heart's meaning, asking to be shaped and formed by these ancient prayers. All seems as dry as hard and moldy antidoron. And then, right smack in the middle of "Now that the day has come to a close" the tears come. One's voice breaks. The heart bursts forth with urgency and longing for one's friend. Heart's meaning not only matches the ancient prayers of the Church but seems to overflow them. One becomes, by way of intercession, one's friend, the prayer intentions one is praying for one's friend becomes, in a priestly way, one's very own intention. The tears continue throughout the evening psalms. The Creed becomes a battle cry in this struggle not against flesh and blood. And the final words "Lord Jesus Christ, our God, through the intercessions of thine immaculate Mother, of . . . and of all thy saints, have mercy on us and save us, for though art a merciful God who lovest mankind" are laid before God's throne.
I don't fully understand the ways of prayer. Heck, I don't understand them at all. I have my list of intercessions. I do my best to pray them faithfully. I know and trust that God hears. Still and all, I mostly feel like moldy antidoron. Yet even so, maybe God uses hard and crusty me to bring blessing through prayer, and only by his grace, to others . . . even these birds who neither sow nor reap, yet whom God cares for.
Posted by Clifton at March 7, 2003 08:14 PM | TrackBack