*At the Font*

A child crosses herself before a holy Icon

and runs back to her mother, her face glowing.

We step out of the ancient Cathedral church

into a downpour and hurry on

to hear a Theologian speak of prayer and the Fathers,

of asceticism and contemplation,

and the Orthodox path.

In a place of echoes and resonances

we listen and question and absorb,

and question and wonder,

and wonder whether we understand

and how we can know.

‘If you pray truly you are a theologian,

and if you are a theologian you pray truly’.

This both alarms and encourages us.

Our erudite teacher, Academic but no monk,

who looks and sounds the part,

guides us skilfully through the foothills of Evagrius Ponticus,

but we still get lost.

Which, partly, is the point and the hope and the end of it all.

Heartened by the serried ranks of the heavenly host,

the need to get home propels us

out into Haymarket

and the rush of Newcastle

and the fun of an hour’s chitchat in the car.

© David Grieve 2006

¶ 3:19 pm