The First Dream that came Before: The Cathedral Dream

This is the dream I had last year that relates to my last post - Descent into the Abyss. The two dreams feel related...ARE related, definitely somehow. I have never written this one all the way out, nor have I ever had the opportunity to tell it in full. But it is as vivedly burned into my mind as the mist and the Abyss from last night. So the two should be shared together....

The Cathedral Dream…
In this dream, I am a young man in a huge, huge old medieval style Cathedral. It is dusty, and dark except for the light coming in from the great stained glass windows. The place is empty except for me and an older priest. I am in a shabby worn cassock, as though I am some sort of junior priest or perhaps studying for the priesthood – but I am not a priest. I am merely helping out the old priest as we clean up the place. And (In the dream I realize) the reason I am not a priest is that I began life as a woman, but now am a man, and the church does not accept me, even though I have a vocation and a call for the priesthood. The most they will let me do is menial chores. I may not light candles, but I can take down the burned stubs and replace them with new candles. I may sweep the dust, and clean the communion cup and plate – but not ever administer it, or even partake of communion. I am a slave almost, with no choice. And yet it’s the closest I can get to my vocation, to serve – there is a sad bittersweet joy in doing it, even while my heart yearns for so much, much more. But it’s as though there are no other options for me.
The priest is very short and distant with me – he Does Not Approve of me even doing this much, but it is useful and he really cannot forbid me menial chores, though I think he would really like to forbid me entry to the church period. He exits very grumpily, after telling me to clear out the burned out ranks of offering candles, and set out new ones that people have to “make an (monetary) offering” to light – of course far beyond the costs of the candles. He warns me that I may not light the candles and leaves I start replacing candles. I really do not like the extortion of money for the “privilege” of lighting a candle to make a prayer. I get the ranks of candles set up and step back and look at them…I can smell the sweet beeswax embedded with honey as I stand there, and I wrestle with the desire to light one, even though I have been told it is a sacrilege to do so. Finally I can stand it no longer – my heart tells me I should. I have nothing to light it with, except the Presence candle that burns at the front of the church night and day, symbolizing the Presence of Deity. I am a little worried about this, but I get one of the votive beeswax candles and carry it to the front and light it from the great ornate candle there. I carry it back to its place in the ranks of other votives, shielding its fragile light with my hand as I walk. The church is very cold and dim, except for the great flood of colors here and there from the windows. It is all cold carved stone with very little comfort in it. My little candle seems feeble…hardly enough to rank as an offering, let alone a sacrilege. I feel discouraged and tired.
I place the little candle in the empty place for it, and step back to pray but I have no words, just an overwhelming great desire for Deity and need to answer my call…a need that is denied. Suddenly, row by row, all the little votive began to spontaneously light up, flame upon flame and the church begins to glow and take on new light and life. I am stunned and look wildly about, and suddenly a great deep rolling voice speaks – in my head? In the church itself? And says, “You are acceptable to me, as you are…answer My call to you!”
And the church begins to wildly change…green vines begin to grow and wrap around the cold marble columns, becoming heavy with deep red grapes. The floors are suddenly filled with vivid orange and red and yellow autumn leaves...The pews are filled with, and finally over whelmed and tumbled over with fruits of the harvests – great orange pumpkins and red and green apples and baskets of nuts and grains. Sheaves of wheat flow around the front altar, and the scent of some sweet rich incense fills the great hall. Pagan symbols appear in the stone work, side by side with more traditional icons – spirals, pentacles, Sidhe-na-gigs and phallic horned gods with antlers, suns and moons and stars and over lapping triangles and runs of complex Celtic knot work…the shabby white altar cloths become a deep rich green, and the communion cup and plate that I have placed up there after washing them, are filled with fresh baked braids of bread and dark red wine.
And I am standing in the middle of this great burst of vivid pagan life and imagery with my mouth hanging open, and I look down at myself and I am wearing browns and reds, with a green robe, embroidered with harvest symbols and an interwoven belt of leather. Finally, I raise my eyes back to the altar and see the cross there that is still above it shifting and lengthening, until I realize it is a sword. It is patterned Damascus steel, with a grip of brown leather…lying on the altar is, what is clearly its scabbard of matching leather and brass fittings. The scabbard has to my surprise three studded brass crosses on it which seems to suggest the Christian Trinity. Hardly daring, I step forward, up and past the altar and reach out and take the upright sword by the hilt and lift it down…and I realize that by doing so I have accepted the Call of the Voice upon my life, and that it is leading me in a different direction then I thought I would go…