Holy Week

I've been attending a church in Bethesda, Episcopal Church of the Redeemer. I'm singing in the choir and meeting some great people. In preparation for dwelling “in the house of the Lord forever” I decided to attend every service during Holy Week. (That’s eleven services in eight days folks.)

Years ago, I had a job singing in a Polish Catholic church in Saint Paul. I will always remember struggling to read Polish hymns. I will also remember women weaving palm fronds into crosses and roses on Palm Sunday like fidgety children given something to keep their hands busy. Years later I was given a book on the art of palm weaving and I look forward every year to Palm Sunday so I can create little figures. So it was with joy on our Palm Sunday that I wove roses for my new friends in the choir. It was infectious; soon someone was weaving a cross and another was braiding hers.

Monday evening was a Taizé service with Eucharist. Taizé is an ecumenical monastic order in France. From is has come many short, simple songs with lyrics often taken from the Psalms or other scripture, I always savor the campfire-like ambiance of the Taizé services. Replace the campfire with candlelight and add a flute, cello, piano and violin to the guitar and you have a Taizé service. I look forward to sinking into meditation singing the short, gentle choruses over and over.

Tuesday evening was my first Reconciliation service. I had to look this one up. I wasn’t sure if I should try to invite my estranged sister or just show up with my tail between my legs before God. It turns out the latter was more appropriate. I have long breathed in the priest’s absolution – literally inhaling deeply – taking in the spirit of forgiveness when it's offered. I left Monday’s service with full lungs and a newly baptized feeling.

Wednesday was a double header. At noon there was an intimate Eucharist. I actually looked up to see if I was allowed to partake in the Eucharist so many times during one week. I didn't want to get in trouble. As I had been feeling some distance building between me and God, I decided that as long as my heart and thoughts was present I could be intimate with Him more often that I was accustomed; perhaps the physical act would promote something soul-soothing. 

Wednesday evening was my first Tenebrae service. As I mentioned, I love candlelight and darkness so the symbolism of the Tenebrae service was engaging and moving for me. Seeing the single flame emerging from the darkness near the end stirred feelings of how alone Christ must have felt. At the end, when Cricket (our rector) slowly made her way to the piano, I thought she was going to give herself a pitch to chant. When she fell head first onto the keys I nearly sprang up to administer CPR. Thank God I realized that was part of the service – the strepitus, which symbolizes the earthquake at the moment of Christ’s resurrection. Very effective, very effective . . .

During Maundy Thursday’s service I felt like I’d had enough. Thoughts of “we’re going to sing all these verses?” replaced “Christ in Heaven I honor You.” My mind wandered to the pub at the Irish Inn and what their soup of the day was during the Eucharist. Robin (the associate rector) calls this “monkey mind.” I held it together as best I could. It helped that I was singing in the choir. Singing engages me (usually) and as I was in full sight of everyone I couldn’t very well excuse myself. Part of the Maundy Thursday service is the stripping of the altar to symbolize Christ being literally stripped then stripped of His life. Thank God (literally) we’ll never know how Jesus felt being stripped. And mocked. And scourged. And hung. When the service ended, I stayed in my seat comfortably reflecting. The darkness gets me every time.

Friday’s stations of the cross and performance of Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater (a hymn to Mary’s suffering) was inspiring. I’d never heard this; it was a huge contrast from Rossini’s. I told our organist, Christ Betts, that the organ occasionally reminded me of a calliope – the music was carnival-like. My friend Judy, who sat next to me, agreed and added that it portrayed the unreal atmosphere that must have prevailed on that terrible day. It left the image of a freak show in my mind – so oddly wrong that people can’t look away; so popular they can’t stop it from happening.

I was so into the routine of the service that during Good Friday's evening service I went up with the Eucharistic ministers instead of waiting my turn with the rest of the congregation. I didn't make it all the way to the alter, thank God. I slid into the front pew hoping no one noticed. Yeah, only 12 people were there. They noticed. The feeling of wanting to be done with church for a week or so lingered through that service (unconnected with with my jumping the gun to get to the bread and body). I felt bad, guilty. Then I realized that Holy week wasn’t supposed to be easy – it certainly wasn’t back in the day – so I relaxed.

Saturday morning’s service was blissfully brief, but Cricket said something that affected me. Basically she gave us permission to be sad, to be disturbed during that time. This fit in with what I realized during Good Friday's service. We tend to look at Holy week as Easter week and, in looking forward to the resurrection, overlook the horror that Christ’s public torture and crucifixion brought on those who knew Him and believed in Him. We don’t like sorrow and fear; we avoid it. But we need to know how to handle it. What better way than in the company of the church and God? What better time than when we have the luxury of knowing the end of the story?

Come Easter Vigil I was just plain tired – vocally, physically and spiritually. The presence of a brass quartet awakened me. I wonder if not attending services when Chris has such fine music as this is not in itself a sin. If sin is separation from God, then it is indeed because God was in this music.

The quartet played again Easter morning. We had a houseful – including 20 or so students from various African countries joining us for the service. Cricket spoke poetically and movingly about stained glass as we all enjoyed beautiful visuals in the church’s windows to accompany her stories. The service ended with Widor’s Toccata from Syphony No 5 – organ plus brass quartet. It was as though a dervish was loosed on the organ. Chris’s fingers flew relentlessly for the six or so minutes it lasted. The melodic punctuations of the brass brought the performance to a grandeur fitting a Cathedral on Easter morning.

I came out of Holy Week hoping to keep the practice of small, occasional services even if I do them on my own. Douglas and I have a Book of Common Prayer, a hymnal, a Lectionary and, of course, a Bible or twelve so I ought to be able to do that. Hopefully in a few months I'll write another blog sharing how spiritually filling it has been to sit at my altar at home and read and sing the services.