Dear Friends,
Blessed Holy Week.
There is something wonderful about the work of ushering in this sacred season. And there is, of course, things that are overwhelming about it. This is the compelling challenge of church work – that even though nothing we do or fail to do can make the season happen – we do help others make meaning from these events.
Easter arrives regardless, yes, but much as later this week we will wash each other’s feet, acting in service and hospitality toward each other, some of us serve in the act of preparation and guidance.
Also, there are also Easter Egg Hunts.
I can’t overstate the importance of that undertaking to our communities. I don’t want to face a mutiny from pint-sized parishioners!
The World Cracked Open
As I think about worship plans and Easter eggs and all the things that go into the coming week, all I can think about is how Easter is a story about the world cracked open. I think of the midday darkness of the crucifixion. I think of the sound of a gong ringing out, seeming to fracture the quiet, that is often part of Tenebrae services. And, of course, I think of the grief of those who loved Jesus.
Few things make us feel as though the world has been shattered than the loss of someone we love.
In Christ’s broken body and in the stone rolled away, we see different versions of the same transformation. Loss and grief first must become confusion and worry, panic even, before it can be transmogrified into great joy. We only move into the joy of Easter morning so quickly and comparatively easily because we know how the story ends – or, more precisely, how the story of Christ’s death is *not* the end.
Our bodily deaths, too, may not be the end – that’s the promise of resurrection – but it is the end for now. And so, this year, I do my work with my world cracked open by the grief that comes with the end for now, by the way death feels like a suspension of unity. This is what my Holy Week will look like – but what about yours?
A Simple Devotion
Since even before last Easter, I have had true dawn Easter Vigils on the brain. These pre-dawn gatherings were how I was introduced to the tradition a decade ago, and a Saturday evening vigil just doesn’t feel the same. That being said, because I haven’t been working at churches that have this practice, attending a vigil doesn’t quite line up with my Easter morning schedule. And that’s okay. Christ will be risen regardless. But that’s not the only reason this can be advantageous.
The fact of the matter is that I think there is something helpful to the often pared back Holy Week schedules many churches today offer. Those with the ability can generally piece together the full complement of services across a few locations, but for most of us, a full calendar of events can feel like a setup for failure, and I can imagine that’s even more the case for families with children. Tenebrae, foot washing, adoration of the cross, stations, vigil…. we just don’t have lives that make room for such a long list of worship services. But what if we are invited to do more by doing less?
So much of the days we mark in Holy Week were, in practice, were in reality a time of fright and isolated grief. That time also included the Sabbath, the day of rest, and yet we cram these days full to the brim. Which is why I want to know, what makes you feel like you have come close to what you need in the course of Holy Week?
For me, one of the most important, stirring moments of Holy Week is the stripping of the altar. Watching everything be taken away, watching the altar be reverently washed, those moments hold essentially everything I need. And, at the same time, I think you can find a meaningful part of that in taking down your own family’s sacred spot for a few days, by leaving it clearly emptied out.
Maybe you find what you need in the tender act of foot washing, but maybe your church’s Maundy Thursday foot washing happens too late in the evening for you to attend with a small child (or several) at home. Why not let that practice be a tender act amongst family members instead? Or if your children are too young, what is to stop us from seeing the parallels between bathing an infant – the tenderness, the attention, the love and service – and the way we treat each other in the course of Maundy Thursday service?
Last Friday, I went to a concert with my wife, and the musician, someone we’ve known for many years, told a story about her mother’s anxiety surrounding her infant daughter’s baths. After watching this musician bathe her child one evening, she called her the next day. “I’ve been thinking about the bath and I think I’ve figured it out. I’ll get some gloves and I’ll put on the dry gloves before I take her out of the bath.”
“I promise she’s not that slippery. I don’t think you need the gloves. Try it next time.” This new grandmother, this woman who had clearly managed not to drown her own child in her infancy(!), had brought a new layer of care and concern to this next generation. (The other question we all had: what kind of gloves?!) I imagine Jesus moving with the same kind of care as he washed the disciples feet.
Our acts of devotion can be simple. The lighting of a candle. The telling of a story. Reading a book or hearing a story. While the prayer book liturgies give us many historic and beautiful ways of being together, they are not the only way. Sometimes we can let the simple things hold us and remind us of the bigger things.
May this Holy Week offer you the preparation and nourishment that you need, and may you know that come Sunday, Christ will be risen regardless.
Christ will be risen, indeed. (Not quite) Alleluia.
Peace,
Bird