Holy Saturday

This morning, a few folks gathered in the darkened Chapel at Trinity Church to observe the "proper liturgy of the day". Holy Saturday often gets trampled in our rush toward Easter. We have plenty of logical reasons for ignoring this brief, solemn service -- flowers need to be arranged, silver and brass need polishing, last minute shopping needs to be accomplished, we've already spent enough time in church this week. I suspect though, the underlying reason for our avoidance of this liturgy is more emotional than logical. We cannot bear to sit with death for too long. Good Friday confronts us with death and we want to get to the happy ending of Easter.

I read an article recently in which the author lamented the absence of bodies (or even ashes) of the deceased at funerals. He wrote something to the effect that, "our culture has become so uncomfortable with death we don't even allow the dead to attend their own funerals." The liturgy of Holy Saturday confronts us with the unrelenting reality of Death -- even Jesus wasn't immune to its clutches.

We know our own death is inevitable. We try like hell to live as if we will never die. We spend most of our time afraid of contemplating death (as if by not thinking about it we will somehow delay its arrival and secure our deliverance from it). We miss our loved ones who have died -- our hearts ache with grief (and sadness is to be avoided at all costs in the culture of the perpetually "happy"). We want to believe that there is something "out there" beyond this life for them and for us. But we don't know for certain. The certainty and the ambiguity of Death are almost too much to bear if we think about it too much.

Waiting for resurrection involves some time in mourning and grief. The proper liturgy for today provides a space for us to do just that. The liturgy also reminds us that Jesus can be our companion in the journey toward our own death. After all, he's already been there ahead of us.

Good Friday

I'll never forget my first Good Friday as an Episcopalian. I had grown up in a "free church" tradition, which, while faithfully preaching the centrality of Easter, was a bit thin on any sort of experiential way of engaging the average congregant. In the church of my childhood, it almost seemed that having packed pews on Easter was more important than contemplating the Empty Tomb. So, to actually live into the events of Holy Week liturgically was a novelty I had never experienced.

So, on a bright spring Good Friday in northeast Florida, I entered the church building.  My emotions were still reeling from the gritty pageantry of the night before -- washing feet, participating in the Eucharist, witnessing the stripping of the altar and the removal of all the liturgical furnishing that gave the worship space its particular character. We had gone out into the previous night with the real sense that Jesus was in the Garden once again, praying for the cup to pass from him. 

In the light of the midday, the starkness was gut-wrenching. A large, rough hewn cross occupied the top of the Chancel steps -- literally blocking any entrance to the altar rail. I had already been instructed that there would be no Eucharist celebrated or Communion distributed -- a way of calling our attention to the somberness of Good Friday -- THE day of penance and fasting. I sat through the readings, and though they were familiar, I heard them in a way I had never heard them before. The story of Jesus' Passion as told by the Gospel of John was gripping. The Solemn Collects confronted me with an awareness of the myopic nature of my usual prayers. We sang a hymn: Sing my tongue, the glorious battle; of the mighty conflict sing: tell the triumph of the victim, to his cross thy tribute bring. Jesus Christ, the world's Redeemer from that cross now reigns as King.

And then it was over. In silence we left the church building. My eyes blinked against the strong afternoon sun. My mind was racing with thoughts about the experience -- the connection between what had happened so long ago and what I had just witnessed. I knew I was centuries removed from the events. I knew there was no way I could claim an identification with any of the characters on that first Good Friday. I knew they were all safely in the recesses of history. But they were also part of me. The events had been made "present" for me...and I was made "present" to those events.

I'll never forget my shock of seeing folks strolling the sidewalks with their dogs or loved ones. Laughing. Chatting. Listening to music. Shopping. Going about their lives as if nothing at all important was going on around them. I wanted to scream, "Don't you know? Jesus is dead!" 

Today, is my 20th Good Friday as Episcopalian. I stepped out of church again today -- on an unseasonably warm spring day in Wisconsin. People were out in force. After a long winter of being indoors, who could blame them? Laughing. Chatting. Listening to music. Shopping. Going about their lives as if nothing at all important was going on around them. I still wanted to scream, "Don't you know? Jesus is dead!"

Then it dawned on me. Things haven't changed much. On the day Jesus died, people were busy living their lives too. Laughing. Chatting. Making music. Bartering in the market. In spite of the Gospel versions of the Crucifixion, my guess is, on the whole, Jerusalem didn't even miss a beat. What's one more dead, would-be prophet? What's one more country rabbi with messianic aspirations? What's one more misguided fool talking about the end of the world? 

Today is Good Friday. A few people paused long enough to remember the death of Jesus. A few people lingered at the foot of the cross. The vast majority of folks in this world (including those who have been marked with the sign of the cross in their own baptisms!) went about their business, unhindered by the old, well-worn story of  an innocent Man's demise -- unaware that, in a mystery known only to God, this singular death is a sign of God's undying commitment to gift all of humankind with life. 

Jesus is dead. The Church waits. And so do I.

Maundy Thursday

The next several days are at the heart of the Christian Tradition. The Church recapitulates the events of the final hours of Jesus' life -- his last meal with his friends and followers, his betrayal, his "trial", his suffering and death, his burial in a new tomb. We sit in silence. We wait. We watch.

This series of liturgies -- Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and the Great Vigil of Easter -- is actually one liturgy spanning three days. No dismissal will be spoken until the conclusion of the Vigil, so in effect, between gatherings, the liturgy is "in recess". We both live through this holy time and simultaneously find ourselves surrounded by it. We travel a well-worn path -- Upper Room, Garden, Courtroom, Cross, Tomb.

We travel these Three Days with millions upon millions of Fellow Pilgrims throughout the world now. We walk this path following the footsteps of the Cloud of Witnesses who have gone before us. And yet, we each also travel it alone -- alone with our struggles, distractions, doubts and fears. Sometimes we are focused and centered. Sometimes our minds wander and our attention strays. Maybe we try to concentrate on the story in hopes of learning something new. Maybe the story is so familiar it barely registers in our overstimulated psyches. Maybe the practical plans we have for Easter Dinner or Spring Break simply overshadow the Mystery of these Holy Days.

These Three Days arrive without asking our permission, or if now, this particular week, is a "convenient time" for us. These Three Days will pass whether we choose to participate in the drama or not. These Three Days are sacred time. Time to tell the story again -- in words and silence, hymnody and drama. Perhaps in telling the story one more time, we will at last hear it for the Good News it is.