Bits and pieces

Waiting.

I did bits and pieces

Of Holy Week

This year

Following

Bits and pieces of Lent

Before that.

Now is the time

To sit in silence

While Jesus is off

Emptying Hell

Before he returns

Tomorrow

In splendor.

Bits and pieces were enough

This year.

And now

And now

I wait.

Nap

Easter afternoon nap. The next liturgy.

Even with no liturgies planned

No liturgies executed

I am lulled into watching

Egg hunts

In the spring sun.

I close my eyes in the warm rays

Drift into the nap

I have not earned

This Holy Week.

Still

The liturgy of Easter Sunday afternoon

Calls for a nap

Like no other,

A nap

Of large proportion,

In keeping

With the culmination

Of Holy Week.

A Holy Nap.

A Nap of Alleluias

Without end.

Holy Week 2015

This is scrambling time for clergy of high liturgical bent everywhere. I am released from these particular details, being a counselor these days. I well remember the Easter Sunday we went out to brunch and I literally fell asleep in my plate. There is no BCP liturgy for the Easter Egg Hunt. And by this time, I figure, even if there was such a thing, the details would be lost well before Easter Brunch.

There is no week

More full of special liturgies

With all their component parts.

This is what all that training

Was for.

This is what all the planning

Is for.

This is Holy Week.

Everyone

Every congregation

Has his

Has her

Has its

Own way of doing things.

And

It will all end up

On Easter Sunday

With the liturgy

Of the Easter Egg hunt,

Three to five eggs

Per child.

By this time

In this week

With all its component parts,

Who’s counting?

Window dressing

I have long felt it unnecessary to preach after we have read the Passion.  Instead I offered a few words before the reading, and offered a period of silence afterwards.  But really, as my friend offers, the Whole Week speaks for itself.

My friend says

There are so many sermons

Already

In Holy Week:

The entire story

Of the donkey and palms,

The strewing of garments;

The Meal

The foot washing

The altar stripping;

The exchange in the Garden,

The Cross

Oh the Cross,

The tearing of the Veil

Between Heaven and Earth;

Then the Waiting

Oh the Waiting

For the Stone

Rolled away.

So many sermons

Already.

Anything more

Is window dressing.

Wednesday in Holy Week

Continuing in Holy Week mode.

Nothing is scheduled

For today.

Most of the snow

Has disappeared

Only a small patch

Here and there

Under a bush where the sun

Hasn’t reached

Quite yet.

Another inch of rhubarb

Has emerged

Red and odd

Somewhat reminiscent

Of another world

Underground

While the grass sings

Its usual green.

Nothing is scheduled today

Except my daughter

Needs the car for work

After school.

I am home thinking

Of melting snow

Crowning rhubarb

Usual grass

The Triduum

Soon to begin.

Holy Week

Every year I think Holy Week will be different.  And it is.  And it's not.

I like to think

This week will be different.

It began with a pony.

Today I sit

In a different place,

Tomorrow yet another

Different place.

And so it goes.

Holy Week is always different

Yet somehow still

The same.

Seven years out

Of running Holy Week

(as if anyone ever runs

Holy Week)

Seven years out

Again I slip into

Holy Week mode.

It began this year

With a pony.

I know the story,

How the story goes.

I know the ending.

Thank God I know

How it ends.

Easter Sunday, not yet two

I left parish ministry in 2007.  Now, six years later, I have finally landed in a different place.  Finally I worship  during Holy Week not thinking about how I might do things, but rather how the liturgies speak to where I  stand this year.  A different  place entirely.  Even with an office directly underneath the crossing in front of the sanctuary.

It is Easter Sunday

Not yet two.

We have celebrated,

Eaten,

Even shopped

For the week.

Our daughter Easters

South of Paris

This year.

I have let go

Of Holy Week.

Indeed it seems

I have let go

Of things being done

In particular ways:

All the special services

Tweaked and twirled,

Even danced to different music.

Today we stood

In the church,

Second pew from the back

Stage right,

Listened to the hum of children

Underneath the liturgy.

Easter Sunday

Not yet two.

Last night the moon rose perfect

Last night the moon rose perfect and the sky was crystal clear, cloudless.  The Triduum begins tonight, with the footwashing and Last Supper and stripping of the altar.   We will watch and wait in the Garden.  I was hoping for forsythia or forsythia buds.  But the perfect moon may have to suffice.

Last night

The moon rose perfect:

Full, round, bright.

If spring would only

Come with it.

Still no forsythia.

The rhubarb hints promise.

The birds gather,

Sing these final days in.

The duck lady now wears white

To her neighbor*s turquoise.

The ducks have convened

Elsewhere.

Still

Last night the moon rose perfect.

It must be a sign

Of something.

Cue the nap

I remember Holy Weeks past... most always being the solo priest in charge of liturgies.  This is not my role now.  My beloved reminds me of the time we were dating and I fell sound asleep at Easter brunch in a restaurant.  I still have Sunday afternoon nap triggers, even when I sit in the pew and have nothing to do with liturgy except show up and worship.  Today we didn*t even gather outside to process with the donkey.  I did pet the donkey on the way back from brunch.  I*m not sure that counts.

Palm Sunday inspired

The traditional Sunday afternoon

Nap.

Donkey?

Check.

Good liturgy including

A sermon with a map

Of Jerusalem?

Check.

Impromptu lunch

With friends?

Check.            

Home to a hot cup of tea?

Check.

Silent house?

Check.

Cat?

Check.

Favorite blue recliner clear

And ready for occupation?

Check.

Wind outside the windows

Signaling the weather change?

Check.

Cue the nap.

The perfect time to wait

I go into a different space during Holy Week.  This year I also wait for news of a job that would fit into my life in a way which would still allow me to honor the people and commitments I have made.  I sense this job is a part of the mosaic.  Oddly, if it does not come through, I am warmed by the possibility of such a job.  This week I have good company with Jesus.

Holy Week

Is the perfect time

To wait.

It couldn*t be

More perfect,

Ringed around

As it is

With Jesus:

The walk to certain death,

Then finally

Life again.

Always life again

No matter how deep

Death goes.

The perfect time

To wait.

Possibility everywhere

I realize I have been trained to more fully experience Holy Week.  28 years walking through Holy Week as a priest has affected me long-term, whether I am in charge of Holy Week liturgies, or not.  

This is the week

My senses

Kick it up a notch.

If there are any connections

To be made,

I make them.

I know the redbuds are connected

Underground

With all redbuds

Everywhere.

Perhaps it is dangerous for me to begin

Something new now.

It will naturally connect

With everything else.

Soon I will be overwhelmed

With possibility.

This is the week

Of possibility.

Everything is connected

Underground,

Even above ground,

In the air.

I smell the lilacs on the breeze.

I feel the ground beneath my sneakers.

It moves in connection

With all things.

Everything matters.

There is possibility everywhere.

Even before death,

Resurrection

Is immanent.

Holy Week, free and clear

It*s been four and a half years since I left parish ministry.  Without a doubt Holy Week has been the time I have missed being in the role the most, particularly the liturgy planning role.   This year it seems I have turned a corner.  This year it seems I can face into it and do it with my eyes open, even when the monstrance makes its yearly appearance on Maundy Thursday.    

At least my birthday is not on Good Friday

This year.

I can encounter all of Holy Week

Free and clear and newly 57.

Now I am back in priest skin.

I have mostly grown accustomed

To my part in the liturgy

From two pews back

On the right.

Sometime I even arrive late

Just before the Gospel.

This is Holy Week number four.

I know what to expect

In this place.

I may be able to pray it here

This year,

Not rail against the oddities,

Nor find the sticky places.

I may even be able to keep my eyes open

When the monstrance appears,

Take my turn

In the Garden of Repose.

There is a distinct possibility

I may encounter all of Holy Week

Free and clear

Two pews back

On the right.

Normal

In an odd ways this feels like Easter again.   Holy Week always feels like the scheduled time to consider endings and beginnings and the triumph of new beginnings.  Harold Camping*s prediction caught more people this time around than 1994. I think media saturation has a lot to do with it.  Whatever the cause, there was no rapture this time either.  In an interesting way, the possibility that Jesus was coming again on Saturday at 6 PM, made the conversation about Jesus* Second Coming (a major tenet of the Christian faith) more real. Now we are back to normal.  I think for a few, it may look a little different.

Today we return to normal.

Some people never left

Normal.

Of course the idea of normal

Has always been

Our creation.

Good, bad, just the way it is

God-given, God-forsaken:

Normal remains

In the eye of the beholder,

The throat

Of the speaker.

Over the weekend:

Floods, tornadoes,

Volcanoes,

The cleanup in Japan

Continued still,

Continues now.

New tears and cleanup

Today

To the south of us.

New prayers as well.

This is normal

When we think of it

Really think of it

None of us are ever

Left behind,

Bereft.

We are in it

Together.

This is normal.

Today I return to survey the garden.

I cannot yet drive to the garden store,

So I assess what God has planted.

I pick four lilies of the valley, fragrant,

Two purple columbine, intricately made.

I declare this normal and wonderful.

I declare this good.

Washed in Gold

I always wanted to have a place I could preach Holy Saturday.   

Above all, maintain constant love for one another, for love covers a multitude of sins. 

                                                                                         1 Peter 4:8 (NRSV)

The sky slowly lightens again.

All is quiet except for birds singing

In the backyard,

In the garden,

A slight wash of forsythia

Begins the chant of gold

In sprays.

This is the empty time the Church Fathers

Seek to fill,

The time left in between.

After He Rose

They knew Jesus must have done

Something huge,

Fecund even in the tomb.

Not content to rest

He yanks the Gates of Hell

Off their hinges

Hauls up Everyman

Everywoman.

We have ancient church pictures

Of events underground,

They are washed in gold.

In the emptiness

They proclaim

Love covers the multitude

Of sins.

Love wins

Love wins

Love wins.

New light catches the wash of gold.

In the garden the forsythia

Sprays bright gold

In the name of Love.

The Burial

In grief we are often entombed ourselves, like it seems the disciples were after Jesus* crucifixion and burial. 

The sense of smell is our only hard-wired (unmediated) sense.  I wonder what smells brought back the disciples* memories of Jesus.  Of course we know the rest of the story.  But they didn*t then.

Jesus is in the tomb

Bound and wrapped and sealed

Into place.

Officially positively

Dead.

The disciples are lost

Among themselves,

Entombed:

Denying, depressed,

One even dead and

Soon to be buried himself

In the potter*s field.

It is night and dark

And very damp.

No stars in the sky,

No moon.

No light at all.

The mixed scent of earth and myrrh

Lingers

Long after the stone

Is rolled into place.

Lost

Among themselves,

Lost in grief,

Still they breathe in blood and iron

Earth and myrrh

bread and wine.

Still

They remember water poured,

The final words.

Still the scent of earth mixed with myrrh

Sweet spices

And nard

lingers

And returns.

Forsythia in Gethsemane

I wonder if the disciples were expecting more from Jesus.  I wonder at His words in the dark garden, at his loving chiding about them not being able to stay awake, at their insistence that they were there for him.  I wonder if they felt anything but holy.  I wonder if He felt alone in that way we do when we*re facing something huge, and we can*t quite explain it to those around us, even those closest to us.

The road to church is lined

in forsythia.

On the way home it is dark.

I am sure the forsythia

Is still there.

Even so

I do not feel holy.

I feel anything but holy

Or even present to the holy.

I know it has to be there.

Still

All night

I see what is missing.

Even the memory of forsythia

Is not as bright

As it seemed two days ago.

I know it is still there

In the dark.

Forsythia

Will not be forced

Into existence

in the dark.

I wonder if there was forsythia

In Gethsemane.

If it bloomed lemon yellow

Before the leaves of summer.

I wonder If the Garden was prettied up,

Jesus monstranced in some sort of sunburst display

So everyone would know

Who he was.

Tonight I keep vigil at home

With my vase of pussy willows

sprouting green,

Forsythia from the backyard.

I do not feel holy

I feel anything but holy

Not even present to the holy.

I see what is missing.

It seems I may as well sleep

As stare at pussywillows and forsythia

In the dark.

This is not a horror movie

The journey continues.  We learned a big word in seminary:   anamnesis.  Amnesia is its opposite.  In Holy Week, we remember again and make real the final events of Jesus* life. We celebrate the Eucharist tonight, which will be the first Eucharist again.  We hear again, and for the first time, the command to love one another, the mandatum, and make it a physical remembrance and reality by washing each other*s feet.  It will be different, yet the same, this year.  This should not come as a surprise, for each one of us is different, yet the same, this year, from last year.  The journey continues.

I*m not one for horror movies.

They*re not worth the price

Of the ticket.

Heck, they*re not worth it

For free.

There is always enough

Real stuff

That scares me almost witless.

It springs from closets,

Leaps in the dark,

Lurks.

Sometimes it even grows in the dark

Like mushrooms.

There is enough real stuff

 Plenty scary.

I aim to come at it

With my eyes wide open,

See what*s there,

Take a spade, unearth it

Like worms;

Walk the path

See hear feel

All the details

All

The details.

I aim to walk it

With eyes and ears and heart

Open.

This is no horror movie.

I*m not one for such things.

They*re not worth the price

Of the ticket.

This is the real thing.

I pay as full a price for the ticket

As I can,

I know It will never be enough

So I walk it,

Pay attention to as many details

As I can.

This Week

Is real,

Different and the same

Every year.

Real.

Whoa!

We have set services for Holy Week, and I believe God sets our paths, if we will follow.  With free will, we human beings take a lot of detours, but like a wonderful GPS, God recalibrates all the time.  Really... All The Time.  And we still get there.  Amazing.

I will attend the Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil services (the Triduum) at my home parish of St. Mark*s, Glen Ellyn.  I will see what words come throughout.   What*s funny to me is that I set out to write one reflection for each service.  Then I thought: there should also be one for each time in between.  But really, I have no idea what I will write.  Part of the plan seems to be that I don*t get to measure or count:  how many reflections, how many clients, how many hits this blog gets.  I*m not in charge of the counting.  So... do not take mine as a traditional rendering of Holy Week.

I love the Stations of the Cross Malcolm Guite has written in sonnet form, lovely braided sonnets, a crown of sonnets.  If you haven*t encountered them: Please Do.    http://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/author/malcolmguite/   

There are also wonderful reflections/meditations people have written/preached on all three services, and the parts thereof:  footwashing, Jesus* commandment to love one another, Jesus* seven last words on the cross.  There is so much to preach on, so much to meditate upon.  This is a rich, very rich, thin time, particularly for those of us in liturgical traditions.  Join us in the walk/ride through the Triduum.

Before the beginning

Of the roller coaster ride

That begins the Triduum,

This early morning before it all begins

I know there will be several things to write.

I do not know how many.

I figure they will not be separated

Into traditional parts.

I have never really, after all,

Been traditional.

I will not know until I get there

With Jesus.

I will not know,

Even as I know so well

The given pieces

To walk through.

This year

I am somehow being carried

On a track which will take me

Where it wills.

I do not know if Jesus is the roller coaster

Or the track.

I suspect the track.

Do not ask me how this fits into anyone*s concept

Of the Trinity,

Much less my own.

Even as I know I will be carried,

I know

This year will be different

And the same.

Every year it is different

And the same.

This year will include that roller coaster

On a track I have not laid.

This year will include

The barely budding clematis in front.

The ducks out back

Will probably be along for the ride,

Hopefully in their own car.

I know I will see it all

Through the forsythia

I have never seen before

This year.

All who go with me will wave

Lemon yellow forsythia.

Forsythia will line the tracks

Jesus has made.

This year I believe it will all end

In forsythia.

Wednesday in Holy Week

 As a parish priest it was always a conundrum on what to do on Wednesday in Holy Week.  Tenebrae? healing service? A simple Eucharist?  Sure there are Scripture readings for the day which focus on Judas* betrayal (the John version where it seemed Jesus names it, then Judas follows suit, or the Matthew version where Judas has already made arrangements with the authorities)... Wednesday it seems, is for waiting, for preparing, for getting the drama set in place before the roller coaster ride of the Triduum.  Wednesday is for waiting.

There are so many ways

To walk through Wednesday;

So many ways

To wait for the Commandment:

The preliminary preparation

For the Passover meal;

The right food in the right place;

The betrayal set to go off as ordained,

The person named

Or found out.

It would be better if he had not been born,

But it seems then

Someone else

Would have done it.

So many ways

to prepare for the ritual slide

into the end,

So we can get to the beginning

Again.

So many ways to walk through Wednesday,

Ways to wait

In the dark,

Wait for the meal,

The washing of feet,

The washing of the altar

When everything is clear.

So many ways to wait

For the final dark,

The inevitable slide into the end.

We know the end.

Today

We wait.

Wednesday is for waiting.

Mood swings

Sometimes we don*t pay attention to the emotion-rich part of Holy Week.  Sometimes it seems easier to picture Jesus walking through the week and coming out the other side unscathed, even as we know we would not be unscathed ourselves.  Still... Jesus is the Son of God, right?  Right?  Tell me.

This week is rich in emotion

All sorts of emotion.

I wonder if Jesus had mood swings,

Certainly this week of all weeks,

I wonder.

Did he continue on

Steady as a rock

On that donkey

Through Jerusalem

Palm Sunday through to the cross

And out the other side?

Did he wait for the Garden that night

To complain,

To feel a little low?

And then

Was it a real low?

Or only a dip?

Was Jesus like me?

Mood swings and all?

Tell me he was.

Tell me he felt low before

He was finally lifted up,

After the cross

After the burial

The final lifting up

Out of the tomb

Framed in angels and forsythia

Wild blooming yellow?

Tell me he knew full joy 

then.