Butterfly socks

On Maundy Thursday, no less.

Today I opened

The sock drawer and on top:

The butterfly socks!

Maundy Thursday 2015

Like all those familiar plays, we know how this one goes. I think we each play a different part every year. This year I am that unnamed young man in Mark who ran away naked when Jesus was arrested in the Garden. No. I have no idea what this means.

We know how this story ends

Or perhaps

Begins again.

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.

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.