Day 2

Today was easy – a quick shuffle down the alley to St. Peter’s and the pleasure of celebrating the Eucharist with Rev. Norma. Richard read…Acts…it’s always Acts in Eastertide…strange that all the Old Testament – law, history & prophecy, and normally our first reading of the service – is pushed aside to prepare us for the miracle of Pentecost. We stumble into the formation of the Church while still reeling from the revelation of the resurrection. I find it a bit jarring, but I’m still getting used to so many things.

With Easter, things are, to a point, rehearsed on Passion/Palm Sunday. We begin with the triumphal entry into Jerusalem (although medieval art always makes me wonder if that donkey can bear the burden – Balaam’s ass spoke; did Jesus’ little colt find its burden too heavy to speak out, to say, “Please, I can’t carry this through? Stop! We must not go any further. Turn back!!”) Less than an hour later we, at least we Episcopalians, are at the foot of the cross witnessing the death.

My memories from a Methodist childhood are of Palm fronds and happiness on Palm Sunday…I don’t remember anyone dying and often wonder if the sneak preview is worthy of the story…a spoiler, don’t you think? As a child, I went home content that all was well, that Jesus was indeed King. I don’t remember hints of death – perhaps I was simply shielded from them until the Easter Bunny left momento mori in the form of jellybeans and chocolate eggs and we put on our finest raiment and celebrated His resurrection.

We Episcopalians seem to take a perverse pleasure in wallowing in the death. I don’t mean to denigrate sensibilities here – I myself can hardly breathe each year as the choir follows the cloaked crucifix down the narrow hallway from the Guild Room, jubilantly proclaiming, “Benedictus qui venit!!”, knowing (spoiler here) that we are ushering an innocent man to his death. Still, I find, we often go beyond Lent to death far too quickly. The Stations of the Cross observance available in many churches during Lent does present one, not with the wilderness initially intended to be observed during this period, but with the morbidity…our own, to be sure, but still a morbidity that removes the opportunity for reflection and replaces it with fear. Are we to stand in fear of or to be reconciled with death? Mmm…I’ll take the latter, thank you. But, (with apologies to Eddie Izzard), I’m a cake kinda girl.

This year, we decided to attend Eucharist each day during Holy Week. (I know. A pattern seems to be emerging.) On Monday, instead of grieving at the base of the cross, we inhaled scented oil and joyed in one of my favorite lines, “Leave her alone!”. On Tuesday, we danced in the light of the world. With “Do quickly what you are going to do” on Wednesday, the pace picked up a bit, as we moved on to Thursday and the footwashing and agape feast, ready to face the Triduum.

Although we race stoically ahead through the Passion on Palm Sunday, ever the hospitable Episcopalians preparing for our Sunday-to-Sunday guests, feeling the need to ensure everyone is on the same page when they appear again on Easter, are we really doing anyone a favor to push through in human time what can only be embraced in divine time? By going to Mass each day of Holy Week, I slipped into a more controlled unfolding of the story – the way it was intended to be understood when the church year was set up so long ago. While I still lived in earthly time, my spirit was being molded into the story in God’s time. So, instead of living the death of Christ for five days, I experienced more intensely the final days of Christ and was ready to wait with Him in the garden Thursday night.

In years past, when I came to the church for my hour of waiting at 5 AM, I was not in the garden but at the foot of the cross. This year, I went planning to be again in Golgotha, equipped with the symbols of the passion in art and Taize laments. But, the hour was not bitter. Instead, I found myself resting in that mysterious time between the Last Supper and the darkness of Good Friday, drawn not to kneel and read the crucifixion accounts but, rather, the prophecy of Isaiah. The hour passed quickly and I only got as far as “She will give birth to a son and call him Immanuel.”

God is indeed with us….and I indeed had a sign. (Isaiah 7:14)