The Last of Lent
I didn't do a great deal for Lent this year. It's been tough enough to keep my head above water lately without introducing artificial obstacles.
Yesterday's Good Friday service was just the thing. It's well attended, and I often see a lot of old faces who may no longer be Sunday regulars, but show up for the Big Days quite reliably. (I'm kind of falling into that category myself, lately.) As usual, I sat in the choir, in one of the big old oaken stalls, high and shadowy. The altars have been stripped, and I think the lighting designers enjoy setting up harsh spots that make the shadows even more intense. The service starts and ends with a silent procession, and it's solemn and thrilling to hear the slap of feet on stones as they enter without words or music. The clergy are all in black except the bishop, who wears a deep crimson robe but no miter or staff. Once they reach the great altar, all the priests prostrate themselves completely as the congregation kneels. It's ancient and beautiful.
The reading of the Passion has a whole different tenor than it does on Palm Sunday. The theatrical aspects are muted; there's none of the thrill of transgression we get each year when the people shout, "Crucify him!" on that Sunday, none of the clever staging with multiple readers, just two priests taking turns with the story. And in place of the offertory, the priests process again, carrying the heavy wooden cross, each of them shouldering some of the load in an uncommon display of united purpose. Communion is distributed from the reserved sacrament and the acolytes and priests consume every bit of it, eating all the wafers and gulping down the last of the consecrated wine. Nothing will be saved. Christ is dead, and for this night, his body will not be present anywhere in the Cathedral. The emptiness is palpable.
Tonight's Easter Vigil will pick up where we left off, starting the service in darkness. The readings will go all the way back to Genesis, then Moses in Egypt, Ezekiel in the valley of the dry bones, slowly recounting all the dark times of the Old Testament. When again the cycle comes around to the Passion, this time it's followed by the Resurrection. Lights rise, bells ring, and we all see the Easter flowers for the first time. The converts are baptized, the bread is consecrated anew, and at the end of the service, there is a big, homey party to welcome the new members.
For now, though, the tabernacle is still empty. I'm remembering the last song we sang yesterday, Were You There When They Crucified My Lord? I've been repeating it on my iPod since I left the church.
Join me. Here's Were You There When They Crucified My Lord? performed by Johnny Cash, with a piercing chorus by June Carter.
Yesterday's Good Friday service was just the thing. It's well attended, and I often see a lot of old faces who may no longer be Sunday regulars, but show up for the Big Days quite reliably. (I'm kind of falling into that category myself, lately.) As usual, I sat in the choir, in one of the big old oaken stalls, high and shadowy. The altars have been stripped, and I think the lighting designers enjoy setting up harsh spots that make the shadows even more intense. The service starts and ends with a silent procession, and it's solemn and thrilling to hear the slap of feet on stones as they enter without words or music. The clergy are all in black except the bishop, who wears a deep crimson robe but no miter or staff. Once they reach the great altar, all the priests prostrate themselves completely as the congregation kneels. It's ancient and beautiful.
The reading of the Passion has a whole different tenor than it does on Palm Sunday. The theatrical aspects are muted; there's none of the thrill of transgression we get each year when the people shout, "Crucify him!" on that Sunday, none of the clever staging with multiple readers, just two priests taking turns with the story. And in place of the offertory, the priests process again, carrying the heavy wooden cross, each of them shouldering some of the load in an uncommon display of united purpose. Communion is distributed from the reserved sacrament and the acolytes and priests consume every bit of it, eating all the wafers and gulping down the last of the consecrated wine. Nothing will be saved. Christ is dead, and for this night, his body will not be present anywhere in the Cathedral. The emptiness is palpable.
Tonight's Easter Vigil will pick up where we left off, starting the service in darkness. The readings will go all the way back to Genesis, then Moses in Egypt, Ezekiel in the valley of the dry bones, slowly recounting all the dark times of the Old Testament. When again the cycle comes around to the Passion, this time it's followed by the Resurrection. Lights rise, bells ring, and we all see the Easter flowers for the first time. The converts are baptized, the bread is consecrated anew, and at the end of the service, there is a big, homey party to welcome the new members.
For now, though, the tabernacle is still empty. I'm remembering the last song we sang yesterday, Were You There When They Crucified My Lord? I've been repeating it on my iPod since I left the church.
Join me. Here's Were You There When They Crucified My Lord? performed by Johnny Cash, with a piercing chorus by June Carter.