Good Friday into Holy Saturday

In 2005, St. Paul's-on-the-Green in Norwalk, CT commissioned a set of paintings depicting the stations of the Cross. The paintings can be found here.  The paintings juxtapose Christ's trial, torture, crucifixion, and burial with modern scenes of conflict.

For instance, this particular painting is based on a photo of the abuses in Abu Ghraib; as you can see, it is eerily accurate (here, especially).  Seeing these paintings while on a tour were what ultimately led me to work at this particular parish.

I'm of the opinion that these paintings get to the heart of the crucifixion in a way that few other stations of the cross do.  The stations traditionally remind us that the crucifixion of Jesus--the torture and murder of the Son of God-- was a one-time event in the history of our salvation that never needs to be repeated.  They tell that solitary story of the decisive moment in history.

The paintings go further.  They show us the hard truth that humankind is still in the business of falsely accusing, torturing, and killing Christ by our actions toward our neighbors; yet we may say we would never do such a thing to Jesus if we were in Jerusalem, even while we yell "Crucify him!" on Palm Sunday. But we must consider who we are willing to crucify in our daily lives.  Who are we willing to let be crucified on our behalf, or because we are told we will be safer?  From whom do we deny the image of God that they bear?

The paintings, and the span of history, remind us that even with the work of salvation done-and-yet-ongoing, human nature is still warped in a way that no one, not even the Church, can fix without God.  Unfortunately, the drums of war and the banging of gavels are sometimes loud enough to drown the still, small voice calling us to forgo the calculations that keep us estranged from everyone around us.

There is hope.  But that is for tomorrow and the Resurrection.  Just for today, the world has won.  At least, the world thinks it has won.  The rebel is humiliated, crucified.  Dead.

Maundy Thursday II

The following is a letter I sent to a person from a different liturgical tradition, in which I try to explain why I was at church on a Thursday.

________________________________

You seemed surprised that I was going to church last night.  I feel obliged to explain why, because in the church year, the Thursday night before Easter is a very difficult and emotional night for me.

In a lot of denominations (Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Methodists, Eastern Orthodox, etc.), we go through the year by what is known as the liturgical calendar, which divides the year into seasons based on when things happened in the Gospel stories.  We commemorate Christmas and Easter; but we also commemorate Pentecost, Epiphany (Christ’s manifesting of himself with the visit of the Magi, Christ’s Baptism, and the miracle of water into Wine at Cana), his Transfiguration, Ascension, and other events.

What this has meant for me is that I live my life in two different times:  The normal Gregorian calendar, but also a calendar made sacred by entering into the God’s story of the salvation of the world.  In some ways, the sacred calendar is also timeless.  I have found that if you allow yourself to fully enter into the cycle, then when you commemorate the events in the Christian story, you are actually there.   

The week before Easter is known as Holy Week.  The week starts with Palm Sunday, in which we remember Christ’s triumphant entering of Jerusalem before his death.  Starting on Thursday night and going until Easter, we tell the story of Christ’s last supper, betrayal, interrogation, torture, death, and resurrection, according to the day it happened.  This is coming at the end of Lent, a period of the year in which we are more intentional about thinking about who we are as individuals, and who we are as human beings.

I know you don’t worship according to the same type of liturgy/ritual that we do, but I’m going to try to explain why the night is very difficult for me.  It will be helpful to remember that when I worship, I’ve entered the story.  In our rituals, every action (should) have a symbolic meaning that points to God or to the Gospel story in some way.  Here is a link to the Maundy Thursday service that we used in Arizona, which was a little different than last night’s. But I’m going to tell you about last night.

According to John 13:1-17, what we commemorate on Maundy Thursday is the night in which Jesus washed the disciples’ feet.  It is also the night in which he instituted the Holy Communion.  We do the same; we wash each other’s feet and we celebrate Communion.  All of this is pleasant, but it isn’t the end of the night.

After Communion, which represents the Last Supper, everything left over is either consumed or gathered.  Two choir members begin to chant the entirety of Psalm 22 (My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?).  Since the parish in which I will work is Anglo-Catholic, we believe that Christ is really present in the bread and wine.  That bread and wine is then taken into a smaller chapel, where an all-night vigil will be held.  This represents Jesus in the Garden at Gethsemane.  Where the sons of Zebedee failed to stay awake, we attempt to watch and pray with Christ.  While this happens every candle in the sanctuary is extinguished.

After the bread and wine are placed in the chapel.  The priests return.  They strip the outward vestments that they wear, the ones that set themselves apart as priest.  Then the altars are stripped of all candles and linens, leaving the sanctuary bare.  This represents two things:  Christ’s own forced nudity on the cross (he was stripped of his garments), and his absence because of the three days in the tomb.  With the candles gone, the absence of light is symbolic of the absence of the light of the world and the hour in which the earth was dark.

The chanted psalm ends.  Next, the Betrayal and arrest of Jesus is read aloud.  The last words were from Mark were “Then all the disciples deserted him and fled.”   Immediately, the overhead lights go out, and the ministers and choir scatter and walk away as the disciples did.  The congregation leaves in silence, or goes to keep vigil with Christ in the chapel throughout the night (the only light in the building). 

So begins the darkest part of the Christian year, and human history.  The days in which we all killed God.  We won't see the light again until Saturday night/Sunday Morning, when Christ is risen.

Getting out of the way

As I was walking from lunch to the library, I felt pulled to the music coming from Marquand Chapel.  There was no scheduled service at that time, but the set-up looked as if the class on funerals was walking through a funeral service.  As I looked through the small windows to see what what going on, behind me a door opened and a rather lost-looking young woman walked in from the chilly, overcast day.  Today is 'admitted student day', when gaggles of students come to visit and discern if YDS is right for them.   

She rather nervously picked up a program from the 10:30  Marquand service and then looked as though she would sit down in the hall (and it was noon).  She seemed very uncomfortable.

I asked if she was visiting for admitted student day.  She replied that she was a freshman from Yale College, and that she was seeking somewhere quiet (from Yale College to Yale Divinity is a pretty long walk just to  find somewhere quiet).  She seemed to want to go into Marquand but because of the class going on (and because silence would be hard to come by), I suggested that she follow me down to the library, to Nouwen Chapel.

Marquand Chapel

Nouwen Chapel

On our way to the library, I struck up conversation.  She is considering religious studies as a major, but freshmen do not have to declare for a while.  She appreciates the friendliness of the divinity school students (we're pretty counter-cultural for the Ivy League's highly competitive messiness).  She doesn't know much about this "Christian thing,"  But she attends Compline at Christ Church, New Haven on Sunday nights.  She asked how long Christians have been praying Compline.  Centuries.

Nouwen is an out of the way chapel in the back of the basement in the library. It's often very quiet but for a hissing noise from heating system.  There is natural light from windows in the high domed ceiling, but it is still an appropriately dark space if it needs to be.  It's also a small and intimate setting, with seating for about twenty (and the potential to fit 10 more) as opposed to Marquand, which fits a few hundred. 

"Wow," she said as she walked in.

"Would you like more light?" I asked as I pointed to the lightswitch. No.  "Stay as long as you like, and if you would like someone to talk to, I'll be nearby." I then left to work on a paper, but took a workstation near the door to the chapel.

About thirty minutes later she emerged, looking thankful and somewhat relieved.  She seemed in a hurry, perhaps to get to a class downtown.  I told her that she is welcome to come back to either chapel anytime she needs them and that the community gathers for services at 10:30 am, Monday through Friday.  She thanked me and walked away.  Maybe the heaviness she walked in with was gone.  Maybe it was lightened.  It seems that something holy happened, and I do not get to know what it was.

So, part of me wonders what more I could have done.  But part of me is pretty sure that the answer is "nothing more today."  My presence--where I was, and when--was enough.  It is an exercise in humility to know that I may simply be a small stepping stone on the Way.  I don't save people.  I don't rescue people.  I merely set the conditions for others to meet the Holy.  God works on the heart in manners that are delicate or sharp, but always profound.  Not knowing when we need to step back can sometimes drown out the 'still, small voice' of God with earthly pontifications.  My task is to be present, and trust God to guide; but it also means that I have to know when to get out of the way of the Spirit.

Oddly enough, this reminds me of a line from the fine sermon I heard last night from a fellow seminarian, Kino Vitet:  "Jesus wasn't crucified so you could be a spiritual guru."

 Who then is Paul, and who is Apollos, but ministers through whom you believed, as the Lord gave to each one? I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the increase. So then neither he who plants is anything, nor he who waters, but God who gives the increase. Now he who plants and he who waters are one, and each one will receive his own reward according to his own labor.  For we are God’s fellow workers; you are God’s field, you are God’s building.  According to the grace of God which was given to me, as a wise master builder I have laid the foundation, and another builds on it. But let each one take heed how he builds on it.  For no other foundation can anyone lay than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 3:5-11, NKJV)

P.S.:  Now that this happened, and with the prospect of Clinical Pastoral Education this summer, ordering business cards is now on my to-do list.