good?

I always find blogging on Significant Days to be a challenge. It seems that just about everyone blogs about what is significant. To do likewise honors the day, but it feels like my voice folds into the mix of voices and mine becomes one of the masses. Or, to quote a college professor's snarky answer to a question I once posed to him, "you and a cast of thousands." And yet, to blog on a different topic seems somehow disrespectful, as though the purpose of the Day is somehow being dismissed. On holy days, like today, I feel a particular pressure to say something profound or meaningful about Good Friday. I'm a clergy type, after all. It's what clergy types do.

Still.

This Good Friday coincides with Earth Day. Thoughtful minds are also blogging about that. A friend posted on facebook wondering what was good about this day. That has actually given me pause. Thus...

What is good about today is that when humanity failed, God triumphed.

What is good about today is that in spite of betrayal, hearts were drawn back to where they belonged. Temptation failed to have lasting power.

What is good about today is that women stood fast.

What is good about today is that the obedience of Jesus to the righteousness of God's kingdom opened a way for all the world to experience God's glory.

What is good about today is that minds were changed and hearts were transformed.

What is good about today is that darkness was vanquished by light.

What is good about today is that hope became real.

What is good about today is that Jesus' last act was one of compassion and forgiveness.

What is good about today is that the occasion to relive it stirs our souls and our consciences, and breaks our hearts.

What is good about today is that the world continues to heal.

What is good about today is that there is no room for hate, only sorrow.

What is good about today is that God exceeds our expectations.

What is good about today is that whether we want to or not, we think about Jesus dying on the cross.

What is good about today is that it leads to tomorrow, and tomorrow leads to resurrection.

If you are reading this may this day bless you with all goodness, in the name of the One to whom this day belongs.

walking the tightrope of good friday

Since the days of spiritual renewal that led to my adult baptism, Holy Week has held a special place in my heart and my history. I was blessed to be able to participate and attend services in communities where the services of the triduum--Maundy Thursday through Holy Saturday--were done with competence and reverence. They held power for me and brought depth and breadth to my journey that isn't touched by other means.

Over time and through the transitions of being with other congregations, I have lost touch with some of that mystery. I carry it within me, but the communities I have served have not had traditions and experiences of power to anchor the opportunity of this week in their own lives of faith. No Easter Vigils, or poorly attended ones. In the last two years in the congregation I now serve, attendance during Holy Week services is embarrassingly small. It grieves my soul. This week is what it is all about.

In the midst of grounding myself in the holiness and pain that are these days, life and humor intervene. Last night I was in the middle of reading the gospel, the passage from John where Jesus washes the feet of his followers and gives the new commandment to his disciples to love one another as he has loved them. Six people were in the congregation (see earlier note about embarrassing). A cell phone rang. I continued to read, assuming that the call would be ignored and the phone turned off or switched to vibrate. And then the hushed voice reverberated in the mostly empty space, "I can't talk now, I'm in church!" I finished the reading. "Let me call you back." I couldn't help myself. Doing my best to keep a straight face I raised the book while reciting the familiar words, "The Gospel of the Lord," closed the book and stepped to the side to allow the crucifer to lead us back to the sanctuary. I could hear and sense the restrained giggles of others. I returned the Gospel book to the altar and turned to face the congregation to preach. I could no longer control myself and laughter escaped.

After the service, standing in the sacristy crowded with all the items removed from the chancel following the stripping of the altar, I was asked what sort of set up was needed for the Good Friday service.

"The paten, chalice and a purificator," I said, "and the reserved sacrament."

The newest member of the altar guild looked at me with a blank expression. "The what?"

"The paten and chalice--the plate and the cup."

She nodded. Got it. "And you need the host."

"No," I replied. "On Good Friday Jesus dies and we bury him. We don't resurrect him until Sunday. There is no celebration of Eucharist on Good Friday, which is why we consecrate extra bread and wine tonight to use tomorrow."

Another blank look. "So you don't need the plate since there won't be a host."

"No, we do need the plate because we need to serve the already consecrated wafers."

I watched her process this bit of information. Then a light went on and she broke into a smile. "Oh!" she brightened. "Tomorrow we're having leftovers!"

And hence the tightrope. I love this time of year.

holy continuity

I can remember clearly the morning of my baptism 21 years ago. Heeding the counsel of a priest/mentor I immersed myself in every offering of Holy Week, and by Saturday morning I felt like spiritual pulp. In a good way. The week had done its work on me, and I remember stating that I felt like I was dead. In a good way. Empty. Void. My soul was shrouded in a kind of silence that echoed the tomb and offered no balm for the hearts broken by Jesus' death. And yet there was peace. Calm.

As I headed to church last night for our Good Friday liturgy the skies were gray and upheaval was on my mind. Earlier in the day members of the parish gathered for Stations of the Cross, aware as we did so that severe weather was headed our way. We felt that we would safely complete our liturgy and send people on their way before there was any danger.

During the stations the heavens opened, lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Love it when that happens. Holy timing. But when we had concluded the liturgy the tornado siren was singing its song and we headed to the church basement. Built into a mild incline our bathrooms are very safe in such weather, and we felt confident that we were secure in our cinderblock haven. To the south of us, lives and homes were about to be shredded. Literally.

Murfreesboro is a booming bedroom community of Nashville, home to Middle Tennessee State University and locale of a lot of Ken's work. We also know a fair number of people from my days there as interim at St. Paul's. A tornado cut a ten-mile swath through sections of town at about the time we were holding our Stations. Two are dead and others injured. There is ruin. So much ruin.

Upheaval was on my mind. The news from NPR about the continuing piracy standoff suggested its own kind of chaos, and the family of Richard Phillips, along with a global audience that joined them with concern, could do nothing but wait. Like the stillness of Holy Saturday there was nothing to do but be in anguish.

It was the stuff of Good Friday sermons, but I was not ready to preach it. Or so I thought. I did talk about the community that was born of the cross. About how suffering and anguish was made more bearable in the company of faithful others. I didn't mention Murfreesboro. I didn't refer to pirates. But the message was the same. It was a Good Friday reality for those stories and for many others around the world, I am sure.

Today Murfreesboro is cleaning up and the world continues to wait for some break from the Somalian stalemate. Chaos and stillness--the perpetual paradox that characterizes the journey that traces its way through our hearts and our lives. Like a tornado its path is unpredictable. Like a stalemate we do not know when or how it will end. What we do know is that we will move through it. Eventually. With God's help and the love and light of companions in faith and the good souls God sends our way we make our way through. And we are changed.

This morning I am heading to an Easter egg hunt. A break in this holy day of somber waiting for levity and laughter and the cuteness of children. It is all part of the mix. All holy.

Blessings to one and all, wherever life finds you this day.