Holy Friday

  • Is Holy Week always so sur­real, I won­der? Yes­ter­day cer­tainly was, and the next two days likely will be as well. And that’s how it seems to me it always is as you come right up to the pas­sion and resurrection.

    And I mean sur­real in the good way, I sup­pose. Every­thing out­side of church is really, really busy for me right now. I don’t really get caught up on my work; a good day is one in which I’m not so far behind at the end of the day. There’s never enough time for every­thing, and I never can find enough energy to make the rounds. I’m not com­plain­ing — I know of many, many peo­ple whose sched­ules are much more hec­tic than mine. It’s what we get used to these days.

    And then I arrive at church, and invari­ably, there are peo­ple around doing some odd jobs, chat­ting, shar­ing a snack as if we all had all the time in the world. And the funny thing is, THERE we do, or nearly so.

    More to the point, time works dif­fer­ently in church. In a way, dur­ing Holy Week, time has no mean­ing. Out­side, it’s 2010 and I hoped like mad to beat all the lights when I drove there. Inside … well, you’ve been there. What year is it, when the can­dles are lit in the dark­ened church, when the priest chants the 15th Antiphon that sounds like a cry pulled out of our very soul?

    Today He is sus­pended on a tree Who sus­pended the earth over the waters.

    A crown of thorns was placed on the head of the King of angels.

    He who wore a false pur­ple robe, cov­ered the heav­ens with clouds.

    He was smit­ten who, in the Jor­dan, deliv­ered Adam.

    The Groom of the Church was fas­tened with nails, and the Son of the Vir­gin was pierced with a spear.

    Thy suf­fer­ings we adore, O Christ.

    Make us to behold Thy glo­ri­ous resurrection.

    What cen­tury is it when you hear that — par­tic­u­larly if, like us, you hear it chanted in Ara­bic and Eng­lish? 19th? 13th? 7th? 3rd? Does it even mat­ter? Time and place seem like mere details. I admit that sit­ting at the end, watch­ing peo­ple ven­er­ate the cross, lis­ten­ing to the snif­fling of our own myrrh-bearing women who can’t hear this ser­vice with­out cry­ing, a line from a movie came to mind: We’re just pass­ing through his­tory; this IS his­tory. I wish some­thing bet­ter had occurred to me than a sound­byte from Raiders of the Lost Ark, but that’s what I get, per­haps, for being a 21st cen­tury dweller thrust sud­denly into the timeless.

    Any­way, on we go.


    Related posts:

    1. Holy Mon­day
    2. And about those eight tones …
    3. Bright Fri­day and my wooden heart
    4. Pascha on the porch
    5. Prayer request

    April 2nd, 2010 | Grace | No Comments |

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