Welcome to Holy Week! I hope to see a lot of you in the next few days (a lot as in, "many" of you, and also, "frequently!")
Triduum of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil of Easter. They are, technically, one service-there's no final blessing or dismissal until the end of the Great Vigil. The word "Maundy" comes from the Latin, mandatum, which means commandment-
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another." (John 13:35)
In the liturgy, we wash each others' feet-we are each others' servants. Men and women, older and younger-we are all called to serve each other. Is it awkward? Of course. Don't come in a skirt. It's a level of nearness we don't frequently experience with our friends, much less the person you sit behind in church. But is it holy? Absolutely. The disciples didn't understand what Jesus was doing at first, either. When Jesus kneels at Peter's feet, he says, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Peter is confused-an act of submission by his Lord? No way. Jesus says, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Does Peter get it, later? Much later, he does-after the crucifixion, after the resurrection, he understands just how different a Lord Jesus was. Not one who wants domination and power, but a Lord who wants to be on the floor, kneeling in front of us, comforting and consoling. A Lord whose only command is love.
The foot washing takes place between the sermon and the prayers of the people. The liturgy continues with Communion. After Communion, we strip the altar. All the hangings, all the chairs, all the cushions and candles come out of the sanctuary. We do this to prepare for Good Friday, to remind ourselves of the abandonment of Christ, and the utter absence and desolation of that day. Everyone who is present in the church is invited to help strip the altar-it's not just a performance by the clergy or leaders of the service; it's shared by us all.
For Good Friday at Christ Church, we follow the liturgy in the Book of Common Prayer. It differs in some significant ways from the regular Eucharist we celebrate on Sundays. Instead of the Prayers of the People, we hear a series of collects (aptly named "the Solemn Collects) that offer prayers for the church and the world, for those who suffer and those who seek faith). After the collects comes the central moment, the entrance of the cross. The cross we use is not an elaborate one-it's not made of nice wood, or stained a beautiful color. It's two rough sticks, bound together, that Paula found in the woods. After the cross enters, we are all invited to reverence-to bow, to kiss, to kneel, or just to stand and wonder at the mystery of that symbol, an object of shame and violence transformed into life and love. On Good Friday we don't celebrate the Eucharist. The preacher Barbara Brown Taylor has said that Good Friday is the quietest day of the year-part of that silence is not celebrating the sacrament. In recognition of our need to be fed, however, we do share communion (the bread and wine having been consecrated at the service on Maundy Thursday).
The Easter Vigil is just that-a Vigil-we enter a darkened church, after lighting the Pascal candle from a fire outside the church and then we process in singing, and hear the stories of our salvation from the Hebrew Scriptures. Halfway through the service, Easter begins!-we ring in our celebration with bells and more light (each of us will have to bring our own bell to ring). This year we have the special blessing of sharing in baptism for Jesse Foster-Stout and Rob Atwood, so blessings to them as well! The service continues with a festive Eucharist, with incense and wonderful Easter hymns. The alleluias will be back!
Holy Week is, spiritually and theologically, the high point and center of the whole church year. I often joke that if you only come to church a few times a year, these are it-you can skip the whole year if you come now. I'm kidding, but this is what our faith is really about. Having gone through the journey of Maundy Thursday, the depths of Good Friday, the watching and waiting of the Vigil-the celebration of the Easter resurrection is that much more powerful-and honest. I'll see you tonight, when it all starts. Bring your friends!
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
From March 29: Easter Pigs
I'm writing late this week, having scrambled today to put the finishing touches on our Quarterly (beautiful, as always, thanks to our dedicated contributors and visionary editor Kristin!) and our Palm Sunday liturgies for this week. Palm Sunday is emphatically not visionary-we do nearly the same thing every year, needing each year to read again, hear again, absorb again to try to encompass the Gospel story of the heights of Christ's triumphant entry into Jerusalem and the low of his crucifixion and Passion. What a blessing to be part of a church community that values both!
In other news, this Easter we will again focus on pigs for Haiti in a project organized by Boston-based Grassroots International. After having partnered with Heifer international for "Easter cows" for several years, in 2010 this Easter collection shifted its focus to Haiti in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake in January of that year, and we're glad to continue our support for their Creole Pig Repopulation project.
I'm passing on some words offered by Gene Burkart in the Quarterly that year:
...There is a sad story behind the pigs. Called the Creole pig, it once was a mainstay for rural Haitian families. A hearty, indigenous breed, it could tolerate the climate and feed off local vegetation. Its manure fertilized farm land and its meat added protein to diets. When a family needed extra cash for an emergency or special event, the pig could easily be sold at the market. It was "Haiti's Piggy Bank."
In the 1980's international development experts pressured the Haitian government to eradicate the pigs claiming that they threatened to spread swine flu to the big pig farms of the US. Although some disputed the claim, all the pigs were killed off. People who lost pigs were given a replacement pig from Iowa that was supposed to be newer and better. It didn't turn out that way, though. The new pigs needed to be shaded from the sun, could only eat expensive imported feed, and could not drink local water. The meat didn't taste as good either. Soon the Haitians began calling the pigs the "four-footed princes".
Grassroots International has been working with a Haitian group (National Peasant Movement of the Papaye Congress) since the 1980's to restore the Creole pigs to Haiti. One pig costs about $55.00. To make your donation (of any amount!), just write "Easter pigs" in the memo line of your check.
In other news, this Easter we will again focus on pigs for Haiti in a project organized by Boston-based Grassroots International. After having partnered with Heifer international for "Easter cows" for several years, in 2010 this Easter collection shifted its focus to Haiti in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake in January of that year, and we're glad to continue our support for their Creole Pig Repopulation project.
I'm passing on some words offered by Gene Burkart in the Quarterly that year:
...There is a sad story behind the pigs. Called the Creole pig, it once was a mainstay for rural Haitian families. A hearty, indigenous breed, it could tolerate the climate and feed off local vegetation. Its manure fertilized farm land and its meat added protein to diets. When a family needed extra cash for an emergency or special event, the pig could easily be sold at the market. It was "Haiti's Piggy Bank."
In the 1980's international development experts pressured the Haitian government to eradicate the pigs claiming that they threatened to spread swine flu to the big pig farms of the US. Although some disputed the claim, all the pigs were killed off. People who lost pigs were given a replacement pig from Iowa that was supposed to be newer and better. It didn't turn out that way, though. The new pigs needed to be shaded from the sun, could only eat expensive imported feed, and could not drink local water. The meat didn't taste as good either. Soon the Haitians began calling the pigs the "four-footed princes".
Grassroots International has been working with a Haitian group (National Peasant Movement of the Papaye Congress) since the 1980's to restore the Creole pigs to Haiti. One pig costs about $55.00. To make your donation (of any amount!), just write "Easter pigs" in the memo line of your check.
From March 22: A Season for Everything
This past Monday at vestry, I invited us into a short Bible study from the book of Ecclesiastes (3: 1-8).
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to throw away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
There is a season for everything-everything and everyone is held in God's hand. What's perplexing is the way that those season so frequently overlap. At ChristChurch this winter we've had wonderful growth in attendance, having close to 100 on several Sundays between our 8:30 and 10 service. We have six baptisms just in the month of March! At the same time, I have heard so many stories from you-and shared my own, about family members who are sick. There is such intense joy at the growth of our community, but at the same time such grief at facing the prospect of saying goodbye to people we love.
No life is without suffering, neither is any life without powerful gifts. There was a season to give, and a season to receive, a season to greet with joy and a season to depart. For us, too. As we look toward Easter, who knows what it will bring? Sorrow and sighing, but also growth and rebirth. Grief is another measure of love; even for me as a priest, it's pretty impossible to keep an abstract distance when it comes to people I love. We pray "to see in death the gate of eternal life," and "for your faithful people, Lord, life is changed, not ended," but it still hurts.
That acknowledgment, it seems to me, is one of the things that only church can do. A bowling league creates community. An activist group makes the world a better place, forming its people in the values of the cause. Nature can be restorative beyond measure. When I am feeling depleted and exhausted, walking at Waltham Fields farm and putting my hands in the earth feels as holy as any sacrament. But church is the one place we can come just to go to pieces. This can be a place for lament and sorrow, for questioning and frustration. Those hard pews are a strong enough shelter for all the grief we can bring. They don't offer excuses, or explanations, or advice. They just accept, offer refuge, remind us that others have sat there with the same tears. They remind us that our grief doesn't have the last word.
So whatever season you're in-a season of grief or suffering, a season of growth or renewal-give thanks for the church. It can disappoint us and it can frustrate us-it is still, after all, using human hands to get its work done. But at its best, church is also a place of joy and wonder and jubilation and forgiveness. Thanks be to God, always and forever. [and, whispered because it's Lent, alleluia!]
Blessings,
Sara+
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to throw away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
There is a season for everything-everything and everyone is held in God's hand. What's perplexing is the way that those season so frequently overlap. At ChristChurch this winter we've had wonderful growth in attendance, having close to 100 on several Sundays between our 8:30 and 10 service. We have six baptisms just in the month of March! At the same time, I have heard so many stories from you-and shared my own, about family members who are sick. There is such intense joy at the growth of our community, but at the same time such grief at facing the prospect of saying goodbye to people we love.
No life is without suffering, neither is any life without powerful gifts. There was a season to give, and a season to receive, a season to greet with joy and a season to depart. For us, too. As we look toward Easter, who knows what it will bring? Sorrow and sighing, but also growth and rebirth. Grief is another measure of love; even for me as a priest, it's pretty impossible to keep an abstract distance when it comes to people I love. We pray "to see in death the gate of eternal life," and "for your faithful people, Lord, life is changed, not ended," but it still hurts.
That acknowledgment, it seems to me, is one of the things that only church can do. A bowling league creates community. An activist group makes the world a better place, forming its people in the values of the cause. Nature can be restorative beyond measure. When I am feeling depleted and exhausted, walking at Waltham Fields farm and putting my hands in the earth feels as holy as any sacrament. But church is the one place we can come just to go to pieces. This can be a place for lament and sorrow, for questioning and frustration. Those hard pews are a strong enough shelter for all the grief we can bring. They don't offer excuses, or explanations, or advice. They just accept, offer refuge, remind us that others have sat there with the same tears. They remind us that our grief doesn't have the last word.
So whatever season you're in-a season of grief or suffering, a season of growth or renewal-give thanks for the church. It can disappoint us and it can frustrate us-it is still, after all, using human hands to get its work done. But at its best, church is also a place of joy and wonder and jubilation and forgiveness. Thanks be to God, always and forever. [and, whispered because it's Lent, alleluia!]
Blessings,
Sara+
From March 15
This week, I pass on vestry notes from Michele Driscoll, our clerk, and also wanted to share quickly with you a passage of Scripture discussed at our Lenten Tuesday evening this week. This Sunday we observe (it feels strange to say "celebrate") the fourth Sunday of Lent-we're in the middle of it. Traditionally, this was known as "Laetare" Sunday: in Latin, rejoice. Its cousin is Gaudete Sunday, in Advent-both are halfway-through resting points, and both days when pink vestments may be worn. While it would certainly make my son Isaiah's heart soar to see the whole church decked out in his favorite color, it seems like a hard argument to make to buy all those vestments, so we're sticking with purple.
The idea of the day, though, is to remember that Easter is coming; its light is shining, and we're now more than halfway there. Another thing to entice us forward is that our windows are back in! You'll see new leaded glass in the hall, sacristy, and Main Street entryway, but we're keeping the stained glass under wraps for now. Suffice it to say that the colors and detail will knock your socks off...at the appropriate time. They'll be uncovered in time for Palm Sunday, our joyful procession at the palms being supplemented with the new light from the Good Shepherd.
For your Lenten practice today, though, take a few minutes to climb up into the tree and see what Zacchaeus is after--and how Jesus finds him.
[Jesus] entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax-collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycomore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, 'Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.' So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, 'He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.' Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, 'Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.' Then Jesus said to him, 'Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost' (Luke 19:1-10).
How are you lost? Found? Where is the journey of Lent taking you today?
The idea of the day, though, is to remember that Easter is coming; its light is shining, and we're now more than halfway there. Another thing to entice us forward is that our windows are back in! You'll see new leaded glass in the hall, sacristy, and Main Street entryway, but we're keeping the stained glass under wraps for now. Suffice it to say that the colors and detail will knock your socks off...at the appropriate time. They'll be uncovered in time for Palm Sunday, our joyful procession at the palms being supplemented with the new light from the Good Shepherd.
For your Lenten practice today, though, take a few minutes to climb up into the tree and see what Zacchaeus is after--and how Jesus finds him.
[Jesus] entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax-collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycomore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, 'Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.' So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, 'He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.' Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, 'Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.' Then Jesus said to him, 'Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost' (Luke 19:1-10).
How are you lost? Found? Where is the journey of Lent taking you today?
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