The Triduum

Holy Thursday

It's hard to give you a sense for what happens in our Church over the next three days without a lot of explanation. When we worship together as Catholic Christians we celebrate what we call "liturgy" which means "a work of the people". This doesn't imply doing something independently of God. Rather, our worship is about relationship. God has done something to and for us, and it gives us power to do something with him in response. It might take a lifetime to understand, if my experience is a simple measure. Anyway, each year it is a new experience, spread over three days, and our worship is called the Triduum, a liturgy that takes three days.
     I can only give you a snapshot here. There is a moment while the priest reads the Gospel story of Jesus washing the feet of his apostles, that we pause to wash each other's feet. It is an optional experience that I have declined. Until last night. It was all I wanted to do, so I went forward and sat on a bench and took off my shoes and let a man wash my feet.
     It was an intensely private and intimate experience, though we were surrounded by hundreds of people, outdoors in candlight. The water was warm (thank you, hospitality ministers!) the towel was soft and my "servant" both vigorous and thourough. I sat with my head forward as he scrubbed and... it was like going through another door, conversion, finding a truth and following it. I haven't been able to shake that feeling. As soon as he was finished I got up from the bench and turned to wash the feet of the man behind me in line, and though I felt like the most inept servant and I may have sent him off squishing in his shoes, I was at last part of the work of the Church, the Liturgy that never ends. And I knew that while I might not wander the earth with a basin and towel tied to my waist, whatever I put my hand to in loving service is indeed a cleansing gift for the world.
    Wrapping it up, I couldn't find one of my dark socks and had to grope around under the bench while people changed seats. I walked back across the clipped-grass lawn under the palm trees and glistening candles, with my shoes and socks in my hand to where JoAnne waited among the seats. There is so much more to this first evening of celebration, but as I was lost in memories of other places and moments I haven't a place to begin. Just to say that after the washing of feet Father continued the story of Jesus, we celebrated Communion with much singing, and then very quietly folowed the Eucharist out into the desert where a small altar had been erected. The people would remain there, praying, until late in the evening and finally disperse into the darkness, not glumly or despairing, but holding our breath, spiritually as it were, for this is just the first night of our hope. The beginning of everything we live for...


Good Friday

     Watching the weather with a cautious eye. Last year it turned bad over the weekend, but this year we seem to be blessed. A large storm coming from the west split in the middle and passed by, north and south, with hardly more than breezes...
     Last night we stayed late, following the crowd from Palm Court out into the desert where a small altar had been built. We sang and prayed in the darkness in front of the Eucharist, and then, late at night, went home through the same expectant darkness to wait for dawn.
     In the morning we returned to the desert and prayed together. Morning is my favorite time on the desert. It is very lovely in the Springtime, without a hint of the harshness so typical of our area. The desert is covered with wildflowers. All the trees are green. The cacti are bursting with buds, soon to be blooms. The desert greets the springtime with passion, and similar feelings come to heart during the Triduum. It isn't simply a time for mourning Christ's passion and death, but also for celebrating the gift that comes through these events. "Unless the seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a seed." On our way back to the parking lot after morning prayers, we notice where all the seed that blew from the brittle bush last summer have sprouted in the bare gravel. Rosemary, our spritual companion from the Franciscans, tells us that the groundskeepers will gather these seedlings carefully and transplant them around the property. Someday the land will be filled with flowers.
     Friday passes quietly. We are off work and I try to keep busy with small projects. JoAnne spends her time around the house and visiting the chapel, shopping for groceries and sitting in quiet prayer. As the sun sets we head out again, back to the outdoor chapel at Our Lady of the Angels. The hospitality ministers need a hand so we agree to help pass baskets for the collection. It is a mix of feelings tonight, sorrow blended with excitement, remorse with expectation. It's hard to participate in the rituals without also admitting our role in Jesus' sufferings. It is personal, painful, hopeful, hungry. This year I feel different, quieter than usual for Good Friday, yet filled again with the same desire, like a flame in dry brush, just beginning to catch... What will he do next? What will he ask for...?

     A little boat on a big ocean sails far enough that it loses sight of the shore. Experience, however, teaches us to keep the compass point steady on the mark, and the boat will cross over the distance to a place where land can be seen ahead. This is how it's done in the spiritual journey as well. We spend a lot of days learning how to steer our boat--years perhaps--and then one day it is real. The crossing has begun. There is no going back, no looking back. All that matters is the steady, daily rhythm of the waves. In the same way my own journey is settling into the rhythm of the Holy Spirit. No big excitements, just daily progress toward the goal. Going home again, late in the night, we look forward to Saturday and the completion of the crossing...


Holy Saturday, Completing the Vigil

     We get up early and begin the tasks of preparing for Easter. At home it is about cooking, cleaning, getting out extra chairs, making and receiving phone calls as our family gets itself straightened out for Easter Sunday. We alse get ourselves straight, for tonight, after sunset, we return to Our Lady's to complete the liturgy of the Easter Triduum.
    Liturgy, this "work of the people" is worship. It is rich with color and meaning, sound and fragrance. At Our Lady's there are always surprises. Last night during a quiet moment I recognized an Irish tune, played behind the motion. Perhaps that's what got me thinking about boats and sailing. I long to visit Ireland, home of my ancestors, and walk the places of stories and legend. I feel the same way about the Kingdom of Heaven, only much more strongly.
    The Mass we are going to is often itself called the Easter Vigil, since it is celebrated in the night before Easter morning. Vigil means watchful waiting and is one of the charisms of Christianity. All things considered, we are a people waiting and preparing for the return of Christ, who has not left us, but will come in a way that allows everyone to know him. I think he comes through our hands and our hearts, so that the world will know him "by our love". It's a thought that shapes Franciscans profoundly.
     I think of all the people I love and miss, how I can love more freely in the days to come. That's our task: to liberate love in our daily lives, to let it's power run rampant in ways that reflect the Gospels--healing the sick, saving the poor, liberating the captives... raising the dead. This is big stuff in little lives, the way God likes to do things.
     Though we are continuing the same journey of celebration, tonight's Mass is as different from Thursday and Friday as can be. We begin in darkness, sitting under the palm trees while the ministers read, sing, dance and proclaim scripture after scripture, telling over the course of hours the great story of our Salvation. All I can do is to sit quietly and rejoice. It's like Rosemary said, "We already know the story. It doesn't matter where we sit."
    We have journeyed inside the heart of Christ and found ourselves. The passion of many years, many miles of wandering is completed. We are His now, and the only thing we know how to say is "Yes!"
     Out on the desert a faint breeze is moving, hardly a breath. It brings with it the smells of bursage and wildflowers. Now a chorus of coyotes, running amok in the darkness. We stand for a blessing and I feel the roots from my feet reaching down into the Holy Earth. The choir is singing a Native song. I do not know the words, but I recognize the blessing. It pours over us like soft rain. We reach out and drink it. We are planted in the earth like the first Creation. Everything is blessed. Everything is whole.
     Tonight we baptize new Christians and we bless and annoint new members. The journey of belonging takes many forms and we celebrate all of them. Our life is celebration. We take a step across the darkness of Christ's passion and come into the light of God's love and providence. We, the poorest of servants, are called forward to the table of his delight where differences melt away. The celebration is beautiful, made so by the care of many hands and hearts. At the end the ministers gather in the center and dance for the assembly: priests, friars, lectors, musicians, a troupe of women dressed in white, and among them are the shining candles of those newly baptized. Later over coffee and cake, these are the faces who catch my eye and heart. They are rejoicing adamantly in what God has done for them. They are the faces of our destiney.

    Someday, when the Journey is done, we will dance together in the presence of God. We will be home.

Happy Easter!