IT'S HOLY WEEK. THIS YEAR IT'S NOT THE SAME.

Duke Chapel, Durham NC

It's Holy Week.  Normally I am looking forward to Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter.  All good services.  Each a little different than the other.  The striping of the altar, the Crucifixion, a day of waiting, then the Resurrection.  A lot of silence during Holy Week.  A lot of contemplation.

This year it's not the same.  At least today, Monday, I feel like it won't be. Of course maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe when Thursday comes and I follow our service on-line it will actually feel like the day of the Last Supper, the day of the first communion.  "Take, eat.  This is my body.  Take, drink.  This is my blood."  Even though we can't take communion except from prepared packets available by drive-through.  

Maybe if I listen to the Friday service in the dark it will feel like Tenebrae, the service of darkness where candles are gradually extinguished, leaving only the Christ candle to be carried out of the sanctuary symbolizing Christ's death; followed by a loud noise, the slamming of a large Bible symbolizing the closing of the tomb. Maybe I can somehow replicate leaving the church in silence in my home.  

Of course on Sunday I can't parade around my home in my Easter clothes (today is the first day in 3 weeks that just for a change I didn't pull on jeans).  There won't be a congregation singing "Jesus Christ is Risen Today," though the organist I'm assuming will play it.  There may be some Easter lilies in the background of the video but we won't be able to smell them.  We won't share an Easter breakfast or watch the children hunt for eggs.  

Still, as I write this I am changing.  I can feel it.  Writing can do that.  I find I am picturing each service, each part that I will miss.  The foot-washing on Maundy Thursday, reminding us to serve each other in humility.  The pace of the Good Friday service:  hymn, lesson, candle snuffed, lights dimmed, repeat.  Slower and darker untill we tiptoe out in silence.  The hiatus of Saturday when Christ lies in the tomb.  The newness of Easter morn that matches the bright green spring leaves in my little part of the world perfectly.   


The self-isolation and my classes on meditation have brought me closer to God.  My Prayer Journal the same.  I read this morning that we bring our suffering to God and I agree.  I am more likely to think of God out of need than gratitude.  Gratitude takes practice.  Need doesn't.  Usually I write in my Prayer Journal because I have something I desperately need to tell someone; only God will do.  God keeps our secrets.  He listens.  Now when I open the Prayer Journal--take off the rubber bands, slide out the pen--my breath slows, I am focused.  I know what's coming.  God will be there.  Maybe that will be true of the services this week, on-line or not.  I can still hear the organ, still hear the words.  Maybe God will be there.  After all, God often finds me in this house.  

Perhaps this has been a prayer.  AMEN.              Nina Naomi

The Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani