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Maundy Thursday - Holy Cross Monastery
Apr. 17th, 2003 09:33 pmSigh...I have endured, and I am here - as always, struggling somewhat to just be here, without expectations.
The trip Sunday night [back to Atlanta after Palm Sunday] was lovely and without unpleasant incident; the trip Tuesday night was slightly bumpier but not bad.
Monday was good; turns out I didn't have to beg the car, because Shreesha needed to stop for groceries! God does provide.
Weather's been lovely; it's even been pretty today but very cold. I got up and did the packing and stuff yesterday, and it was gloriously warm but I'd seen the reports that it would turn cold, so I brought essentially two of everything: warm weather & cold. Did not however bring the silk long underwear. May wish I had...I know I did last year, and bundled up and got down to the crypt for vigil and was roasting...but I'd recalled a time when I was freezing instead.
So I departed about 1:50, with a side trip to the Mall for the Easter eggs. Between that and having to stop for lunch and gas, I thought I'd miss Vespers - but I arrived with time to actually fling everything into the room. And at least one person has seen the baskets, which were sitting in the back seat; knew I should've put them in the trunk! Oh, well - hopefully he'll forget...or won't say anything.
Last little bits of comfort, Vespers and Compline - last times to say the Gloria Patri, the antiphon on the Nunc dimittis, the hymn (The royal banners forward go)...all to be stripped away in the starkness of the Triduum.
It isn't the shock, the surprise - it's become blissfully familiar - the antiphons and responds now well-known, well-remembered. The choir's rehearsing them now.
It's not surprising to us, that this betrayal happens. It feels very different, this week, in light of the present state of the world. It's easier to feel the precariousness of the situation, to feel a little hesitant on Palm Sunday...to feel a little like we're making too much noise and somebody's going to be upset.
All week, that sense of, "Now what? What happens next?" Like the Iraqis, waiting and watching to see what their great liberators will do. They danced in the streets, and cheered as we rode in triumph in our tanks; what will they be doing today, and tomorrow, and the next day? Will they turn ugly, throw rocks (or worse) and say, "Go away! We don't want you! We never did!"
They would be justified. We've destroyed homes and marketplaces, killed and maimed civilians, then stood by deaf and dumb as priceless archaeological treasures were looted or destroyed, as houses of worship were plundered. Not our archaeological treasures; not our houses of worship - not our faith; not our problem. We've secured the treasure we care about: the oil is safely protected.
How differently Jesus comes to Jerusalem! No mighty army, no bombs, no tanks - not even a warhorse does he ride, but a humble workaday donkey. He doesn't come to take over, to impose his will - he just comes, simply, quietly, He isn't taking over, he's coming to be with us.
But we want him to take over; some of us do, anyway. Everyone is nervous, expectant - even though we don't quite know what to expect.
We should know, by now. We who have followed him on the road, have eaten and drunk and walked and talked and slept and rose with him - we ought to know. He's told us plainly enough: to do what God wants will put him at serious odds with those who do not want what God wants, and they are willing to kill to silence those who challenge their comfortable security.
But the disciples don't seem to know what's coming - or maybe they do. Maybe as they prepare the Passover, they sense the turbulence and uneasiness around them, and fear that bad things are about to happen.
We don't want to know. We feel squeamish shouting, "Crucify him!" on Palm Sunday, but we'll shout "throw the switch" at an execution. We want to pretend we would never do such terrible things to people - all the while being willing to dismiss an armless, orphaned Iraqi boy as "collateral damage."
God keeps telling us about his love, and we keep trying to kill it.
God keeps saying, "Love!" and we keep shouting, "Die!"
God keeps whispering, "I love you!" and we keep screaming "I'll kill you!"
But God's whisper wins.
New echoes, this year. Darker ones. As the altar is stripped, I see images of looters ransacking mosques and museums. Betrayal and political murder and exigencies of war are all too easy to believe in, right now.
The task, as always, is to be here - and to be here. Hard again, this year, with all the crazy chasing around. The more demanding my life gets, the less likely I am to have a clue how I really am; I don't have time to know, and if it isn't good, I can't afford to know it, because there's no time for it.
I didn't do this earlier in the day, and felt unprepared for tonight - though I don't think we're ever really prepared...Douglas shaking all over as he washed my feet, and I could see him shaking throughout. Many moments of distractedness and mental wandering. One deep, awesome moment when I could feel all of us held, embraced into one beating, bleeding, loving heart. One deep, awesome moment when our voices reciting the post-communion prayer seemed larger than the room, when they seemed joined down a long echoing nave stretching back to Jerusalem and ahead into heaven. Several moments when I could not sing or speak for weeping.
I am not, in some ways, as well as I was last year. In too many instances, that part of myself that is not well has gotten the upper hand. I still eat too unconsciously, too unmindfully of what I'm really feeding and why.
But I don't think I've regressed entirely. I did go crazy when Don's condition got worse, but I'm not having ongoing rages or bouts of wanting to jump up and down on the pill bottle. Partly that may be because I know people don't always have to take this particular medication forever, or even for a very long time. Partly it's because I'm onto the caretaker's tricks, and the mature adult part of me knows that it's much better to medicate this condition and control it than to leave it uncontrolled, which it was for a few months at least.
I got too busy with work and fell away from the task of grieving the hurts and betrayals of my youth. In some ways, this is good - I got past and away from the immediate sense of insanity. But it is still there, and it is good for me never to forget that it is still there - when I forget, my betrayer gains power.
The claws, the deep embedded thorns are still there; their poison is perhaps neutralized but not entirely dispelled. That one could still touch the strings and make me bleed, if he chose. I do not feel it as keenly, right now, but I know it.
To grieve and to let go; those have been my tasks. I have no idea how well I've done them. This panic-fear about flying has sort of superceded all else. Of course it's the ultimate fear of abandonment; it is the cross. It is the thing that God will allow to kill me, the horrible death to which God will abandon me.
But there - there is the heart of it. God will abandon me. Even God. I will be totally alone.
Just saying, "That's not true. God never abandons us;" that won't do it. I need to live it, enact it, remember it - be present to it. Then maybe...gotta get some sleep now before vigil.
The trip Sunday night [back to Atlanta after Palm Sunday] was lovely and without unpleasant incident; the trip Tuesday night was slightly bumpier but not bad.
Monday was good; turns out I didn't have to beg the car, because Shreesha needed to stop for groceries! God does provide.
Weather's been lovely; it's even been pretty today but very cold. I got up and did the packing and stuff yesterday, and it was gloriously warm but I'd seen the reports that it would turn cold, so I brought essentially two of everything: warm weather & cold. Did not however bring the silk long underwear. May wish I had...I know I did last year, and bundled up and got down to the crypt for vigil and was roasting...but I'd recalled a time when I was freezing instead.
So I departed about 1:50, with a side trip to the Mall for the Easter eggs. Between that and having to stop for lunch and gas, I thought I'd miss Vespers - but I arrived with time to actually fling everything into the room. And at least one person has seen the baskets, which were sitting in the back seat; knew I should've put them in the trunk! Oh, well - hopefully he'll forget...or won't say anything.
Last little bits of comfort, Vespers and Compline - last times to say the Gloria Patri, the antiphon on the Nunc dimittis, the hymn (The royal banners forward go)...all to be stripped away in the starkness of the Triduum.
It isn't the shock, the surprise - it's become blissfully familiar - the antiphons and responds now well-known, well-remembered. The choir's rehearsing them now.
It's not surprising to us, that this betrayal happens. It feels very different, this week, in light of the present state of the world. It's easier to feel the precariousness of the situation, to feel a little hesitant on Palm Sunday...to feel a little like we're making too much noise and somebody's going to be upset.
All week, that sense of, "Now what? What happens next?" Like the Iraqis, waiting and watching to see what their great liberators will do. They danced in the streets, and cheered as we rode in triumph in our tanks; what will they be doing today, and tomorrow, and the next day? Will they turn ugly, throw rocks (or worse) and say, "Go away! We don't want you! We never did!"
They would be justified. We've destroyed homes and marketplaces, killed and maimed civilians, then stood by deaf and dumb as priceless archaeological treasures were looted or destroyed, as houses of worship were plundered. Not our archaeological treasures; not our houses of worship - not our faith; not our problem. We've secured the treasure we care about: the oil is safely protected.
How differently Jesus comes to Jerusalem! No mighty army, no bombs, no tanks - not even a warhorse does he ride, but a humble workaday donkey. He doesn't come to take over, to impose his will - he just comes, simply, quietly, He isn't taking over, he's coming to be with us.
But we want him to take over; some of us do, anyway. Everyone is nervous, expectant - even though we don't quite know what to expect.
We should know, by now. We who have followed him on the road, have eaten and drunk and walked and talked and slept and rose with him - we ought to know. He's told us plainly enough: to do what God wants will put him at serious odds with those who do not want what God wants, and they are willing to kill to silence those who challenge their comfortable security.
But the disciples don't seem to know what's coming - or maybe they do. Maybe as they prepare the Passover, they sense the turbulence and uneasiness around them, and fear that bad things are about to happen.
We don't want to know. We feel squeamish shouting, "Crucify him!" on Palm Sunday, but we'll shout "throw the switch" at an execution. We want to pretend we would never do such terrible things to people - all the while being willing to dismiss an armless, orphaned Iraqi boy as "collateral damage."
God keeps telling us about his love, and we keep trying to kill it.
God keeps saying, "Love!" and we keep shouting, "Die!"
God keeps whispering, "I love you!" and we keep screaming "I'll kill you!"
But God's whisper wins.
New echoes, this year. Darker ones. As the altar is stripped, I see images of looters ransacking mosques and museums. Betrayal and political murder and exigencies of war are all too easy to believe in, right now.
The task, as always, is to be here - and to be here. Hard again, this year, with all the crazy chasing around. The more demanding my life gets, the less likely I am to have a clue how I really am; I don't have time to know, and if it isn't good, I can't afford to know it, because there's no time for it.
I didn't do this earlier in the day, and felt unprepared for tonight - though I don't think we're ever really prepared...Douglas shaking all over as he washed my feet, and I could see him shaking throughout. Many moments of distractedness and mental wandering. One deep, awesome moment when I could feel all of us held, embraced into one beating, bleeding, loving heart. One deep, awesome moment when our voices reciting the post-communion prayer seemed larger than the room, when they seemed joined down a long echoing nave stretching back to Jerusalem and ahead into heaven. Several moments when I could not sing or speak for weeping.
I am not, in some ways, as well as I was last year. In too many instances, that part of myself that is not well has gotten the upper hand. I still eat too unconsciously, too unmindfully of what I'm really feeding and why.
But I don't think I've regressed entirely. I did go crazy when Don's condition got worse, but I'm not having ongoing rages or bouts of wanting to jump up and down on the pill bottle. Partly that may be because I know people don't always have to take this particular medication forever, or even for a very long time. Partly it's because I'm onto the caretaker's tricks, and the mature adult part of me knows that it's much better to medicate this condition and control it than to leave it uncontrolled, which it was for a few months at least.
I got too busy with work and fell away from the task of grieving the hurts and betrayals of my youth. In some ways, this is good - I got past and away from the immediate sense of insanity. But it is still there, and it is good for me never to forget that it is still there - when I forget, my betrayer gains power.
The claws, the deep embedded thorns are still there; their poison is perhaps neutralized but not entirely dispelled. That one could still touch the strings and make me bleed, if he chose. I do not feel it as keenly, right now, but I know it.
To grieve and to let go; those have been my tasks. I have no idea how well I've done them. This panic-fear about flying has sort of superceded all else. Of course it's the ultimate fear of abandonment; it is the cross. It is the thing that God will allow to kill me, the horrible death to which God will abandon me.
But there - there is the heart of it. God will abandon me. Even God. I will be totally alone.
Just saying, "That's not true. God never abandons us;" that won't do it. I need to live it, enact it, remember it - be present to it. Then maybe...gotta get some sleep now before vigil.
