Holy week

Holy week with children is very different from Holy week without them.

I took both boys to Tenebrae on Thursday. It was a serious challenge getting out the door by 6:30am. And it was an even bigger challenge keeping both boys quiet during the service. During a normal mass, I can sit in the back and not worry too much about audible not-quite-whispers and short-but-loud "I'm hungry!" cries. There is just more noise in general when the church is full of shifting and shuffling and breathing people. But at Tenebrae, there are only a few people there (12 this year). We all sit at the front in the choir loft, and there just isn't any "cover" for my not-silent boys. So much of my attention is required to make sure that we don't make it difficult for everyone else to pay attention. It makes it hard to pay attention.

Still, I'm glad we went. Tenebrae is my favorite of the Holy week services (barring the Easter Vigil, of course!) It is an inverse of the Easter Vigil - we begin in light and as the service progresses, candles are extinguished until we leave the church in darkness and silence. The texts are all about the crucifixion without actually talking about it - prophesy instead of gospel. It isn't as heavy as the Good Friday service - it doesn't stop you in your tracks, but it makes you slow down and consider. It is a transition from Lenten preparation into the actual Passion narrative.

Gabe went to the Maundy Thursday service and kept the "watch with me one hour" vigil in the night. I stayed home with the boys.

Friday at noon we all went to the Good Friday liturgy. Thomas slept through the service, but a two-hour service that spans the beginning of naptime is tough for a toddler. Especially when said toddler slips, falls, and puts his tooth through his lip. Poor kiddo.

The church feels heavy and still and full of silence on Good Friday. Even a crying child can't mar it completely - everything feels muffled in dark velvet sadness. The starkness of the crucifix when it is unveiled is in strange and jarring contrast - a reminder of the cruelty and sharpness of the man Jesus' death. Death which is made so real as we watch the sanctuary candle - the symbol of Christ's presence - flicker and die into darkness.

And yet even then we can't quite keep the secret. We "glory in your cross, oh Lord, and praise and glorify your holy resurrection; for by virtue of your cross, joy has come to the whole world."

So we come to today, Holy Saturday, where we live in the knowledge of Christ's death and also the anticipation of his resurrection. Today is the "between-time". Today I live and work in a strange unsure place - we can't celebrate yet, but we can't pretend not to know the end of the story.

Dr. Sanders writes eloquently on the subject of Holy Saturday here. Thanks to Jessica for finding it. His opening sums up how I feel today exactly:

The day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is called Holy Saturday, and it’s hard to know exactly how you’re supposed to feel on this day.

Today I live and work and wonder how I'm supposed to feel. But tomorrow is coming (oh-so-early - 5am Vigil!) and it will be Easter. Tomorrow, we rejoice!