April 23, 2011

• This is the wood of the cross…

  Good Friday.

  Few days of the year move my heart like this day.

  The Bride is dressed all in black, veiled in mourning.

  Where has the Groom gone? He has gone to die. And now it is that we must bury Him.

   

  There is no Mass, no celebration of thanksgiving. No organ plays, no bells are rung. All is hushed; even the day was still, humid and wet from constant rain.

   

  The people gathered in silence and all was hushed save for the echoing cry of a baby or the innocent question of a small child spoken in too loud a voice. 

   

  All the acolytes, dressed in black cassock and white surplice, lined up quietly near the back of the cathedral and processed out toward the front entrance, two-by-two. Soon we began processing up the aisle, followed by the deacons, priests and the archbishop. We were halfway up the aisle, walking slowly and quietly, before people suddenly noticed and began to stand. They are taken unawares; this is not the norm. Usually there is an opening song, a word of welcome.

  Not this day.

  We enter the sanctuary and go immediately to our seats. All mark themselves with the Sign of the Cross before the archbishop offers the opening prayer. 

  Our first reading is from Isaiah 52:13-53:12.

  We all chant the antiphon for Psalm 31 afterward while the choir intones the verses in a haunting, mournful melody.

  We listen to the second reading from Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9.

  There is yet no Alleluia; all Lent we anticipate the Gospel’s acclamation with a solemn “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ, King of endless glory.”

  This day, like Palm Sunday, the Gospel is read as a drama, a recounting of Our Lord’s Passion and Death. It is John’s account and is read by three deacons: one as narrator, one as the various voices such as Peter, Pilate, etc., and another as the voice of Jesus.

  Here we receive a most poignant reminder of our own sinfulness, for the congregation plays the part of the crowd. Our few lines are as follows:

   

  -Jesus says, “Whom are you looking for?” We as the mob say, “Jesus the Nazorean.”

  -We later ask Peter three times, “You are not one of His disciples, are you?”

  -Pilate asks us, “What charge do you bring against this man?” We respond, “If he were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you.” He tells us that we ought to judge him ourselves and we say, “We do not have the right to execute anyone.“

  -Pilate asks us who we want to be released to us and we shout, “Not this one but Barabbas!“

  -Jesus is then mocked and beaten, dressed as a king and we, in the role of those brutish soldiers, say “Hail, King of the Jews!“

  -We soon all shout out (imagine hundreds of people in a cavernous cathedral shouting) “Crucify him, crucify him!“ 

  -Pilate tries to release him and we say, “If you release him, you are not a friend of Caesar. Everyone who makes himself a king opposes Caesar.”

  -Pilate says, “Behold your king!” We say (this part is always so chilling to me), “Take him away, take him away! Crucify him!“

  -”Shall I crucify your king?” the Roman asks. We say (and oh, how often we sinners say the same!), “We have no king but Caesar.“

  -Pilate writes the charge and we say, “Do not write ‘The King of the Jews’ but that he said ‘I am the King of the Jews.‘”

  -We then again are brutish soldiers, having already rent His flesh, and now disputing over His clothing we say, “Let’s not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it will be.“

   

  Soon enough the voice of Jesus says “It is finished” and the narrator reads, “And bowing his head, he handed over the Spirit.” Everyone in the cathedral, having been standing during the whole of the narrative, kneels for several minutes in homage to our Dear King. We then stand for the remainder.

   

  After the Passion Play the whole Church throughout the world offers a series of ten particular prayers:

  I. For the Church

  II. For the Pope

  III. For all ministers and laity of the Church.

  IV. For those preparing for Baptism.

  V. For the unity of Christians.

  VI. For the Jewish people (being that they were the first people to hear the word of God and in gratitude for the heritage we have received from them, we pray that they may always be faithful to the covenant and we pray for their well-being).

  VII. For those who do not believe in Christ.

  VIII. For those who do not believe in God.

  IX. For all in public office.

  X. For those in special need (the sick, suffering, hungry, homeless, etc.). 

   

  Each prayer is offered by the deacon, after which all are invited to kneel for a few minutes, and then we stand as the archbishop lifts that prayer up, offering it to Our Lord, to which we all say, “Amen.”

   

  Then comes the one of the most moving times of the whole Church year: the Veneration of the Cross. A large crucifix is carried up the center aisle, stopping twice enroute and once after having entered the sanctuary, flanked by two acolytes bearing tall candles. The deacon carrying the Cross, at each of the three stops, chants, “This is the wood of the Cross, on which hung the Savior of the world.” The congregation chants in response, “Come, let us worship.”

  The Cross is then laid upon the steps leading up to the altar. A deacon helps the archbishop to remove his meiter, his chasuble, and then the archbishop removes his shoes. Going to the crucifix he gets down on his hands and knees and kisses the cross. Two-by-two all the concelebrating priests do the same, followed by the deacons and acolytes. First we genuflect, then we kiss the Cross, often on the feet of the corpus or, in this case, upon the space in which a relic of the True Cross is contained, but really anywhere upon the Cross is perfectly fine. Then a deacon carries the Cross to the front row of the pews so that the disabled people my venerate the Cross by kissing, touching or otherwise expressing some sign of devotion. This is one time of the year when all people may publicly express their heartfelt gratitude for the passion and death of Christ, embracing the Cross by which they have come to inherit eternal life.

  Every year there is this little girl who has glasses and a black beret; she is wheelchair-bound. My first year here she was pushed along by her mother and, leaning forward to try and kiss the Cross, she couldn’t reach so she kissed her fingertips and touched them to the Cross instead. Noticing this, the deacon picked up the Cross and held it out to her so that she could kiss it. The look of joy on that little girl’s face stirred my heart so deeply, and the love you could see just glowing in her as she kissed the feet of Christ was enough to make you hope in just about anything. I have never forgotten that moment. There she was again this year, except they brought the Cross to her.

  This year there was a tall, African-American man who was blind. A kind elderly woman led him by the arm to where the Cross was and, holding out his hand, showed him where it was. He gently touched the Cross and smiled as though he was meeting an old friend and, after a few soft words, asked the woman to help him back to his seat.

  For the next hour or so, as the choir sang beautiful, solemn music, one by one the whole congregation came to venerate the Cross and to pay homage to their slain King.

  There were men and women, young and old.

  There were mothers with their little babies in arm or in a large sling, or fathers with their little ones in arm. There was even a tiny little girl with long blond hair and a pink shirt being led by her mother, a beautiful young woman with a white mantilla upon her head. The little girl ran to the Cross as though to a beloved father and hugged the upright beam, kissed it, and turned around, holding her arms out wide as she ran back to her mother and hugged her legs.

  An elderly woman came forward so slowly, leaning on her cane, and it took her a long time to bend over far enough to kiss His feet. But you could tell by the look of love on her face that she would not settle for kissing Him anywhere else.

  Men and women of every race came forward. Rich and poor, well-dressed and disheveled. Even a few nurses from the nearby hospital came forward in their scrubs.

  Missionaries of Charity, sisters of the same order as Mother Theresa, came forward in long, flowing white trimmed in blue, mourning the death of their Spouse and offering their heartfelt, loving farewell-for-now.

  Three other sisters, all of whom are dear friends of mine, came forward as well, dressed in long flowing black with matching veils. It was watching the one to whom I am best acquainted kiss the feet of Christ with such tenderness and love that made me cry. 

  And so this continued, on and on, and eventually golden light began pouring in through the stained-glass windows of the west transept as the sun began its downward course. Once the last person came forward the Cross was taken back into the sanctuary and mounted behind the altar as though upon Golgotha, and all looked up to it. The ciborium, taken away at yesterday’s Mass, was brought out by a deacon wrapped in a red humeral veil, placed upon the altar, and the archbishop led us all in an “Our Father.” 

  After this he took a consecrated Host from the ciborium and turned, holding it up even as the Cross standing tall behind him, and he said, “This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper.” We respond, as always but now understanding more poignantly, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

  The Hosts in the ciborium were then shared among several smaller ones for distribution among the people. It was no coincidence that this was all done beneath the shadow of that great crucifix, reminding us that the Church was born from that pierced side and will forever draw its own life from the self-offered Body and Blood of the Crucified. 

  The choir sings as all come forward again to receive that life from the Cross upon which Our Savior died, fulfilling His Word: “Unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life within you.”

  Once all have been fed, the ciborium again taken away, the archbishop offers a prayer before the priests, deacons and acolytes all process out in silence. Even after the service, while we are putting away our vestments and such, everything is spoken in a hushed voice. We aren’t even aware that we are going it; while walking out to the van, outside in the open air, still we are speaking in hushed voices. The hush carries on through much of the day.

  The storms roll in.

  • 2:07 pm
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