Maundy Thursday

It wasn't cold.

Did Holy Week come earlier last year, when spring was still winter?

The foot washing was symbolic and moving. Moving because, as Father David pointed out, it wasn't symbolic. Not at the beginning. Just necessary and a little bit gross and ever so practical.

Like diaper changing.

"Wash my hands and my head as well!"

Like Peter, I swing from extreme to extreme with fervor and intensity. Hold me, Jesus, to the right. Center me.

"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

I cannot stop thinking perfect the harmonies are, how well suited to the text and how exquisitely realized. Designed to draw me to the text, yet my soul balks at the hard words.

"...Thou didst answer. But I am a worm and not a man..."

Inwardly, I praise the discretion of the pageantry. The choir at the back, the dimming of the lights, the stripping of the altar.... still and quiet and self-forgetful. And yet I cannot stop analyzing--that would be to listen.

"My betrayer approaches."

I find myself clutching at my sweater, shivering after all.

It is very cold.

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