Holy Thursday.

BODY

If I wished to overwhelm a friend with sensation and impose upon them a Christianity fueled by passion, sincerity, and depth, then I would take them to the Catholic Easter Triduum. The sounds, the visions, the interplay of light and shadow, the fragrant odor of spice and smoke floating through the air as if God is squeezing divine sweat through the pores in the wood of the pews, and most of all, the charged and melancholy stillness of the air... the breathlessness of so many people, sitting, standing, kneeling. Waiting and recognizing.

And if my friend had been struck as I'd been struck the first time, the experience would have been beautiful and a little lonely.

I think one of the most fundamental and unyielding differences between Catholics and Protestants is the perception of spectacle as a component of worship. If I may generalize a bit, (or a lot; some Protestant denominations are closer in philosophy and practice to Catholics than they are other Protestants) Protestants tend to value austerity more as a default... austerity in ritual, theology, and institutions. But when spectacle is a feature among Protestants, it is available to all and all at once. Generalizations, yes, but then it wasn't Catholics standing on the corner of North and California with plastic buckets, practically chasing me down the street so they could baptize me, nor was there a prominent Catholic presence as a consert I attended in high school, at which we were coaxed to lay down on our bellies before the stage so we could be crushed by Jesus. My relationship to those spectacles was completely different.

These are anecdotes. I think there's something behind them. If you look at the architecture of Catholic churches, the elaboration of ritual, and the complex structure of Church heirarchy, there is a different value placed upon spectacle. Spectacle is more continually present. It permeates. But even in abundance, there is something inaccessible to an outsider. Catholics are generally hesitant to baptize someone at once upon a declaration of faith. Catholics believe that true faith is deep, and depth involves snags and stumbling... and wrestling. We are meant to work at it as Jacob worked at it. And so, it was appropriate my first experiences at Mass involved feeling overwhelmed by strange people participating in strange actions. After three years of work, I became one of those people. I was baptized at an Easter vigil. And now I grasp, I do not take for granted, but I truly breathe the value in holding candles in the dark.

This isn't a declaration of pride. Or even an argument. I don't think that spectacle trumps austerity as a path to spirituality.

But I experience some of my holiest moments each Triduum... my spirit is awakened by the seriousness and size of the event, and its appeal to my every sense, and it answers because I had to work over time to become a participant.

* * * * *

One of the holiest moments of my life occurred just two days before Easter in 2003. It was two days before my baptism, and very late in the game I'd been getting something akin to cold feet. It wasn't that I doubted my belief in God... but is my belief in God so broad and vague that it is meaningless? And I knew that, no matter how thorough and rigorous my theology might become, my whole faith is predicated on the conviction is that there is something, and something so vast and essential deserves to be loved and known by a name. Was this enough? Was my flickering faith enough?

Each year, Holy Thursday at St. Thomas in Hyde Park is gorgeous. The church fills until each pew is stacked end to end and the temperature rises even at the chilly end of March. Then the scriptures are read, and after the homily, parishioners have the opportunity to walk to the front, and have their feet washed by the priest and attendants before the sanctuary. Then, in the chill that sets in after the Lord's supper, the organs and cantor begin sounding off, closing off, shutting down. If you've heard our cantor, she hits the very highest notes and holds them shivering... she must have been operatically trained. I do not know her name. Tom is our organist, and the instrument surrounds him, and he leans far over the keys, so intent. So the song winds on, towards nightfall and silence. The lights are shut off. The candles are extinguished. The attendants carry the plants and flowers and shawls and ribbons away. As the last lights dim, I do believe that while Christianity is a final leaving of our worldly life, like the Passion, it's bittersweet... not without regret. They've stripped the altar.

Now we sit in considerable silence and darkness. Maybe a thud now and then as a hassock is lifted. A cough. The sound of coats sliding on to arms. A dull murmer of conversation from the narthex. And in the purple dim that slips through stained windows gray with dusk, the congretation slips out into the rainy night.

But not all and not all at once.

The moment I've described is still coming.

On April 18th, 2003, my friend Michaelangelo and I crossed over to the Daily Mass chapel. And this is a favorite room... warm tones with black pews on black floors... several saints pensieve upon a row of narrow windows. It feels very interior, but isn't claustrophobic.

This night, the Daily Mass chapel was packed with over a dozen parishioners, and the only light fell out from two white candles. Michael and I knelt down at the back of the room before the body of Christ. The Host stood in a stand between glass plates, and we turned toward it.

And this silence was almost literal silence. We breathed deeply and slowly so as to not disturb it. And I've never known such gleaming blackness. In the distant candlelight, but the floor and the pews felt still and sturdy beneath me and seemed to shimmer darkness. And the darkness of moving shadows coming back and forth... entering or leaving. Bowing on the way in or out. The darkness that seemed to cover us all, falling from the ceiling. It was a darkness that felt lain down, like bedsheets and blankets. And kneeling was a comfort. I could kneel as long as I wished. We stayed. And I waited and watched. And knelt. And listened for Michael's breathing. And felt my knees on the cushion. And relalized that those people in front of me were still as silhouettes. And I watched and waited. And glanced at the windows, and traced the lines of the walls and ceilings along the lintels, which I knew to be painted verdnant green against a soft burnished orange. And I gazed into the Host and thought "he's in this room with me." And then I realized: Far from waiting and watching, I was being watched. Someone was waiting for me. Someone waiting. Someone so patient. And wise beyond words. What wisdom to choose to listen when you know so well. I've tried to choose the best words.

But words are small.

We wrestled in there, acknowledged, and grit our teeth, bore down, held down, and fell down before, and were lifted up again. And astonishing, really, because for all the ruckus our turmoil and hope and true love must have caused, I've never known so many people in one place at once to be so perfectly silent and still.

* * * * *

This is probably my last year attending Easter at St. Thomas.

Of everything I've had in Chicago, this is what I've come to love the most. What I most wish I could take with me. What I'll most miss leaving behind.

And peace be with you, too.

~ Connor