--Photo courtesy of Storm Crypt / flikr
A whole lot of we Baptists came late to Holy Week. For years we were taught this was some kind of Catholic thing. Romanists. Worshipping ceremony more than Jesus. Why celebrate this whole week when we could be getting out the Easter egg colors, buying our new spiffy clothes, getting the kids one of those cute bunnies—and waiting for Easter Day. We would always sing, of course, “He lives on High” to the Hawaiian tune. But somewhere along the way we began to realize that we all needed some preparation to make the Easter event more powerful than even the Crucifixion. Even then we were suspicious of crosses in church and especially not on the tall spire on top of the steeple. Thankfully we got over it.
From the fourth century on pilgrims celebrated Holy Week at least Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Later, following the Scriptures we would recall event after event that led up to Calvary and the Resurrection.
I’ve been thinking of late why did we call this particular week holy? The story is filled not only with the Triumphal Entry, but cleansing the temple, Maundy Thursday when Judas would betray our lord and Peter would deny him. The washing the disciples’ feet. The agony of the Garden of Gethsemane and the capture of Jesus, the scourging, the stripping him naked, the crown of thorns and finally Calvary with all its gore and heartbreak.
I know…i know that Easter was coming and it would somehow erase all the pain of that long terrible week. What if it really was just a not-so-holy week. God knows history could state the case. Terrible things have happened in the name of Jesus and his Cross has been used as a weapon time after time. “In this sign I conquer.”
There is so much in the story that seems anything but holy. The rigged trials, the degradation, the spittle and the hatred. They all took place on Holy Week.
I look out at where we are today—this cursed pandemic and all its aftermath. More than 553,726 have died just in our country. Many of our loved ones have walked their own personal way of sorrows. Dying alone and cut off from all family members. Their loved ones touching that finger-smeared glass so their loved one would know they were not alone. This Holy Week brings the loss of too many jobs, too many suicides and so many enraged and acting out their frustrations. How in God’s name can we call it good?
The Church has been guilty of cosmetizing the truth, often denying all that went on that terrible week. Just Good Friday.
But let’s be fair. Most Holy Weeks have come in the middle of wars and plagues and hunger and injustice and utter heartbreak. In the Middle Ages as one town was immersed in leprosy and death the Priest took a painting of Jesus crucified with a body covered in sores. And the Priest would invite those who were themselves were in great pain and many who had lost children, friends, husbands and wives to gather around that painting of the diseased, dying Jesus. Legend has it that the Priest would take a large candle from the altar and moved to the crucified. He would show those gathered the crown of thorns, then the diseased face and hands and feet and the terrible body racked in pain. And that was the sermon. The Priest snuffed out the candle and the people would begin to shuffle away in the darkness.
Maybe this is why they called that week holy. For they found in His way of sorrows something that kept them going despite whatever they faced. It would be something if we could all lay down our burdens—not down by the riverside--but at the feet Jesus.
“At the feet o’ Jesus,
Sorrow like a sea.
Lordy, let yo’ mercy
Come driftin’ down on me.
At †he feet o’ Jesus
At yo’ feet I stand.
O, ma little Jesus,
Please reach out yo’ hand.”
—Langston Hughes
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