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Holy Week is next week. 

Since our isolation/quarantine began, one of the most anxiety-producing events for faith leaders was wondering how we would “do” Holy Week, that week before Easter that we especially join Jesus with his walk to the cross.

 

As a former parish priest, I know how much time and effort is spent planning worship, proofing and reproofing and reproofing again worship booklets. Rehearsals. Cleaning. Decorating. Providing the sacrament of Reconciliation of a Penitent. Money spent on flowers. Foot washing. Stripping the altar. Stations of the Cross.

These are all good and holy acts. But as we wander in this strange land, six feet apart and behind closed doors, it feels that we have a gift this year. We can enter into an even deeper meaning of an intentional walk with Jesus.

Where is God’s invitation this year?

Starting with Palm Sunday.

Each of us can pray the Liturgy of the Palms. It’s in the Book of Common Prayer and no clergy are necessary. Then we can stop. Since we will be walking the way towards the cross with Jesus, we can sit fully with his triumphant-ish entry into Jerusalem without jumping ahead to hear the Passion Gospel. Because Jesus hasn’t died yet.

In preparation for Palm Sunday: Today, Tuesday in the fifth week of Lent—do you know how to fold a palm or branch cross (I never could master it despite how many times Jo Cassidy tried to teach me)? If you do, go outside and gather some leaves. In Houston, palm branches are actually not difficult to find. Fold crosses and mail them to people who might like a bit of love. The palm crosses will be there for them on Palm Sunday if you do it today or tomorrow.

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Had you planned to give flowers for Easter worship? We can take whatever money we would have spent on flowers and use it to provide food for hungry people. Flowers for Food. Write a note to the people you would have honored by giving Easter flowers for Easter worship; let them know why you are so thankful for them and that someone hungry will have something to eat because you shared your love in a tangible way.

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This is the time for us to be God’s people in a powerful way in a world that is starving for the peace that passes understanding.  Where is the invitation today?

Good morning God.

This is your day.

I am your child.

Please show me your way.

AMEN,

 

The Forward Day by Day reminded me this morning that it is the feast day of Charles Henry Brent, Bishop. In all his busy holiness, perhaps his greatest gift is prayer, particularly a prayer for mission that is in the Book of Common Prayer:

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Lord Jesus Christ, you stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of your saving embrace: So clothe us in your Spirit that we, reaching forth our hands in love, may bring those who do not know you to the knowledge and love of you; for the honor of your Name. Amen.

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So clothe us in your Spirit that we reaching forth our hands in love

This is one of my favorite prayers, and this is the line that always resonates with me.

Today, when I am limited in how I can physically touch others with my hands, how can I specifically reach forth my hands in love? To bring others to the knowledge and love of God?

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That’s a Lenten cross we can all bear.

When I was still living in the Rectory, my home flooded twice. Those two floods and the after consequences were perhaps the most painful times of my life. When I had gotten through those two terrible, terrible events, only in looking back, despite the enormous pain, I knew they had been the very best times of my life. Certainly not while going through them; only afterwards when I saw the person I had become and the gifts I had received did I see clearly how God works through the very worst of times.

I bring those learned gifts to this uniquely terrible, terrible time knowing that even more gifts will be received. Certainly for me personally. Certainly, I pray, for a country (and world) where we will be more unselfish and generous and where we will seek to rise to the other’s best and to serve the common good.

On Saturday, my first Sabbath since the crisis hit, I took advantage of early hour’s shopping for those of us of riper years. It is the first time I’ve ever had to show my driver’s license to enter a store in order to buy groceries!

I was delighted to score peanut butter and coffee filters. The very best gift of all was church at checkout. Erica, my brave checker, and I had a good talk about God as she rang up my groceries. I came out of the closet and told her that I was a priest. She asked me if I could bless some oil for her because she was all out of holy oil. As God would have it, in the minutes it took her to find some oil on the nearly empty shelves (substituting almond for the out of stock olive), no one else came to her register to check out. There in Whole Foods we had a prayer service.

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Later that day I decided to go to the nursery. My butterfly plant was covered in monarch caterpillars and they had stripped it to the stems.

My local nursery had gotten in a fresh supply of milkweed—limit four per person. Milk. Butter. Toilet paper. And now milkweed. Ah, life in a pandemic.

Martha and I had a chat as she rang me up. Her weekday job is working with seniors. She had bought some beautiful hanging baskets (on sale!) and delivered them (at safe distance) to the elder home-based folks in her church. As she told me about her ministry of far apart care, it was church, once again. At Another Place in Time.

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When I got home, I realized that Martha had slipped a couple of extra milkweed plants in my car when she had helped me carry my purchases to my trunk. A passing of the peace, of sorts.

On Sunday, the loneliness of living alone was becoming heart hurting. I remembered something I’d learned from the two floods. It’s okay to ask for what you need—and then to receive what is given.

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I reached out to my Oregon family. I joined them for online worship with their local church, New Hope. We FaceTimed. And last night, my wonderful daughter in law sent me photos of their day.

And there on Austin’s daily schedule, call Grandma.

One of the reasons we wanted to start the day at The Momentary was to see Edra Soto’s installation. On her walks around her Chicago neighborhood, Edra noticed a plethora of empty liquor bottles scattered literally with abandon. She began to gather the bottles, clean them, and create art with them.

She was leading a class in the afternoon for families at Crystal Bridges, and I wanted to experience her art before participating.

The day before, my friend and I had gathered in one of Crystal Bridges’ studios and painted with water color pencils. We were invited to draw a self portrait to post in their gallery.

I learned in college that children discover when they are about ten years old that their art doesn’t look like what they are seeing, and unless encouraged, most stop creating art. Adults often tell me that they aren’t artistic; they aren’t creative. This is the fruit, I believe, of the story we make up in our head when we are still children.

If we are created in the image of God our creator then, to me, it seems we are born to be artists. We are born to create. For too many of us adults, creating is as risky as dancing.

At Crystal Bridges, all who gather have frequent invitations to create. There is an art room always open, and each day offers some special opportunity for guests.

We couldn’t have had a warmer welcome as we entered the studio on Sunday afternoon to create. We were greeted at the door, and then Edra herself came to us treating us as valued guests and gave us instructions for our artwork project.

The museum had repurposed bottles from the museum restaurant, and we were given crafting clay to shape and then attach to the bottle to make our own sculpture.

I watched as Edra warmly spoke to each person that entered. She encouraged and celebrated all of our participation. The room was filled with every flavor of person.

A man with Down’s syndrome shouted a guttural hello each time the door opened. A dark complexioned baby in a stroller echolaliaed each of the man’s welcoming sounds. A group of people who appeared to be of very limited financial means and perhaps intellect came in and began to create.

There was the father who stayed on his cell phone the entire time. Grandparents with grandchildren. A few parents who watched as their children sculpted. People who created one sculpture together.

All were welcome.

As we finished, Edra carefully took each of our sculptures and photographed them as if they were precious art. I suspect to her they were.

The mission of Crystal Bridges with its always free admission, plopped in the midst of small town Ozarks, is to make art available to everyone. No exceptions.

This is God’s people gathered. It was church for me on the first Sunday afternoon in Lent.