This is the third blog I’ve begun in as many days. The past two have gone into the draft folder:

A white lady of privilege. Wearing a mask in Ascensiontide.

Sunday night I joined the Sisters of Our Lady of Grace for their Taize worship vía Facebook Live with prayers for healing. I lit candles.

I sat quietly praying with the Sisters, and as they sang I began to sob. Sobs from the depths of my spirit.

I had not wept that deeply since an afternoon years ago many weeks after my dad had died. As it does, unexpectedly when we think all is well, grief hit, and I sat on the stairs of my home and cried with tears too deep for words.

There are no words to express the sorrow, the grief, the anger, the loss of these days.

I can pray, adapting this litany of peace from the Archdiocese of Dublin by Kevin Pearson

A litany for those without words

When peace is fragile, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When tempers are raised, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When atrocities occur, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When talks break down, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When agreements are broken, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When darkness weighs upon us, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When we cannot see you, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When hope seems faint, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.
When faith seems difficult, and we cannot breathe, Come Holy Spirit.

Come Holy Spirit, so that we can breathe.
Receive all who have died, particularly from disease, especially the disease of violence, so that we can breathe.
Comfort their families and communities, so that we can breathe.
Chasten the violent, so that we can breathe.
Champion authentic leadership, so that we can breathe.
Renew the peace of our cities, so that we can breathe.
Come Holy Spirit and breathe new life into our ailing world. Amen

In the silence, may we listen for how we are to be the answer to this prayer.

• 

I’ll admit. My Lenten disciplines didn’t play out the way I’d planned. I didn’t get very far in the book I’d planned to read everyday. I didn’t do my daily prayer walk. I did pretty well fasting from unkind words. Mostly. The almsgiving was actually the star of Lent with endless new opportunities to offer my tithe.

So now it’s day two in the 50 Days of Eastertide. I’m not sure what day it is is the season of coronaboundtide. Still I am thankful for the reworked words of St. Benedict, Everyday we begin again.

On Holy Saturday, the last day of Lent, I prepared for Easter.

I mixed together whole wheat flour and filtered water in a glass bowl. I had decided to create my own sourdough starter.

I filled a whiskey barrel with dried leaves, packing peanuts made from corn (thank you Rebecca Wood), and potting soil.

On the Sunday of the Resurrection I made a flower garden with my morning coffee.

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The first worship of the day was with the Sisters of Our Lady of Grace. The schola sang words of the resurrection gospel from Luke of women and fear and spices and bowing faces to the ground and being perplexed and remembering his words and idle tale and my soul was lifted. Later I listened to a wise sermon from our bishop. And even later I worshipped with my Bend family and their church beautifully named New Hope. Imagine—worship in Indiana, Texas, and Oregon. It was like Jesus appearing through locked doors to the disciples.

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Between worship, I planted seeds in my new driveway garden. Job’s Tears. Sunflowers.

The miracle of wild yeast had begun to transform the whole wheat flour and water into something new. Now full of life and bubbles, I began the process of throwing a bit of the starter away each day, and feeding it new flour and water (there’s science and best practices that explain why some of the living starter has to be removed and disposed of before it can be fed again). It will be a twice a day process until the starter is ready to be used.

On this Easter Monday, the starter I fed last night has grown twice it’s size and is now waiting for its morning discard and feeding.

Alleluia. Christ is risen. The wild yeast, too.

After the supper was over and the table had been cleared away
When the last bottle was empty, there was nothing much left to say
Jesus started humming an old tune, everybody fell right in
They sang the last song, the last song

Matthew started singing the low part, John grabbed the high harmony
Their voices filled up the night air all the way to Gethsemane
Judas walked some distance behind them like he had forgotten the words
They sang the last song, the last song

Just before they got to the garden
Just before they all fell asleep
Just before Barabbas was pardoned
And Jesus was nailed to a tree

I reckon it was some kind of soul song, maybe kind of sad and slow
All about how we get weary, all about holding on
Only Jesus knew what was coming, still he never said a thing
He sang the last song, the last song

He could have made a toast to the good times and only the best for his friends
He could have stayed up late reminiscing about the long strange trip it had been
But he went just like a lamb to the slaughter knowing it was part of the plan
And sang the last song, the last song

This song by Kate Campbell was the final hymn at the Maundy Thursday service at St. Mary’s for most of the years I served there. Our wonderful music director, Celeste, sang it to conclude the service. Hearing it takes me to a holy place.

Tonight is Maundy Thursday and for the first time in over thirty years I am not in church.

This morning, as is our custom each week day morning while working from home, the Mission Amp team gathered by Zoom to pray. One of our team members had created a beautiful Holy Thursday liturgy that left my eyes full of tears. I had had good worship.

So tonight I walked my neighborhood labyrinth. The park had yellow caution tape wrapping the playground with a warning sign about staying six feet apart.

As I walked in prayer I listened to the song that represents Maundy Thursday to me more than any other. The Last Song. Phrases like

Judas walked some distance behind them like he had forgotten the words.

and

All about how we get weary.
All about holding on.

punctuated my steps.

I realized as I walked the labyrinth tonight how the dirt and gravel were coming through my shoes. My feet will need to be washed tonight.

But first I’ll stop on the way home by a friend’s house that is having a rough time. I’ll stand in her driveway and have a chat. I’ll wash her feet by way of listening and presence. Our own kind of Maundy Thursday liturgy.

Because our lives are the liturgy in this time of Church in the world. I think Jesus is pleased at the song our lives are singing.

• 

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,