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.

• 

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.

• 

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:

• 

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.

• 

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?

• 

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.

• 

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.

• 

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.

• 

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.