Last night, I played for a Catholic Palm Sunday Mass. At the beginning, the priest led members of the parish into the church, waving palms and singing "All Glory Laud and Honor." Clouds of incense and tons of singing. The sanctuary was decked out in red. We heard the entire Passion of Christ from the Gospel of Luke, with the pastor reading the words of Christ; the deacon reading the words of Peter and Pontius Pilate and all the other juicy parts; and the congregation droning "Crucify Him!" at the appropriate moments. It went on for about an hour-and-a-half, and it was glorious.
This morning, at the Methodist church, we had a baptism and a video depicting the Passion of Christ. The choir sang "Now Sing We all Hosanna," and the band sang the Vince Gill song "Go Rest High on that Mountain." I cried. It went on for about an hour-and-a-half, and it was glorious.
I'm weird because Holy Week is one of my favorite things, with all its incense and drama and darkness and light. I love Maunday Thursday and Good Friday. I love the three-hour Catholic Easter Vigil Mass on Holy Saturday that starts at 9 p.m. and gets done around midnight. I love sitting up in the choir loft in the blackness, waiting for the Easter fires to be lit. I love watching the flame passing from person-to-person, until everyone's faces are glowing like raptured souls. And I love the Easter Sunrise Service at the Methodist church, all the congregation, still bleary with sleep, listening one last time to the story of Christ's triumph over sin and death. And the lilies and music and singing. Then there's breakfast. Ham and eggs and toast and juice and milk. Maybe some danish and coffee cake.
There's great sadness and joy in all of these proceedings, and I can't get enough of it.
Saint Marty is a weirdo for Jesus.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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