April 3, 2026: “The Willows,” Triduum, “Good Friday”

I only get to write this once a year—happy Good Friday!

Yes, Lent is over., and were are in the middle of the Triduum of the Christian calendar.  Yesterday was Maundy Thursday.  (Pretty much all services—aside from the Catholic ones—were canceled yesterday due to a snow and ice storm.)  I did not go to church yesterday.  Today, however, I played two Good Friday commemorations, one Catholic and one Lutheran.

I have to be honest.  Lenten and Easter music just don’t excite me.  I’ve been a church musician for close to 40 years now (started playing pipe organ when I was 17 years old), and I still dread Ash Wednesday with all its minor keys and dirges.  I know Lent is supposed to be a time of preparation and sacrifice, headed toward the loudness and light of Easter morning, but I won’t cry if I never have to play “O Sacred Head Surrounded” or “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” again.  (Let me stress:  I’m against the crappy hymns and music of Lent and Easter, NOT the seasons themselves.)  You would think that, after 21 centuries, churches might have come up with a few good pieces of liturgical Eastertide music.

Now, before I start getting comments from angry churchgoers listing favorite Lent and Easter tunes, I will say that, given the choice between the funereal ditties of Lent and the overwrought anthems of Easter, I will choose the overwrought.  I can get into a rousing chorus of “Up From the Grave He Arose” as much as the next Christian, but it’s just so . . . ostentatious is the word I’m looking for, I guess.  I prefer subtlety.  What can I say?  I’m a poet.

Marie Howe gives us a subtle poem today . . . 

The Willows

by: Marie Howe

As we are made by what moves us,

willows pull the water up into their farthest reach

which curves again down

divining where their life begins.

So, under travels up, and down and up again,

and the wind makes music of what water was.

A beautiful little poem that packs a lot of joy.  It’s a celebration of “what moves us.”  Water—the one thing we (trees, plants, birds, insects, human beings) all depend upon.  We can go for days without food.  Water, on the other hand, is necessary for survival.  

Howe’s words more to me about Lent and Easter than “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” ever has.  Because it’s about the force that sustains and uplifts us.  Even the wind sings a water hymn in the last line.  That’s what this season is about—walking across a desert and finding a cool, fresh running river at the end.  Whether you’re a Christian or not, we can all understand the relief of a glass of icy water on a hot summer day.  

You see what I’m getting at, I hope.  For me, Lent and Easter aren’t about the ashes and bells and incense and chants.  This season is about being offered a hose to slurp from after sweating in the fields all day long (metaphorically speaking).  

There’s another ice storm blowing in tonight.  I’m sure the grocery stores in the area were jammed with people trying to get their last-minute Easter shopping done prior to the freezing rain.  Think Black Friday, but everyone is fighting over hams and baskets and Cadbury Creme Eggs.  My wife and I did our final shopping last weekend.  We’re not planning on going out a whole lot tomorrow.  (I may hit the laundromat, but that’s about it.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem during one of his Good Friday services today . . . 

Good Friday

by: Martin Achatz

I sit,

listen

to this

familiar

story of betrayal, love, forgiveness, redemption,

think how my mom, with knees calcified by

arthritis,

knelt in

church every

Good Friday,

knobbed 

knuckles

folded, 

accepted 

her pain

like a kiss 

from her 

dead mother.

March 10: Christ to Come Back, God's Love Number Twenty-One, Time

"I don't know what happens when you die, but, I can tell you, whatever goes on is painful, because her face was all twisted and contorted:  it was as if she had to pay dearly to come to me, even for a few moments, as if it were a tremendous burden; as if she was violating something or breaking a law."  And then his voice changed and frightened Ives:  "Can you imagine what it was for Christ to come back for so long a period of time when He rose from the dead and went to visit His apostles?"

It's a spooky conversation.  Ramirez's wife, Carmen, has recently died, and Ramirez is filled with grief and remorse.  He's mourning all his betrayals of their marriage, tiny and big.  And then Ramirez confesses to Ives, his best friend, that Carmen's ghost has visited him.  For me, it's one of the most moving and frightening passages of the novel.  It touches upon ultimate love (Carmen for Ramirez, Christ for the world) and ultimate sacrifice.

Love and sacrifice.  That pretty much describes what Lent is all about for Christians.  It's a time to reflect upon God's love and sacrifice for us, the children of His world.  That's why people give up things like chocolate for these 47 days.  It's a way to feel, in a very small way, what sacrifice is all about.


Take tonight, for example.  I was going to make a sacrifice for my daughter.  I was supposed to be at her spring band concert right now.  My wife and I had canceled an appointment, rearranged our schedules, and gotten a babysitter.  It was all set.  Then we got the note from our daughter's band instructor about the concert.  On March 17.  I had misread the original e-mail I had received, gotten my dates mixed up.  So, now I'm sitting in my office, typing blog posts, creating lesson plans, and waiting for my daughter to get done at the dance studio.  In short, it's a normal Tuesday night for me.

Of course, I appreciate that time I have to try to catch up on a lot of work.  After I'm done with my posts, I'm going to grade some papers and put together a writing assignment for my poetry class.  That's God's love number twenty-one:  time.  Time to write, grade, plan.  Time I wouldn't have had if my daughter's band concert had been tonight.

Now, if only Saint Marty's neighbor would make a sacrifice and use his snowplow to clear the slush and snow and ice from Saint Marty's driveway.

I gave that up for Lent, too...I mean the creamed spinach...

January 1: Sunlit Peaks, Book Club Party, Holiday Season

It is difficult to be religious, impossible to be merry, at every moment of life, and festivals are as sunlit peaks, testifying above dark valleys, to the eternal radiance.
          -----Clement A. Miles

Oscar Hijuelos' Mr. Ives' Christmas begins with this quote.  It gives you an idea of what the novel will be about:  religion, Christmas, dark valleys, and sunlit peaks.  It sets the tone of the book immediately.

I went to bed at 3 a.m.  I got up at 7:30 a.m.  I had to play the organ for a 9 a.m. mass.  I have not been back to bed all day.  Had to get my house ready for the Christmas party of my book club.  Cleaning.  Food prepping.  Gift wrapping.  It's one of my favorite nights of the holiday season.

Our book for this meeting was Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.  It had been a while since I'd read it, so it was a nice stroll down memory lane.  Three years ago, I spent a whole year with Scrooge and the spirits of Christmas, so I'm pretty familiar with every word, sentence, paragraph, and stave.  And, of course, I have strong opinions about it. 

The meeting is over now.  I expressed all of my ideas.  The chocolate fountain has been cleaned and put away, and the house is back to its normal state of entropy.  The holidays really feel like they're drawing to a close tonight.  It's such a letdown to return to normal life after the last two weeks of celebrations.  There's really nothing special coming up, aside from my vacation next week.  Not too many sunlit peaks in the future.

I'm going to miss the light and hope of December. I try to follow Scrooge's credo of keeping Christmas alive every day of the year, but, when the trees start coming down, it gets a little depressing.  It's like the manger's empty and baby Jesus has gone on vacation to Disney World or something.  He's M.I.A.  Tomorrow morning, I have to take the decorations down at work.  It's going to be depressing.

Saint Marty now has Lent to look forward to.  Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Undeck them halls

February 10: Paczki, Fat Tuesday, New Cartoon

This Tuesday, I will be able to purchase one of my favorite yearly treats.  They're sweet and sticky, filled with lemon or raspberry or blueberry or prune or custard, and worth about 50,000 calories apiece.  They are paczkis.

Not many people know the origin of these lovely doughnuts.  You see, in olden times, bakers knew, at the beginning of Lent, that they had to get rid  most of their stock.  Instead of cakes and doughnuts and cupcakes, their customers were more interested in Lenten edibles like fish and lentils.  I imagine times were pretty lean for bakers until Easter Sunday.

Some smart baker somewhere (in Poland, I would guess, because of the name) created the paczki.  A paczki is a doughnut that has about twenty times the eggs, sugar, and jelly/custard of normal doughnuts.  Bakers use up their inventory so it won't go to waste.  Traditionally, they are only made on Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday.  People eat them as a last "hurrah" before 47 days of sacrifice and penance.  Sort of like packing on extra insulation for a long winter.

This Tuesday, I will be consume at least two paczkis.  Possibly more.  They will be heavy with glaze and jelly.  I will even eat a prune paczki in a pinch.  Lent is almost upon us.

Saint Marty needs him some Polish pastry.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 21: Saint Peter Damian

Lent has never been an easy time of year for me. As a kid, I was taught that Lent meant sacrifice. I had to give something up for Jesus to be a good, Catholic boy. More often than not, I always fell back on the old standby: I gave up chocolate. For most of my childhood, I ranged from what my mother termed "husky" to just plain fat. Chocolate was one of my best friends. I was on a first-name basis with the whole family: Hershey, Nestle (Nessie to pals), Cadbury, and Elmer's (the black sheep of the sibs, cheap but passable in a pinch). Forty days without even a nibble of brown Nirvana was a difficult struggle for a pudgy child/adolescent. (I usually never made it through the entire Lenten season, which brings up the whole issue of Catholic guilt which I'm not prepared to deal with right now.)

As I got older, the whole "giving up" thing fell by the wayside for me. It's not that I don't believe in sacrifice, but I just couldn't come up with anything that really seemed worthy of Lent. I mean, how does abstaining from, say, masturbation as a teenager compare with the narrative of Christ's Passion? Being a horny fifteen-year-old doesn't really measure up to scourging and spears and nails and crosses. So, I just stopped the charade around the age of twenty, which scandalized most practicing Christians of my acquaintance who trade their Lenten sacrifices like baseball cards around the Easter season.

This year, however, I came up with an idea that really seemed equal to the solemnity of Lent. This year, every morning, I'm going to pray for people who have wounded me in some way. Usually, on my way to work in the morning (a 25-to-30-minute commute, depending on the weather), I say the rosary. (For my non-Catholic readers--if I have any readers at all besides family--a rosary is a form of prayer and meditation using a string of linked beads.) So, since last Ash Wednesday, I have been dedicating that meditation and prayer time to people on whom I usually heap piles of "fuck yous" and "assholes." And, let me tell you, it has not been a pleasant experience.

I thought I only had a few people I had not forgiven for past offenses. As I started to pray, however, suddenly the Ghosts of Trespasses Past started lining up, and the queue wound around the metaphorical block. I've always thought of myself as a pretty forgiving person, but, as I prayed for these individuals, I started feeling anger and pain and shame I thought I'd dealt with and buried long ago. It was like lancing boils. All the pus and poison came pouring out. By the end of the first day, I had a raging headache and nausea. Thursday, the same thing happened. It hasn't gotten easier with time, and each day, new ghosts continue to appear.

I have a confession to make at this point. My wife and I have had our share of marital problems since she was diagnosed with bipolar. Living with mental illness, and living with a person with mental illness, is not a bed of roses. More like a bed of glass. Broken glass, sometimes. People who have a mental illness frequently have addiction issues, as well. Alcohol, drugs, whatever. My wife's addiction is sex and the internet. This was pre-Tiger Woods, before sexual addiction became the addiction d'jour. I am not going to turn this into a list of crimes and misdemeanors. Suffice to say, this addiction led my wife and I to separate for over a year. We have reconciled, and Beth has been sexually sober for over three years. (That doesn't mean that we don't have sex. That means she doesn't have sex outside of our marriage bed or couch or living room floor or kitchen counter. You get the idea.) And we now have a new son.

So, when I started my Lenten prayer practice, I had to pray for the men with whom Beth has had sex. (I know a couple of them, but, for the most part, they are a nameless, faceless mob.) I knew praying for them would be difficult. I didn't know that doing it would give me such intense headaches and physical distress. (By the way, for those of you familiar with the Christ story, I now have an inkling of the agony Jesus suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane.)

Which leads me to the saint for today, Peter Damian, an 11th century Benedictine abbot and confidant of Pope Gregory VII. Peter Damian is also the patron of headache sufferers. The brief description of his life in the Lives of the Saints makes no mention of him suffering from migraines or chronic cranium pain, but I have to think he did. Why else would he be the go-to guy for headaches? Anyway, I'm sending a shout-out to Saint Peter Damian tonight, hoping he'll make my Lenten journey a little easier.

Forgiveness is not just a word for me anymore. It is a physical act that sometimes hurts like a bastard. I don't think I will listen to an apology the same way again. Those words--"I'm sorry"--require a purging on the part of the person accepting them. It's almost like taking the Presidential Oath of Office. It's a responsibility to forgive, and keep forgiving, until there are no ghosts left haunting the halls of your mind. Obviously, I'm not at that point yet. I don't know if I'll be there after 40 days, 40 weeks, or 40 years.

But I do know this: If you can't say "I forgive you," you'll never be able to say "I love you."