Maundy Thursday

Six years ago while on sabbatical I spent Holy Week at Saint Helena’s in Vails Gate, NY, a place that no longer exists except in memory. I have gone there over the years, not nearly as often as I would like though, so spending that week seemed particularly apt. I had always wondered how a monastic community lived out the rhythm of such an intense week and I was curious about how they handled the complexities of the liturgies of the Triduum, the Great Three Days, into which we have now entered.

Alongside the regular daily offices of Matins, Diurnum (noonday prayers), Vespers and Compline, obviously displaced by one of the main liturgies when appropriate, the community observed these days in their own fashion.

Maundy Thursday was a completely new experience for me. All afternoon guests and sisters spent time moving the furniture around in the refectory, so that we could turn the tables into a large ‘U.’ Extra chairs went into the sitting room. We got out place mats and even wine glasses and set the table, rather than having each person set her place as is customary.

And then, the liturgy itself…

We gathered in the refectory at 5.00 and started out with the liturgy of the word. Most of the sisters were in their formal habits. We sat down at the tables and listened to the lessons. After the gospel we moved into the foot washing and a sister from Ghana washed my feet. I couldn’t stand not doing anything so I eventually washed another guest’s feet. I had to do something. (Remember, I was on sabbatical!)

Then we had dinner: dried fruit, cheese, nuts, cherry tomatoes, celery, carrots, bread, and soup. We broke the week-long silence to talk, my first conversations with anyone since arriving there. We laughed as we talked about daily life. It was an ordinary conversation, just at an extraordinary moment. We washed it all down with wine. And then we cleared the table and moved into the eucharist celebrated at the same table where we had eaten. We communicated each other… and then just bread was reserved for the next day.

At the close of the eucharist, we processed from the refectory to the sacristy by way of the cloister… one of the two priests of the order carried the ciborium. We left the senior priest and an associate in the sacristy at the altar of repose and then we went into the chapel for the stripping of the altar and chapel.

Perhaps what was the most impressive was their taking down the four votives that hovered over the altar, one on each corner. Bing, bing, first one side comes down (by way of a hooked pole), then whup, up goes that empty side so the other side can come down… all four were unceremoniously removed and their empty holders left swinging crazily for the next ten minutes. Then down from the circle of doves suspended over the centre of the altar came the reserve sacrament. I had only heard the previous week that it resided in the orb that hangs over the altar. Indeed, all that was in the aumbry is the winch to raise and lower the sphere. The younger priest consumed what was in there, left the top of the orb (crowned with a cross) on the altar and then winched the half circle to a point half-way between the altar and the doves. Everything was left in suspended animation.

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Whether we do the whole nine-yards of liturgy — meal, footwashing, eucharist, stripping of the altar and watch — or just portions of it, two things stand out about Maundy Thursday: the paradox of the night, and second, the state of suspended animation into which we enter.

First, the paradox of the night. So much of what we observe, say, and do during Holy Week from Palm Sunday to Easter is paradoxical. Even tonight, as we move into the depth of mystery that this yearly journey entails, we bounce back and forth between a sense of normalcy and sadness. The Gloria and white vestments return because we are celebrating the institution of the eucharist and the giving of the commandment to love one another as Christ has loved us. We burn incense, always associated with feast days. We partake of this meal that is so celebratory, that is the foundation of our life together.

And yet…

At the same time, we know what is coming. We know in our hearts as we remember the last supper, the meal at which Jesus was confronted by the betrayal of one of his own disciples, the meal at which he finally spoke of what this whole journey had been for him, in words that we repeat week in and week out:

This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.
Whenever you do this, do this in remembrance of me.

We celebrate, we do what he told us to do, we remember and tonight, it all has its poignancy because of the context in which we celebrate this liturgy.

We know where this all leads: the betrayal, the cross, the tomb, the resurrection. We have to walk through all of this (though there are those who clearly want to skip it all).

And so we encounter the second element of Maundy Thursday, the sense of being in suspended animation. Unlike our usual Sunday communion service, we leave this one open-ended. There is no blessing, no dismissal. Everything is left where we stopped: the bare altar, the open aumbry, the empty candle holder. The only thing that will mark the passage through the hours are the candles at the altar of repose that will burn down until someone in the wee hours of the morning blows them out.

Meanwhile, we wait even as we walk through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. It is night, the night of betrayal mixed in with redemption.

Lord, it is night.

The night is for stillness.
Let us be still in the presence of God.

The night is dark.

Let our fears of the darkness in the world and of our own lives rest in you…
[New Zealand Prayer Book, 184]

Let us not be afraid tonight to dwell in these paradoxes, this space of suspended animation, where votive holders swing crazily, because we know in our hearts that it is always darkest before the dawn.