Open The Gates Before Him; Lift Up Your Voices!

Wow: Palm Sunday. Holy Week has now begun. I have to admit, I’m a bit shell-shocked, unprepared. Can this really all be happening so quickly? I wish this wasn’t all happening at the same time the school semester is ending. I find myself wondering whether or not my scholastic endeavors can ever really be harmonized with my Christian life – eventually, something’s gotta give. What’s most important to me should be obvious from the fact that I find reflecting on my experiences through this blog more pressing than proofreading the assignment that’s due tomorrow, or for that matter researching term papers. School, I have found, is not at all understanding of the fact that I value my spiritual life – my liturgical confession of faith – as much as I value breathing and much more than I value knowledge. I guess that settles it: I need to find some sort of church job. Anyone in need of a secretary?

Because liturgy is my oxygen, I take it rather seriously. Perhaps too much. But it’s the only way I can know my faith, live it and breathe it in and move and have my being in it. It’s the water at the root of things that gives me the strength to live my faith, or at least to try.

So: Palm Sunday. It began with the congregation in the hall rather than the church proper, which I thought was pretty cool, mostly because of what followed. So the priest blessed the palms. I found this part a little strange, because he didn’t use aspersion with holy water, rather just touching them with his hand. I didn’t realize you could bless anything without holy water. Except of course holy water itself…hmmm…never thought of that. And I guess rosaries don’t get blessed with holy water. I suppose it makes sense.

What was super awesome was that the whole congregation (at least in theory) went in procession around the church. I’d never seen that: the church I used to go to had the children processing from the sacristy while the adults remained in the pews. I wonder who we are in the story: are we the disciples? Are we people from the crowd who decide to join in? If we’re all following Jesus, who’s strewing the palm leaves on the ground and praising him? Maybe we aren’t limited to only one of these roles: maybe we’re the crowd and the disciples; maybe we both follow and greet; maybe we are Judas, and all those who turn against him. Are we not all these things at some point in our lives? I don’t know. All I know is that we sang Hosanna, and all participated in the procession and liturgy, and it was wonderful.

I knew that the priest wouldn’t be using a cape. He did, however, put on a Jewish prayer shawl during part of the service, and I thought that was lovely.

I was shocked when I realized that the Passion wasn’t going to be read: I didn’t know you could even have a Palm Sunday service without it. I’m actually pretty devastated. It made me sad; it made me panic a bit; it made me wonder what on earth it was that I’d done. Has this been the right decision? Am I ready to leave behind the rituals that I have so deeply loved, that have shaped my life? It made me realize how completely unknown the Anglican church is to me: how foreign, how formless it is in my mind and my heart. How deep these waters whose bottom I cannot see, whose greatness and vastness of life I cannot fathom.

Of course, I was also sad that they didn’t celebrate Eucharist. But, then again, I already knew that they don’t do it every Sunday – itself a foreign concept to me. I admit that I also miss singing songs that are familiar to me.

Luckily, I have a subscription to Novalis’ daily missal, Living With Christ, so I have the entire text of the Passion as it was supposed to be read today. I’m going to read it instead of evening prayer. It isn’t at all the same, and I am melancholy about that, but at least I will be able to experience the Word. Though I must admit, it’s not at all right to be experiencing it all alone.

But at least I have that option.

I can’t do anything about Eucharist, though.