Over the next three weeks, I will be posting three essays I wrote privately during Holy Week (when I still lived in California). So often I get distracted after the season has passed and simply forget how profoundly reflecting on the Cross can be.
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Holy Week Reflections – Part 1 – Sunset
Yesterday, I went to the ocean.
Given the fact I currently reside in the nether regions of California, one would think the ocean existing ten miles from my house would somehow be capable of luring me to its shore at least two or three times a week. However, in the two months I have lived here, I have only made it to its salty border three times – and one of those was out of sheer determination since it was pouring, and I stayed in my car squinting over Lookout Point trying to find some hint of the Pacific through the blinding rain.
Yesterday, it was almost ninety degrees and sunny. I know the ocean and I will not always live in such proximity, and with all my chores done and bills paid, there was no excuse for me not to pay my respect. I took a winding road to Sunset Beach, a flat beach known for its great surfing, to watch the sun plummet into the waters.
I was in my typical weekend uniform: a grey t-shirt and jeans and flip flops. With each drop of the sun, the temperature became cooler and the salty breeze moved up my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The smooth sand climbed off the ground and ran toward the crevices between my toes, each grain being welcomed as I slid my way across the shoreline.
As with every sunset I intentionally pursue, I captured a few photos on my phone. Two children played with kites at the top of the beach, a few surfers waited to see if the waters would give them one final wave, and with each push of the climbing tide, what used to be a teepee of firewood from a bonfire began to drift back west into the ocean.
After most of the sun had disappeared, I made my way back up to my car, parked at the top of the hill. I turned it around and drove slowly through this uniquely beach-style community, and in typical “Anne Jackson Must Plan Everything” style, I began to schedule out the next day: Palm Sunday.
Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week, and in the most recent years, has become a marker for me, much like Advent. While I worked in protestant churches, Holy Week was more like Hell Week (with all due respect to my protestant church friends). Let me clarify: In the specific churches I served in, it was as if a tsunami were arriving Easter Sunday (the tsunami being twice our normal attendance looking for a spectacular show). So here comes the Tsunami and it was my job to tell everyone about it and make sure nobody died. Obviously, as believers we are all entrusted to stewarding every moment we are given to shine God’s glory in every situation (Easter Sunday and all its festivities included) however, I (emphasis on I) was never able to align my duties with my faith and the reverence such a week should demand. Ironic, isn’t it? On the other hand, there are many of my friends who serve in non-liturgical churches who do so with such admirable fervor filled with integrity. I just couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t until I began attending St. Bartholomew’s in Nashville, at the invitation of my manager (and then continued encouragement from several of my friends who attended) that I began to crack the door open on what it was I had been missing. Sure, I always knew it was something — but I never knew what.
And please note: this is not an essay on denominational preference. I am just a girl who grew up Baptist and almost exclusively worked in Baptist churches until I found community at St. B’s – not theology. And there’s no denying that even for liturgical churches like St. B’s, extra “work” goes into Holy Week. I mean, where does anyone find all those palm leaves for Palm Sunday? In California, it makes sense — but in Tennessee? Is there a catalog?
With the liturgy, doing what has been done for centuries and having the Spirit guide us newly each and every year reduces the “show” and puts the emphasis for me, personally, where it should be: back at the altar where I can commune and be reminded of the blood and the body; the brokenness in me which has died (what was, now, and is to come). Those things were crucified with Christ and this week, I remember that with a heavy and grateful heart. And out of that heart comes joy overflowing. Abundant. Ready to give and share with others.
If I’m lucky, I’ll have experienced around 29,000 sunsets in my life. 29,000 sunrises too. And not to be morose, but I’m getting close to the halfway point. As I drove away from Sunset Beach last night and the final rays of light merged into darkness, I couldn’t help but wonder “What were You thinking the week before you died?”
If I knew I had one week to live, even if I fully understood the reason for my life to begin with, what would I be thinking with each passing sunset?
Did each minute for you go by even quicker? When the temperature dropped and the night settled in, did your heart beat just a little faster, knowing you were one day closer to the end and yet at the same time, the beginning? The divine humanity that we’re told about in stories of you knowing the weight of the burden you carried doesn’t leave me doubting that there was some kind of holy fear within you. Did you close your eyes and anticipate what each stripe of a leather whip would feel like as it tore through your skin? Did you wonder how heavy the cross would be, and how it would feel to have the sharp edges of old wood bury itself into your flesh? Did you dream? Did you sleep at all?
Today is Palm Sunday. I am not at St. B’s with the church family I have come to love, but later this evening I will be at a friend’s church as we will participate in Sacramentum. Sacramentum is an experimental emergent Eucharistic service that aims to bridge the gap between ancient liturgy and modern life through the art of music, media, and setting.
Yes, this is “just another Sunday.” But on this particular Sunday my heart is quieted, and focused. Focused on what has come that has been forgiven and crucified. On what is now and the grace in which I abide in and Christ who lives in me. And on what is to come, in hope, and glory eternal.
“What were you thinking?”
That’s what I’ll be thinking about this week.
