Thursday of Holy Week: A Not-Working Maundy Thursday

Today was planned as a work day, Maundy Thursday, one of my favorite days in the Christian year.

The alarm was set for 7. Yesterday, following a fairly intense day (good-intense... as being with people you love and care for tends to be), I'd taken an evening walk with my beloved.

It wasn't an exercise-walk. No one got their desired steps in, or got their heart rate to that specific fitness-creating level. Instead, the walk was designed to help me to uncoil, to let my shoulders relax. To let me breathe in the fresh, outdoor air. To let me not, for a while, do what can be the most precious, beautiful work I get to do, but instead, to do the work of coming home to my not-work self.

That possibly sounds like a funny thing for a pastor to say, since the line between work and not-work is a lot more fluid for us. And our work looks, often, like what everyone does all the time-- listening, talking, processing, offering words we hope are helpful.

I love my work.

But I need not-work time, too. And last night, with my beloved, I claimed about 40 minutes of it.

From the 40-minute, not-exercising walk.

We walked slowly, and not far.

We walked on the Washington Street Bridge, which crosses the Susquehanna River right next to its confluence with the Chenango River.

We looked at the sun-- sinking, but not yet setting. Still bright.

We looked at the water, churning from recent heavy rainfall.

We walked into Confluence Park, and decided to stop short of intruding on a very sweet-looking couple down by the water.

And then we walked back to the car.

I slept well. I felt refreshed when I awakened.

For about the first 30 minutes of wakefulness, I felt great.

Then, the stomach bug hit.

And now, hours later, on a couch and not at church, I have missed both services I was going to lead today, one at a beautiful hospice facility, and the other for my beautiful congregation.

The one I'm missing at my congregation is my favorite service of the year. The Lord's Supper and a Tenebrae, service of the lengthening shadows. It takes place in our Fellowship Hall. People are gathered around tables. On each table there is a loaf of bread, a tray of small cups of juice-- for the supper-- and a small candle-holder, holding seven tea-lights-- for the Tenebrae.

By the end of the evening, the assembled faithful will have heard the story of Jesus' last night with his disciples, before his death-- stories of both the meal and of Jesus washing his disciples' feet. They will have broken and shared bread and cup.

They will also have heard the story of Jesus' passion and death, in voices from all four gospels. They will have extinguished the seven votive candles on their table.

By then, the room will have been in darkness.

Then, a low handbell will have tolled twelve times, once for each disciple who deserted Jesus.

The congregation will have prayed the Lord's Prayer-- by heart, because it's dark.

And they will have been dismissed with the words,
"Go in peace. Love one another as Christ has loved us."

And, for the first time in twelve years, I was not there.

I know, intellectually, that this does not make me a disciple who has deserted Jesus. (Although, I'm sure I am, more often than I'd like to admit.)

But I have never had such a sad sick day.