Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

Ah, Holy Week. Among my church musician friends we often refer to this week as Hell Week, with any reference to it followed by a string of somewhat unsavory, irreverent, but humorous jokes and comments. My favorite was always the following exchange I heard between two colleagues: 

A: Good luck this week. I hope you survive it all. 

B:  Well, we know who won't!

A bit sacrilegious? Sure. But it's really just a stress reliever. So much preparation, blood, sweat and tears go into Holy Week services, only to be left up to the somewhat unpredictable attendance and performances of volunteer choirs, instrumentalists, and strung out clergy. I remember one year I actually cried over a misbehaving copy machine which I thereafter gave the nickname "Lucifer".  But everything always comes together in the end, and most of the time we look back on Holy Week with an enormous amount of gratitude and incredulity as we say to ourselves, "I can't believe it all came together as planned." Only by the grace of God. 

Secretly, though, we love it. At least, I do. Holy Week is my favorite week of the year, and my most fulfilling times as a church musicians were the ones I spent at Christ Church in Hudson where we celebrated a different liturgy every night - Evensong, Holy Eucharist with Healing, Taize with an indoor garden and incense, Maundy Thursday with footwashing, Good Friday with a sung Gospel, Easter Vigil with an enormous bonfire, Easter morning with brass quintets made up of Cleveland Orchestra members...I always felt so privileged to be a part of the team that executed those liturgies. There is no better feeling than that exhaustion after it's all over - you've got nothing left, but every bit of energy you spent was worth it because you were taking part in something that was so much larger than yourself. I have vivid memories of sitting in that dark church during the vigil, listening to Old Testament lessons and prophecies by candlelight and the light of a full moon coming through the church windows - I wouldn't give those memories up for the world.  

Remember that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy and her friends are quaking before the thunderous voice of Oz and her little dog Toto runs and opens the curtain, unveiling the rather diminutive presence of the true puppet master?  I thought of that scene during the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended.  Where on earth did you go to church, Nicole?  Trust me, it wasn't as bizarre as it sounds, although I've heard worse things during Holy Week liturgies...but that's for another post.   This year, for the first time in 19 years, I sat on the other side of the altar - you know, in the pews with the rest of the normal people. The liturgy itself was a good one, although I admit I was preoccupied during most of it.  At the end we heard a reflection on the drama of the crucifixion of Christ. I've heard so many of these over the years - many of them long, complex and overly taxing, with a few excellent exceptions. This was one of those exceptions. The reflection centered around the rending of the curtain in the temple after Jesus died. The priest explained that according to Jewish custom at the time, the curtain or veil represented God's presence in the midst of his people and served to separate God's presence in the Holy of Holies from those gathered to worship. Also, in the Catholic tradition the tabernacle (a box-like vessel used to house the reserve sacrament) used to have a veil within it. Kind of like a Mini-Me version of a Temple (sorry - I couldn't resist).  

The priest went on to explain that the tearing of the temple veil after Jesus' death was a symbol that the separation between God and his people was no more.  Well, there's your Easter sermon right there - we can all go home now and skip the rest of the week!  I found this hugely significant on a number of levels. First, the idea that a simple curtain could separate the presence of God from the world is somewhat ridiculous, but of course, we accept metaphor and symbolism as a daily part of our lives. And we often let the small things in our lives separate us from those things that are most important.  What really struck me was the idea that at any single moment in time, a veil could be removed from our eyes and we would see things as they really are.  In the case of the temple curtain, we see that God in the midst of us, tangible and easy to access without an intermediary. But I also thought of those times in our lives when the "veil" is removed and we see the world for what it really is - those moments when we lose our innocence, so to speak. Sometimes when the curtain is ripped away we can actually see God, and the pain of the journey seems to have purpose, or we can at least see some hope in the future. Sometimes the only thing we see behind the curtain is the dull, gray truth and reality of the world we live in, sharp edges and all. We focus so much on that "truth" that we fail to see God in the midst of it. And the more we focus on the sharp edged, gray reality of the world the bigger and more ominous it becomes and the more obscure the presence of God is until he appears to disappear completely.  Then we sometimes wonder whether he was really there in the first place.  

If you listen to most atheists, they will tell you that religion and/or faith is like "the little man behind the curtain", and that The Church is just a puppet master out to control the masses and brainwash anyone without enough intelligence to know any better.  I suppose there are plenty moments in history to support that idea, and what I see today in The Church certainly makes me shudder in disgust.  So, what is the reality?  Where is the truth?  Is God really inside all that mess?  I've been asking that question a lot recently, and I don't have an answer yet.  Questions seem to lead to more questions.  In the end, I suppose the answers aren't as important as the willingness to continue asking.  

In a way I suppose we all experience our own "Holy Week" within the course of our lives - the defining moments that make us who we are, that reveal our future and our purpose.  Sometimes these experiences last a hell of a lot longer than a week, and always seem to be preceded by being stripped bare emotionally and spiritually - isn't there another way???  But perhaps those painful moments are when we are closest to God.  So close, in fact, that we cannot see him.  We are so busy looking at all the crap around us that we miss The Presence right beside us, within us. And that is, indeed, a Holy Time.