Holy Week and Easter 2003

A personal account by Julie Greenan

We carry our experience of Good Friday with us into the glory of Easter Sunday. The Risen Christ, arms outstretched in radiant and undefeated life, is superimposed precisely onto the crucified body of Jesus. They are one, inseparable. The Risen Lord still bears the marks of his wounds, the wounds that Thomas rightly demanded to see and touch. We know that Christ will rise. Yet we live out again our grief. We abandon him, deny him, we fall asleep and we run away. We watch him die and be sealed in the tomb.

The Holy Week journey is a time of sensual and emotional intensity: the sight, taste and smell of the delicious Middle Eastern dishes at our Passover meal on Maundy Thursday; the touch of another’s hands washing our feet in scented water and drying them with care. At the Great Vigil on Saturday evening, the story of our faith, of the Creation, the words of the prophets and psalmists, are unrolled before us. In readings from the Bible and the Qur’an, we remember our heritage, shared with Muslims and Jews, as children of Abraham, and we pray that enemies may embrace, that nations may seek together the way of peace. And our eyes delight in the brightness of Easter dawn, as the Light of Christ is carried high into the church.

But it is still Thursday evening, and from our noisy meal we go quietly into the church. We strip from the sanctuary all ornament, all sign of celebration or life. Then, one by one, the candles are put out, all but a single flame. Now anonymous in the darkness, figures sit, stand or lie dotted about the church. Jesus sweats his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. Gradually, people leave, some whispering to the children ‘yes, it’s time to go now’. Just as it would have been. The candle flame flickers, as if in panic, then stills, flickers, stills. Just as it would have been. Alone in the darkness. We leave the candle, flickering, then still, alone in the darkness.

On Friday afternoon, we shift from hand to hand the weight of a 6-inch nail. We feel the weight of all those other crucifixions, we grasp at the unimaginable weight of the sorrow and pain of our world. We meditate on those who keep hope alive when everything tells them ‘despair!’ Those who ‘age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, reconstitute the world’ [Adrienne Rich]. We write letters to demand the release of prisoners of conscience, freedom for victims of torture. ‘Were you there when they crucified my Lord?’ The hour is come — three o’clock. It is accomplished.

On Saturday evening, the Great Vigil. As we listen in the candlelight, we hear where we have come from as people of the promise — the promise of hope, of liberation from oppression. We hear the voices of the prophets, Ezekiel’s story of the dry bones taking on flesh, taking on life and having spirit breathed into them. And finally we hear again the Passion of Jesus, in whom all this promise is fulfilled.

At dawn, we gather and follow the new Paschal candle into the church. The tomb is empty. ‘The Light of Christ’ sings out, three times. ‘Thanks be to God’, we sing in reply. Life-giving strength bursts from the grave. Light overcomes darkness. Love has overcome even death. We make again our baptismal vows: ‘I turn to Christ. I repent of my sins. I renounce evil.’ We claim new life in Christ, and with this claim we resolve to go out and proclaim and share the fullness of life of the Risen Christ.

But before we go out to proclaim the Resurrection we need to eat! Thank goodness for the late-night Co-op. In all the planning, no one had realised until 9.30 pm on Saturday that we’d overlooked the matter of breakfast. Marys rapidly transform into Marthas, rush to the shop, calculate portions of porridge. In All Hallows fashion, though, it all comes together after only a short delay.

When we return later in the morning for the first Eucharist of Easter, we fill the church with flowers. We sing, (and some even dance), our hearts lift, for the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed, allelluia! More than our hearts can hold. And death shall have no dominion. Yet those resurrection people — the survivor of mental illness, the battered wife, the oppressed community of El Salvador that we hear about on Easter Sunday — though they are risen as if from death, though they have triumphed over death-dealing forces, they bear their scars too. Because of their scars, they, and we, know who they are.

‘For Christ is risen and the demons are fallen; Christ is risen and the angels rejoice; Christ is risen and life rules!’

Amen to that.

This page was last updated on Wednesday, 14 May 2003

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