In the past century, come Holy week, the body has been devastated post. That’s the point of Mardi Gras, in the end: one last night of indulgence before starving himself for a month and a half. Our ancestors in the faith did not give up such things as chocolate—they left all the dishes and all animal products (which, in fairness, does not include chocolate). Yes, he was unhappy, but that’s not the point. The post should last six weeks, not three minutes before Your Snickers craving subsides.
I say it in the instruction. I do not hold a traditional fast. Instead, I tried to follow the modern Friday fast every day: one regular meal and two small meals without meat. In America, it’s just a diet. Given that our medieval ancestors burned twice as many calories as we do, and rarely eat as much as they burned even on a good day, their posts would be completely exhausting.
But imagine that he has done for his spiritual life. Our most lucid and sincere prayers offered hunger. I’ve seen stubborn Yelets become positively Pentecost after skipping a meal or two. Even the most gorgeous evening prayer briefly lose their power. They’ll come crawling to God with children’s petitions, like the girl in “a temple of the Holy spirit” by Flannery O’connor. “Help me not be so miserable,” she says. “Help me not to speak like me.” They are ready to throw off their suits Brooks brothers, not camel hair tunic, and go tearing on locusts and honey.
And that is as it should be. We can find meaning in the brutality and violence of Holy week without throw away aesthetic heritage of the Church during the rest of the year. In fact, it’s the contrast that makes this season surprising.
Material and spiritual poverty reaches its devastating climax on Holy Thursday. This year I went to the mass of the Lord’s supper in the Cathedral of the Holy cross in Boston. The priest who celebrates the mass is named father David Taurasi, he’s a dear friend and a wonderful person as you’ll find on this side of the pearly Gates. He also speaks Latin with an Italian accent, which is the way Latin should be told. Best of all, he carefully orthopractic as he is Orthodox.
This is because the father Taurasi so the liturgical character of the “high” that the mass on Holy Thursday is so effective. If you find a priest who truly loves and honors the Holy Sacrament, mass is unbearably sad. He puts on a humeral veil and brings the Sacrament out of the Church, as sadly and unworthily, as St. Joseph of Arimathea, carrying the body of Christ in the tomb. Similarly, when the priest strips the altar, he’s not just folding the tablecloth. He was carving something beautiful from the world—a world that so badly in need of true beauty.
After mass I sat and stared at the Church, fascinated and shocked by the destruction. Finally, I slipped out of my Pew, genuflected, and headed for the door. “There’s nothing there,” whispered the person sitting in front of me. I asked him what he meant. He pointed past the bare altar and statue in an empty tabernacle. “You genuflected nothing.”
He was right: Jesus is gone. I was kneeling before the empty throne. He brought to mind that great Jacobite song Bonnie Charlie:
Now Bonnie Charlie ava
Safely over friendly main;
Heart almost break in twa,
If he’s not back.
Do you not return again?
Do you not return again?
Better loved you cannot be
Do you not return again?
Our king was driven out of their land. And we, his loyal, wants nothing but to return it. We know that Holy week has a happy ending, but what can we do at this time? Just look at the horizon, waiting for its triumphant return.
But unlike the Jacobites, then do not wait in vain. Christ our king will return at Easter, more glorious than when he was banished. He will be dressed in light and armed with mercy. Behind him is the vast army of recently liberated from captivity in hell.
On this day the crucifixes, statues and icons will be made public. Bed linen and fresh flowers will be returned to the altar. And Christ our king will preside over everything from his rightful place in the tabernacle.
Jacobite is one long hobby for reactionaries and romantics (I’m both). The simplicity and sincerity of their devotion to the noble, even instructive. They loved the young Pretender—was that he didn’t have it so deeply and personally. “You trusted in your highland men, they trusted you, dear Charlie,” as the song says.
Faithful followers of Christ know even more grief born of unconditional devotion to our Prince. Maybe we miss him so much, we can’t force ourselves to eat. May we love him so deeply that nothing in the world seems beautiful now that he was gone. We can indulge in guilt, knowing that our own failures have made his death inevitable.
Then we can watch as ten thousand ships sail over friendly main bore our Lord. Rush the docks to greet him. Kiss the ground where his foot falls. Sing songs of freedom and redemption. To carry his banner in the earth, until every knee bows to the name of liberator. And so suffered terribly in his absence, the determination never to take it for granted.
Michael Davis-editor of the American Catholic Herald. He tweets @MichaelDavisCH.
Sourse: theamericanconservative.com
