Preparing for Holy Week

S omething about the liturgical season of Lent seems effortful. In the traditional liturgy of the Catholic Church, there is a kind of pre-season called Gesimatide of Septuagesima, Sexagesima, and Quinquagesima constituting a very Latinate countdown to Easter. It’s at this time that the Alleluia disappears from the ritual of the Mass in the first act of “stripping down” that happens progressively throughout the penitential season. The traditional lesson at the beginning of this season is from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians:

24 Do you not know that in a race all the runners compete, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. 25 Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. 26 Well, I do not run aimlessly, I do not box as one beating the air; 27 but I pommel my body and subdue it, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.

At the same time that the lessons emphasize our efforts, the Gospel readings are just as emphatic on the theme of our need for God’s grace. On that same day, we get the parable of the workers in the vineyard from Matthew 20, emphasizing that those who are working will get their reward because of God’s sovereign generosity, not based on a servile relationship of their effort.

We get a slight reprieve on Laetare Sunday (Rejoice Sunday), where the penitential color of purple is softened into rose. But overall, even as many of the Gospel readings emphasize God’s action over ours, the rest of the season bids us toward sacrifices, fasts, and increased prayer — running that race, experiencing deprivation. Even the seeming deprivation of Christ’s presence is symbolically represented by the covering of all statues and images of Jesus at the celebration of Passiontide (beginning two weeks before Easter).

But I’ve always felt that by Holy Week, the whole liturgical experience changes. After our prayers and sacrifices, or our pretenses at them, the liturgy starts to shift. We are now deep in the drama of Christ’s passion, and the liturgy simply reveals us for what we really are.

And what are we? This Sunday, we are given palms to hold, identifying us with the citizens of Jerusalem who have heard all the rumors. A miracle worker is among us. He was able to feed thousands of people from a few loaves and fishes. The Son of Man, who would throw off the Roman yoke for good, was finally here. Just days later, the congregation in a traditional Latin Mass is assigned the speaking role of the mob, which demands the release of Barabbas, in the Passion narrative.

The priests and deacons chant their roles as the disciples — confused, fleeing, or betraying Jesus outright. For fear of other religious authorities. For fear of the mob. For money. Some of the few people that stand out, that make themselves useful, are not from the normal cast of characters at all. Simeon of Cyrene, who is recruited to help Jesus carry his cross, may not have known Jesus, and he receives an honor or duty that any of the Apostles should have accepted, had they not fled. It’s the authority figures of Rome who ironically recognize Jesus for who he is. Pilate instructs that the words “Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews” be played on Christ’s gibbet. He did so, likely to further mock his subjects. But God is humble enough to take even the insults of apparatchiks and show them back to us as fulfilled signs of his glory. The Roman soldier, the hired thug, accepted the testimony of his eyes, and the earthquake, saying in fear, “Truly this was the son of God.”

It is almost impossible today to find a controversy about Jesus Christ and his mission that was not a controversy in Holy Week. The authorities want to know what his disciples intend for this world and the powers that be. His disciples get distracted with their own status among themselves. Peter, so passionate, vows to die for Christ, nearly murders someone on his behalf, and then cravenly denies him three times in the end. Christ’s fans want him to provide a prosperity Gospel that doesn’t require them to follow him — certainly not to Golgotha. Or they want a symbol of political rebellion more than the God who fed their ancestors in the desert.

These liturgies bid you to simply endure them — their sheer testing length, their beauty, and their drama. Perhaps you go in thinking you are like John, the beloved disciple who showed some considerable courage staying near his teacher to the end. But every year, these liturgies risk showing you that you are someone else in this drama. A betrayer, like Judas. A cynical calculator, like Pilate. Or one who offers false homage to God, like the Roman soldiers placing a crown of thorns on his head. The first and surest sign that we are about to enter into something holy is a healthy fear of what will be revealed.