A little too late and yet far too early, I found myself driving westward, hungry for a patch of sky.
I had driven nearly to the edge, distracted by the grime shining from a suddenly-dirty windshield and the continued loop of a song I craved to experience, before I realized where my soul was taking me.
I tried to distract it with shoes and wafted the thought past, experimenting with the satisfaction of brand names and bargains. But a soul is not sated with such things and it pushed the gas further.
As the traffic began to thin, I started to look for the turn. Some end in pastures, others at homes. The only real navigation point for an infrequent visitor is the steeple that's visible above the farmhouses and sparse trees.
The gravel road was loud beneath my truck's tires and the music - finally - faded as I savored the sound.
The small lot was fuller than I had ever seen it; vehicles spilling out to Main Street and against the first row of headstones. I had the zipper on my jacket nearly done as I walked when the bells began, calling to the few stragglers jaywalking across the road.
I remembered with a Protestant start, that it was a Holy Day.
With the canter of the politely hurried, I mumbled to the greeter and tucked myself behind a column, suddenly uncertain.
The motions are familiar - stand, sit, prayers and sing - and yet foreign. It seems almost too ornamental for my inarticulate soul and my thoughts and senses wander.
He chants the men and women of centuries past as they look with icon stares from alcoves above. There's a quiet creak as weathered benches and pews settle, accept and support the faithful as they move through the rhythms of this observance. The faint hiss from the back coalesces into the sound of an oxygen tank, and I half-catch with my eyes the elderly man in the wheelchair laboring to breathe as he arranges the small plaid blanket over his legs. His suit speaks to the traditions of this evening and brings my focus back to the front.
Incense rises, curling as it swings, its scent not reaching back behind the pillar. His homily begins to the sounds of a crying baby and the rustle of its harried mother hurrying to the back in exhaustion. The couple in the pew in front of me smile in silent understanding, not missing a beat in their part of this service.
His voice is somewhat formal and modulated and in that too I am surprised, far more used to the voice of a friend.
"Priesthood is defined by the idea of sacrifice," he reads.
"What differs is what is being offered as sacrifice."
Jesus offers himself.
And though the language is foreign and the rhythms too formal for familiarity, it connects with the intimacy of a breath.
At the altar, the centuries are rolled back and we are present at the first Holy Thursday again, he says. What are missing are the apostles, but what is present is Jesus.
And with his name, I breathe what I know of the Carpenter. How does his perfect life, his compassion and justice, and his full humanity fit here? I am unsure, but there is a settledness that it does and with it, bringing practicality and muscles to these rhythms.
I leave, slipping out during a rite that's not quite mine. There's an aching in my knees as I drive away. They aren't used to that position. The wet blessing on my forehead is chilled by the air from the lowered window and my stomach growls, begging me to remember that it too needs fed.
David sings louder as the twilight road deepens and ancient rites fall into new rhythms.
Kyrie elesion.
Christe eleison
