I no longer consider myself a Christian, yet still remember the poignancy of Holy Thursday. Of the three, high holy days, it was always my favorite, leaving its mark in its inimitable way.
It’s the eve of Good Friday, that barbaric day when Jesus Christ was brutally crucified. If you only saw the Mel Gibson version, it was terribly, cruel, even in theory. To hammer holes in someone’s hands leaves anyone in a state of horror.
What I remember most was when they strip the altar at the mass’s end…the priest and altar boys solemnly taking everything away leaving nothing but the nakedness of what’s about to happen. Jesus had washed the feet of all his apostles, thanking them for being his friend. How simple an act when you think about it. Have you ever acknowledged someone’s friendship? Jesus seemed to be on top of this, as he prepared them for what’s to come.
The sacrifice of a man to save humanity never rang true for me, yet participated, weeping at what they were about to do to him.
Let’s hear it for Catholicism.
Hip hip hooray.
It’s brainwashing at its best, and I truly believed Christ, while his mother watched, endured such an agonizing death, year after year. I’d go to bed with a headache, fasting the whole next day, weeping on Jesus’s behalf.
Oh my, what troopers we both were, he and I, when you think of it.
The sorrow, when they strip the altar, is something one never forgets…watching silently, lights dimmed, filing out in mournful silence.
It’s as if one’s personal losses gather, a reunion of grief, heads bowed, your heart weighing a ton.
I’m no longer Catholic, but can appreciate all that Holy Thursday symbolizes, reminding you, no one said life on earth would be without pain.
You don’t need to be Christian, fallen or otherwise, to understand.