So Christ is risen. Alleluia!
It always feels so nice to get that word back in my vocabulary again, because liturgy geek that I am, I usually do go for most of Lent without saying it. But now it's back, with great pomp and circumstance, having arrived late Saturday night, in clouds of incense and candlelight.
Holy Week was as Holy Week ever shall be, world without end, amen: terrifying, depressing, quiet, then jubilant again. And for those of us who help make the church world go round, there's an extra layer of stress and anxiety on top of all that. Will the hole in the bottom of the pascal candle be big enough? Will the thurifer ignite the book bearer? Will the new fire of Easter actually burn down the church, in what will not only be a horrific tragedy for the community, but a horrible, horrible metaphor? These are the things that go through our little heads, and try as we might, we can't stop them. Most of us, though, do learn to contemplate the inscrutable mystery of Christ's death and resurrection while running the universe at the same time.
After the vigil, though, it is time to go drinking. Because, as I was told by more that one person, 'Nothing says, "Christ is risen!" like getting drunk.' Which is a philosophy I heartily subscribe to. I helped organize a post-Vigil party at the seminary, complete with champagne and food from Manhattan's brand-new Trader Joe's . (Yes! We have our own now! And oh, how I've missed thee! With thy cheap gourmet food, and thy cheap white wine, and thy chocolate covered espresso beans that increase my rate of speech exponentially!) However, I could not partake, since
ma famille was in town.
A note, here, about
ma famille. They go to church. They brought me up in the faith. They support my being in seminary, the whole nine yards. But why, ask you now, did they come to visit their only daughter and sister on this, most holy of weekends? To celebrate WASF. My mother's made-up holiday. For indeed, far be it from
ma famille to travel the collective 5 hours to gather together to see each other for a normal reason. Otherwise, no dice.
The legend of WASF has been passed down now for, oh many months. And by many, I mean roughly twelve. According to the legend, when the disciples gathered together on the first Holy Saturday, the day after the crucifixion, they gazed at one another in despair. Simon said to group, "Whatever shall we do? They have killed Jesus! We've been following him for 3 years!" Andrew responded, "I know! I gave up my boat!" John echoed, "I gave up my house!" The other disciples chimed in, the one after the other, until there was a mighty chorus of frustration and lamentation. Finally, Thomas, who is called the Twin, silenced them all. He raised his voice, saying, "Let us face the truth, and not turn away. Brothers and sisters, we are so fucked!" Saying this, he clasped his left hand to his forehead and moaned. The other disciples did likewise and echoed his groan.
And so, it is on this day that we gather together, in remembrance of their despair. We clasp our left hands to our foreheads, and say, in loud voices, "We are so fucked!" In remembrance of Thomas, who urged his fellow disciples to face their situation, we eat Indian food. Thomas, according to local tradition, went on to later found churches in India. Hence the Mar Thoma church. And we go out drinking, because if you'd been following someone for 3 years, and they'd just gotten executed as a political criminal by the occupying government, chances are you'd want to get smashed then, too.
While I take pretty much every opportunity to mock WASF, there's something to be said for one day set aside to remember when it feels like everything's lost. Good Friday is too loaded with other stuff to do the job, but Saturday just sits there, for most of the day at least. So we can sit there, and remember how it feels to be truly, utterly fucked. And let Christ sanctify that too, when Easter dawns the next day.
