In the Christian household, this is the week we call holy. Holy Week. During these days leading up to Easter we attempt to remember the ways in which Jesus, someone who lived more than two thousand years ago, walked his final days, how he spent them, who he interacted with, how he staked his very life on his understanding of God’s presence in his life and the life of the world. Depending on one’s tradition and flavor of Christianity, the marking of these days look different but that doesn’t take away from the name: Holy Week. These days we name as holy move toward the holiest day of all, Easter. Again, depending on the faith community in which you travel, even if it’s only in a once or twice a year kind of traveling, the celebration of Easter has many traditions. 

But I think we can all agree that this year, 2020, will be a different kind of Holy Week, a different kind of Easter. This has had me thinking often this week of what we really mean when we call anything ‘holy’. I have been privileged to visit many places deemed holy. Cathedrals designed to point people toward an experience of what is Sacred, to lift them above the ordinary and strike their senses with something of the More. These places are often ringed with images in colored glass or artwork that attempt to tell stories of people’s sacred experiences. Stories of scripture. Angels. Saints. Walking through such places people often light a candle to mark that they have been in the presence of the Holy. I know I have countless times. 

Still other places, while not technically called holy, hold a place of holiness to many. Sacred landscapes that have been discovered, preserved, held in trust so we might be reminded of the Creator who breathed the Universe into being. We fulfill our role in that greater creativity by being witness, by standing in awe, by being bathed in Mystery. For me places like the Grand Canyon, Glacier National Park, the Isle of Skye, the island of Iona come to mind. These and so many more remind me that I am such a small player in the grand scheme of things and I would do well to tread lightly and with great kindness each and very blessed day.

These places are mostly empty now. Cathedrals, sanctuaries, some national parks have been shuttered as we try to do what needs to be done to stop the spread of an invisible menace that is killing many, causing suffering to others and those that love them, affecting us all in ways that are knowable and yet to be experienced. The ability to travel any place in search of ‘holy’ is impossible as we are seeking the shelter of our own homes, those places of ordinary, daily tasks of living. 

So, what is Holy Week this year? On Holy Thursday, Jesus gathered his friends and shared a meal, one that would be his last with those he loved. Before they ate he washed their feet to remove the dust, to show his love and humility. Never has washing been more of a saving, holy act than in these last days. Perhaps not feet…but hands, counters, doorknobs. Holy. Holy water. Holy soap. Holy washing.

On Friday, we would have gathered to remember and tell once again the story of how Jesus was tried and killed for his way of living out the love of God in the world. His suffering would be lifted up…will be lifted up…as we name the many ways people, all God’s people are living daily with the suffering of fear, pain, loss, grief, sacrifice, death. I only need look at the images of the workers carrying bodies from the New York City hospitals to know what crucifixion looks like. Holy. Holy caring. Holy exhaustion. Holy grief.

As we move toward Easter, the thread we cling to as we walk into the labyrinth of this faith story we honor this week, is that all that holiness leads toward a Home. A place where there is healing, hope, rebirth, resurrection, where the ‘we will get through this’ nods and says “Yes. See?” While it may not be accompanied this year with trumpets and bonnets and lilies, we can walk toward it with confidence because this is who we are and this is what we do. Our faith story includes those who have known hurt and healing, suffering and grief and have come to a place they call Home living one holy day after another. 

Holy Week? As any good Minnesotan would say, “You betcha.” Holy Week…holy days…holy moments…holy year. Here’s a link to Peter Mayer’s song that says it better than I ever could.