as the church goes dark

I go to the big church on Maundy Thursday and sit in the back, fidgeting like a teenager.

The liturgy and the voices of old ladies singing hymns seem like history, like years and generations stretching back to ancient times. I think of my forefathers, farmers who left their work to dress up and go to church when bells started tolling. I miss them, the grandmothers I knew and the great-grandmothers I've only heard stories of and whose blankets I wrap around me on cold winter nights. I think of the vast cathedrals I saw on my wanderings further south in Europe, the votive candles and the air thick with prayers that have been said there for centuries. I think of God, who came down to earth to rescue us two thousand years ago and who is still holding the invitation open for a little while longer.

I hold on to all of this on a Maundy Thursday when myself and the world around me are shaking and sick. I fidget like a teenager in the pew and watch with amazement as the candles are extinguished and the church organ goes quiet. In a darkened church, we sing the last hymn a cappella. A crown of thorns is placed on an almost empty altar. Christ is gone to Calvary to take our punishment.

We sit in the dark and wait for our redemption to dawn.