The Altar has been stripped. The crosses in the sanctuary are draped in black cloth. All the chairs of the choir are gone and stored in a closet somewhere. The church is dark. It's 2:00 a.m. on Good Friday and it's my watch. The woman I have relieved has just left. My camera and tripod are in a pew, and I'm standing in the side chapel at the back of Grace St. Paul's. I have an hour to pray and to shoot. Better get to it.
I was here earlier tonight for the Maundy Thursday service. Some Christians live for Easter, or for Christmas. I live for Maundy Thursday, the most meditative service of the Episcopal liturgy. We arrived in the evening and hear the story of the Last Supper, of how Jesus tells his disciples that they should love one another, serve one another, be humble to each other. The story goes that after bread and wine, Jesus washes the feet of his followers. Symbolically, the congregation of Grace St. Paul's washes each other's feet. Back in the day, the priest used to wash all of the feet of the parishioners, he being Christ, we being the disciples. I preferred the old way. Now, first I'm Jesus, then I'm a disciple, and we now only wash one foot per person, which seems just down right silly to me. Both feet or none at all I say. But I'm just a mystic that comes to the church of my birth infrequently, and even though they know where I live, they also know that I don't come to church much, and that I don't see myself as a Christian. They being the priests. I try and focus on the positive, that the Washing of One Foot is about as experiential as Episcopalians get and not be too judgmental. It's hard. A number of times throughout the service the priest made jokes about dirty feet, and only a handful of the congregation actually came up for the foot washing. Oh, well.
Sometimes I think the reason I like Maundy Thursday is simply because of my experience as a child on this night many years ago. Mom took me to church that night at Zion Episcopal Church in Upstate New York. I guess I was around 7. After the foot washing and the communion and the stripping of the altar, they turned off all the lights, and then they rolled in a cannon. Yes, a cannon like the one they shoot off at football games when the home team scores a touchdown. Well, they rolled in a cannon, pointed it right up the center isle, and shot it off. BOOM. One loud BOOM. As a 7 year old, I thought that was the neatest thing. Usually I had to be quiet in church, but not they were making great big noises. Wow, I thought.
No cannons at Grace St. Paul's. Incense but no cannon. Pity.
At the end of the Maundy Thursday service, after the Host had been delivered to the Altar of Repose in the side chapel, we were instructed to leave silently. No coffee hour. No shaking of the priest's hand. Just go thoughtfully and quietly to your car and go home.
But for the hard core, there is the Watch of Gethsemane.
As soon as the Maundy Thursday service ends and the Host is placed on the Altar of Repose, someone will be there in that chapel until noon on Good Friday when that service begins. The Watch of Gethesemane is staying awake for Christ. On the night before he was arrested, Jesus went to the Garden of Gethesemane to pray and he asked his disciples to come and pray with him. They came to the garden but they soon feel asleep. This pissed off Christ. Then the Romans came, the boys woke up, ears are flying off of people, ears are being miraculously reattached back on people, Jesus is dragged away by the Romans, and Christ has one hell of a bad day on Friday. You know the story. But before the Romans came, Christ prayed and wished his disciples had stayed awake. So, we as modern Anglicans, stay awake too. Well, sort of. At least lose a little sleep on the night before Good Friday.
Me, I just like being in the church late at night, alone. And I like praying and meditating. And I love ritual. Three for three for me.
So here I am at 2:00 a.m. on the Thursday before Easter, standing in a little side chapel of a large Episcopal Church in an upscale neighborhood in Tucson, Arizona. I stand and take it in. The chapel is beautiful, with many white candles lit and white lace on all the windows and paintings. A one-person kneeler is in front of the small altar that holds the bread and the wine. I close my eyes, then open, then close again. I know what to do.
I set up the Rollei and tripod and compose the shot. Focus 2/3 back. Set the f stop to 5.6. Get out the Zippo. There is a ton of light here. One-half minute exposure tops, I think. I open the Zippo and go to work. Click. Light. Spiral. Snap. Repeat. About six or seven exposures. Time become timeless as it often does during this kind of shooting. Close my eyes.
'You have a shot,' says the small voice inside. I pray the voice is right.
I open my eyes. I still have to pray and experience the wondrous dark space of the church. I quickly pack up the Rollei and place it and the tripod in the pew again, that is just outside of the side chapel entrance. I look into the completely dark sanctuary of Grace St. Paul's and slowly walk around. Down the center aisle. Up by the pipe organ. Around the main altar. Back down a side aisle, past the plaques of the Stations of the Cross. I breathe it in again and again.
I return to the side chapel and the Altar of Repose. Got to be close to an hour now. Time to pray. I kneel on the single kneeler, close my eyes, clasp my hands lazily, and pray.
I pray for my ancestors, recent and distant. I pray for my father and mother. My sister, too. I pray for Annie and all the past women in my life. I pray for the recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, newcomers and old-timers alike. I pray for friends, distant and far. I pray for the healing of strangers and the healing for love ones. I pray for the healing for myself. I pray for the best possible outcome for everyone. I pray with words, out loud and silently. I pray with an empty mind and no words at all.
My eyes open after a time and I see the Altar of Repose above me, with its crystal white light and its sheer white lace. I smile.
"I'm sure glad I didn't set that lace on fire with my Zippo," I quietly say out loud.
I hear a knock on the door.
Must be the 3:00 a.m. shift.