Holy Week is like the state fair of Catholicism. Strange things happen late at night. People dress to be seen. The atmosphere is festive, yet sorrowful. Somewhere, a room full of people is lining up to give sloppy kisses to a crucifix. An elderly white man is giving a half assed washing to the calloused feet of the celebrity parishioners. A wooden mallet is clonking through the consecration. PTONK! PTONK! PTONK! PTONK! Catholics gather to stand, genuflect, stand again and reflect on the 16 ways Jesus got punked before his poor body finally gave out. And then millions of Catholics walk into Easter Mass in their Laura Ashley florals and pastel button downs, and eventually leave smelling of frankincense.
Holy Week is the loneliest time for a former Catholic. I have the distinct sense a party is going on and I wasn't invited. I find myself trying to remember the symbology and liturgy responses. I still feel the thrill of skipping mass without my parents knowing. I try to remember the whole crrrazy cast of characters from the Stations of the Cross -- like a children's book I read long ago. And that is when it strikes me: leaving Catholicism behind was a part of growing up. What I feel during Holy Week is the loneliness of nostalgia and the achy feeling of facing the world as an adult.
If only Holy Week were choreographed...
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