Busted Halo did a wonderful video that's been going viral along the Christian blogosphere.  I found it through Michelle at Liturgical Time.  You, too, can see it if you follow her link.

Anyway, for as much as I enjoyed the video (and I did - especially the music!), I was bummed they left out Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.  I mean, I understand they're not considered "as important" as the other days of Holy Week, but they're still part of Holy Week and deserve at least an honorable mention, right?

Trying to view Holy Week as only Palm Sunday and the Triduum is like viewing a puzzle with several missing pieces.  Sure, you can probably make out what the picture's supposed to be, but you miss details and information that make the image clearer and more beautiful.

Monday was the cleansing of the Temple - it's what put the Sanhedrin on high alert since the Romans (now present in higher numbers in the city to keep the peace during Passover) saw Christ not only messing with the Jewish folks, but all the Gentiles who gathered in the court of the Temple to exchange goods / services.

Tuesday was full of parables and prophecy. Tuesday was, in my opinion, the day that the Pharisees finally decided that Jesus MUST be dealt with before the week's end (due to the Render Unto Caesar response). This was when they finally realized they'd never get the best of Him, and had to find a way to kill Him.

Wednesday was the day we remember Judas' actual betrayal. It's also when Christ's death / burial was predicted through the actions of the woman with the perfume.

Each day does, after all, bring us one step closer to the Foot of the Cross.  Monday reminds us that we must focus on spirituality and a proper last minute cleansing of our own temples (bodies) so we are ready to accept the Sacrifice of Christ.  Tuesday, cautions us to always be ready for the return of Jesus lest we be caught unprepared.  Wednesday... it's like our last moment during Lent to anoint Jesus with our humble offerings - the charitable acts, fasting, and mortifications completed throughout Lent.

Those three days are of such importance. I wish Broken Halo had mentioned something about them. But ah well... there's only so much you can do in 2 minutes, and they certainly picked the highlights! 

On Holy Thursday, John snapped this photo of Vince and I before we left for Mass.  Vincent was holding Chase, his stuffed German Shepherd.  He's gotten incredibly attached to him the last few weeks, and I admit I sorta love that.  He's never had a toy that he MUST have with him at all times.  Chase is his best pal now, and he always wants him wherever he is.

For Mass, he was well-behaved.  We were very close to the front because I wanted to explain everything to him... especially the washing of the feet.  However, I was SO incredibly disheartened to see only three men come forward to have their feet washed.  The rest were women.

Two or three e-mails were sent out by our Director of Religious Education practically begging people to volunteer for this role.  Only three men could be found?  THREE?  

How incredibly sad.  What does this say about the men of our parish?  

As I explained in this entry, the Washing of the Feet is an act that goes well beyond proving Jesus' humility.  It was an act of preparation for His apostles - the first priests of the Church. Only after washing their feet and charging them with serving one another so fully did Christ then instruct them in the Eucharistic Prayer.  Only then were they to take part in the first Mass.  

Mother Church requires the feet of men to be washed because of the incredible symbolic nature of this act.  It's why many old-school parishes wash the feet of retired priests.  How blessed is the parish that recognizes that the rituals we still take part in can be educational as well as prayerful!  Should all parishes be so lucky.

*Sigh*

On Good Friday, Vincent was pretty exhausted by the time our services rolled around.  I took him in early so he could see Jesus in the place of repose.  I answered his questions, but he surprised me again by how much he understood.  

He said, "Jesus died, right Mommy?"

I said, "Yes, Vincent, and the Church is very sad."

He asked, "But He's in Heaven, right?"

I said, "That's right.  And He's going to bring us to Heaven, too."

Then he said, "But I don't want to go to Heaven.  They don't have toys."

I laughed and said, "Heaven is more fun than Ocean City!"

He looked at me, incredulous, because to his four-year-old mind, nothing could possibly be more fun than the Boardwalk, curly fries and roller coasters.  

Midway during the service, he nodded off to sleep right in the pew, clutching Chase under his coat.

After the service, two kind elderly folks came up to us separately to express their appreciation for Vincent's presence the last two days (Holy Thursday and Good Friday).  One woman commented that she loved how he says, "Jesus, I love you" when the newly consecrated Host is elevated and the gentleman said he liked that Vincent behaved and genuflected before the altar.  

I truly puffed up with so much pride and appreciation then.  I'm always so worried that I'm not doing enough to teach him about how beautiful our Faith is.  Truth is, I'm not.  That being said, I know that God is making up for my inadequacies and is patiently leading Vince by the hand.  It makes me so incredibly happy to have reminders like that, especially given the difficult week we'd had at school.  

On Easter Sunday, Vince was not a big fan of Jesus' when I reminded him that after his egg-hunting, he needed to get ready for Mass.  I knew it'd be tough getting him on board, but as always, once he was in the car, he was perfectly fine.

My niece, Alliya, even ended up coming along with my MIL.  

We went to a parish that I've only been to once before, and it was completely by accident that we arrived there.  I've STILL got a terrible taste in my mouth from their Mass.

The tabernacle is off to the side (I hate that), the priest was omitting things left and right (whether on purpose or not, I honestly don't know, so I'm hoping it was accidental), the parishioners who sat to the right of us were incredibly rude (but they might not have been regulars) and the whole set-up felt very, very... New Age-y?  I dunno.  I just got a terribly off feeling and it left me unsettled until we were about half-way home.  

Alliya was asking me all sorts of questions as I took them around the church to show them the various statues and sacramentals.  We had gotten there early, so to burn energy and utilize a built-in theology lesson, I took them on a quick tour.  Alliya had so many smart questions (questions which Vincent jumped in to answer at points!).  One of her questions was about Jesus being in the tabernacle.  When I explained that we genuflected to Jesus who remained hidden in the tabernacle, Alliya became confused.  She wanted to know how He fit, if He was a ghost, etc (she has basically no catechesis whatsoever).  These are all smart and valid questions!  So I explained as simply as I could without confusing her further.  
I said because He is God, He can take on whatever form He wants.  Because He loves us so much, He decided to look like Bread so He could personally feed us, Himself.  Thus, because He appeared so small, He could fit into the tabernacle until the priest opened the door at Communion time.

She seemed to accept this answer, but when we got back to the pew, she asked if she would have to SEE Jesus.  The concept of seeing someone she only knew as dead was understandably scary to her.  She doesn't get that Jesus is God.  She only knows that He's someone we celebrate at Christmas but He died a long time ago and went to Heaven.

Anyway, this thought scared her, so she kept asking me if she'd see the Consecrated Hosts. 

I simply said, "Alliya, Jesus is not scary.  He loves you so, so much.  He has a real body, just like you and I.  He's the one who sent you your Mommy and Daddy who love you so much. He made sure you had a Mi-Mom and Pop to take you fun places.  He makes sure all your family and friends are nice.  All the good things in your life are because of Him.  He's not scary... He's the nicest person in the whole universe!"

Vincent emphatically agreed with me, but Alliya didn't seem to believe me.  Again, I don't fault her for this.  She hasn't had any religious education.  Hopefully one day she will, but even if she doesn't, when she asks me for the truth, I will always give it to her.  

But to end with something amusing, on Holy Thursday, after Jesus was placed into the side repository, we waited our turn to go up to say a prayer.  When we reached the kneelers, Vincent looked at the small tabernacle holding the ciborium and asked, "Mommy, how do we get Jesus' trophy?"

Ha ha.  Nice.

Also, the veils pictured in this blog are from Veils by Lily and Liturgical Time respectively.  

The outside of this church belies its spacious, breezy interior with golden sunlight streaming in from every window.  It feels like you are ambling under a gazebo during a relaxing summer afternoon.  I was surprised with how massive it felt, especially when you considered the size of the image of Mary that hung high and proud behind the tabernacle.

I grinned when I noted that the pews were very modest. There were no cushions, no padding on the kneelers.  Worship isn't about creature comforts... it's about praising God.

I captured this sacristan's head along with the tabernacle to give you an idea just how massive this piece of artwork actually is. This rendition of Our Lady of Guadalupe might be among my favorites.  She is simply beautiful, as she should be.  Above her are the words "Queen of Mexico and Empress of America."  At least I'm 99.9% sure of that, anyway.

I felt like this piece was woven or embroidered somehow.  It wasn't a painting... at least I don' think it was.  I just couldn't imagine the time it took to painstakingly stitch each glorious detail.  

Here is a full shot of the sanctuary.  Given the scope of the Virgin's tapestry, you can imagine how large the crucifix actually is.  

I didn't notice until after I'd taken the photo, but the detail of Christ's Face moved me.  I don't typically like the super gaunt versions of Our Lord looking anorexic (He was a carpenter - He would have been strong and broad from all His toil with wood), but I did not mind this one so much.  The artist did not shy away from the Blood that oozed from His wounds.  I appreciate that His shoulder wound and those on His knees were accounted for. So often they are forgotten.

St. Michael and a beautiful guardian angel flank both sides of the sanctuary.  St. Michael has the power of the Holy Spirit above him while the guardian angel protects her three native charges.  I really loved this latter stained glass image.  It was very peaceful and loving.

One of their beautiful circular stained glass windows, this one depicting the Holy Family.

Which one of you dares to disbelieve Our Lady's intervention now?!  :)

A fitting painting for above the confessional - Jesus saving St. Peter from his own lack of faith.

A couple of their stations.  I'm always appreciative when the Resurrection is included.  :)

I probably should've mentioned these last two points in my other blog entry, but here will do just fine.

Instead of having lay ministers, this parish utilizes the Brides of Christ to bring Communion to the people.  I'm not the biggest fan of women acting as Eucharistic Ministers, but if you're going to allow it, I can't imagine a better way.  

Also, the altar servers sat at opposites sides of the sanctuary facing one another (behind the altar but in front of the tabernacle).  I thought they were very much like the Seraphim who guarded the Ark of the Covenant.  It made me smile to think of them as such given their constant gaze upon the tabernacle.

Finally, a photo of me (graciously taken by my husband) with a frond of palm across from the church.  On the way back to the resort, I braided what turned out to be four long leaves into small crowns for my statues at home.  

All in all, a beautiful experience at a wonderful parish... even if I couldn't understand all the words being spoken, I could feel the love.  For me, that is enough.

The Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, located in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, was a beautiful slice of Heaven located a few miles from our resort.  It took only 15 minutes or so to arrive by taxi, and my husband was kind enough to accompany me into town so I wouldn't be travelling around in Mexico by myself.

That's right, folks.  My wonderful (and atheist) husband agreed to chaperone.  Having him with me, I felt confident and comfortable.  Thank God he's such a gem.  I know Mass was the last thing he wanted to do (especially on our last morning in Mexico), but he came.  God bless him, he came.

We arrived about 20 minutes before Mass which gave me ample time to snap a few photographs and pay attention to the pre-Mass cleaning and organization that happened in a flurry of volunteers.  

In the sanctuary, an adorable sister swept the marble floor.  She paid careful attention to the stairs and shooed away someone dropping palm strands unwittingly before the podium.

An older gentleman, his one arm bandaged tightly to his chest, was using his other arm to deftly maneuver a broom in and out of each pew, somehow navigating kneelers, feet and purses. The action must have been hard on his good arm and shoulder - even his lower back probably hurt from constantly stooping to get under the seats - but he did not seem to mind.  He offered himself as custodian of the Lord's House, and I marveled at his quiet dedication.

Then there were ladies in dressed in red.  Obviously part of a society of sorts (or maybe a hospitality committee), these women acted like an army of mother hens, hurriedly flitting back and forth through the entire church, ushering some folks to their seats, handing out copies of the readings, informing folks where they could go for palm, etc.  It was like they were everywhere at once, working together as a well-oiled machine in anticipation of the swell of Palm Sunday worshippers.

Then there was Father Patrick.  At least I'm about 99.9% sure it was Father Patrick.  This thoroughly Irish priest stood out from the procession both for his fair complexion and his height.  My husband chuckled with surprise and confusion at his presence.  He and our friends wondered why they'd need to import an Irish priest given the country is thoroughly Catholic.  

They failed to realize that tourists need Confession, too, and English is the best way to reach the majority of us.  At least that was my guess.  Not that it matters.  A priest is a priest regardless of his country of origin, and Lord knows I'm always grateful for them wherever they are.

I had briefly connected with Father Patrick before travelling down to Mexico.  My blogger-friend, Jacob Wall, kindly put us into contact when Jacob found out I was trying to plan for Mass while on vacation.  

***As a complete aside, I must take a moment to publicly thank Jacob for his incredible help.  Without his e-mails of reassurance and helpful pointers, I'm pretty sure I'd've stuck out like the sore thumb I am for more reasons than simply language.  His guidance was instrumental in making me feel at ease leaving the resort to cross through town to get to this parish.  I honestly cannot thank him enough for his willingness to patiently answer my questions.  THANK YOU, JACOB!!!  

Mass was exactly what I'd envisioned. There was a wonderful procession into the church led by Father Patrick in his alb and two young altar boys.  A lone guitarist strummed simple (but beautiful) melodies that engaged the whole congregation.  The readers were direct and humble, each being sure to pay respect to their God in the tabernacle with a genuflect or a reverent bow. Their attention to this often-forgotten reverence made my heart leap with joy.

One thing that surprised me, though, was the Gospel reading.  As many of you know, the Passion Narrative is re-enacted by the priest, lector, and congregation.  This re-enactment is a reminder to us that we, too, participated in the Crucifixion of Christ.  

I retract that statement for correction.  Instead, it should read "This re-enactment is a reminder to us that we, too, PARTICIPATE in the Crucifixion of Christ."  After all, we participate each and every time we sin.  Each sin is an echo of "Crucify Him!"  Heaven forgive us.

As this narrative was being read, I noticed that no one in the congregation was reading their portion.  Only I was (or it seemed that way to me).  I can't speak fluent Spanish, but I can fluidly read the words printed in front of me, so I read our portion aloud only to realize I was the only one reading aloud in addition to the second lector.  

I was confused.  I wasn't sure if it was a cultural thing to not take part in the spoken liturgy beyond prescribed responses, or if the majority of parishioners were unable to read.  I can't imagine it being the latter because it seemed like they were reading along, just not being vocal about it.  Regardless, I kept pace with the reading figuring if I was wrong, the folks around me would chalk it up to my own ignorance at custom.  At least I hoped they would.

The homily went well beyond my realm of understanding.  The only portion I was able to catch was when Father Patrick explained that Christ did not come as a mighty conqueror.  He came as a humble Man who died a terrible death on the Cross.  He was not what the people were expecting their champion to be.  Instead, He brought salvation in a way no one had foreseen. I'm very likely butchering even my weak paraphrasing of the snippet I think I understood, but it was enough of a reflection to keep me sustained through the rest of his homily.  Maybe that's all God thought I needed to think on... especially given how arrogant I tend to be sometimes.  

Christ didn't come as a warrior who violently clamped down on His enemies.  He came as a gentle victim, offering Himself as a beacon that would lead us home.

            Stay tuned for my next entry, dedicated to their artwork.