Saturday, December 3

Last night I went to my church, and for the first time, prayed the Stations of the Cross. I'd been meaning to for years, but for most of those years, I didn't have independent transportation, and for the other years, simply forgot what day it was on.

But this last Sunday, it was announced from the pulpit, and the congregation urged to get more involved. So I made up my mind to go. (Now, those of you who know me, know that I get nervous when I go to most churches, and when I go to mine at an unusual time) I was kinda scared going in, especially when I saw that I was the only one there, apart from the guy who was leading the devotions.

But this is the thing about sacramental liturgies: when you're in the service, you can step into eternity. You often simply do not notice the passage of time. That's how it was for me.

I remember growing up, and watching everyone get ready for Easter, with only a passing reference to Good Friday (let me state here that this was the general culture: my family was generally more balanced, and taught about both Good Friday and Easter together). We shunned Catholic crucifixes because Jesus, in fact, had risen and should not be pictured as still hanging on the cross. How much worse, then, to turn every Friday into a small remembrance of that Friday? Many liturgical persons do not eat meat on Friday(except during Easter, when there are NO fasts of any kind), and do extra devotions on that day.

Yes, Christ rose, and is the glorious, reigning King. But He did die, in pain and blood and sweat and tears and dirt. This must not be forgotten. The price paid must be remembered, until we drink of Lethe and pass into eternity, where the only remembrance of the cost is that it showed the glory and grace of God.


Lord have mercy on me, a sinner.

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