On Holy Thursday, my thoughts turn to some very specific things: the smell of burnt beeswax from making pysanky, the anticipation of Easter Candy (even then, as today :), and foot washing. Yes, foot washing.
Why foot washing? Did Jesus have a foot fetish perhaps? Who knew?!
Well, not exaaactly--the account goes something like this:
If I channel my Chatechismal indoctrination, and my later intellectual religious study, I interpret a passage that describes the essence of the New Kingdom, humility. It relies on inversion, echoing the Sermon on the Mount: The weak become strong, the poor wealthy, and the King humbles himself before his Servants.
The account appears only in the Gospel of John--which makes sense because his audience of persecuted, insecure early Christians would have responded well to a touching underdog-turnaround story. Like The Mighty Ducks for the Messianic faithful.
How does my experi-lent relate to this passage, you ask? Well, you see, back in the day a very special event in the Ukrainian Catholic Community in Philadelphia occurred every Holy Thursday.
Listen to this: All of the Ukrainian Catholic parish priests would get together at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Franklin Street. They would conduct a three or four hour mass--no idea how they could stretch it out so long, but these guys somehow found a way. Then, at the end, they would re-enact the story of Jesus washing everyone's feet. As a student of Ukrainian descent attending St. Josaphat's Ukrainian Catholic School, I had the distinct pleasure of attending this bit of liturgical theater. Oh yes, I was there.
But I never endured it alone. My brothers, cousins, and classmates who happened to be born into a family with a -sky, -ski, or a silent j at the end of their last names shared that distinct pleasure along with me. Hell, I think they even lumped the Polish kids in with us. "Close enough," they probably thought to themselves.
And yes, this event was as weird as it seems. The entire Church was empty save for us Ukrainian-American kids who would rather be playing Nintendo, some priests, and a bunch of nuns who did not hesitate to put the fear of God into you for even the most minor infraction.
So we would mostly-stand for the duration of this mega mass, feeling nauseous and lightheaded from all the God-scented incense floating around, elbowing each other to keep from dosing in view of the watchful eyes of the "penguins" as we used to call them. All of the priests took turns saying different parts of the mass. Like a divinely-ordained rap battle. Finally, we all sensed the end was near when the Fathers took their places in the luxe upholstered chairs lined up in front of the iconostasis.
As I watched them unlace their black, priest-issue Aerosole shoes, I imagined how sweaty their feet must have been from standing for so long and and walking all around waving crosses and censers and gilded holybooks. My speculation was confirmed when they peeled clingy socks away from toes, wriggling their feet to loosen the fabric. Why am I watching this?
At long last, the Bishop shows up. He has removed his cape and under-cape, and wears only the white under-robe. Guess it's a priestly type of slip. (I probably did not use the correct terminology for the vestments.) He's got his towel tied around his waste, his bowl of holy water, and without another word he gets down to it.
As much talking as these guys did all morning, suddenly an awkward silence hushes the entire space. Nary a crinkling cough drop wrapper, nor a cough. Each foot gets a nice shellacking, a little mini-pedi-baptism, and that was it. We got up, boarded the cheese bus and went home. I suppose the priests all put their shoes back on, and then they did the same. After all, they had a lot of work to do in the next couple of days, what with the defining Holy Day of the religion just 72 hours away...
No comments:
Post a Comment