Maunday Thursday, what to do

Pastor Hunter gave me the bulletin from the 2007 and 2006 Maundy Thursday services. I was supposed to propose readings and music for this year, yesterday.

All that happened. He made the final tweaking of the details. I thought I was done except for the music preparation.

I was wrong. Hunter takes the minster crew to the sanctuary and we set up. His guiding principle was "intimate." He wanted these most somber verses of scriptures to be felt deeply.

What finally emerged was a "circle," with the communion elements and cross set on a small table at the corner of the platform. The amen corner with the choir would face south, the church board members readers would sit on a semi-circle of chairs placed on the platform, the rest of the congregation would face west, seating restricted to the window side tier of benches.

A lot of church musicians restrict instrumental music at this service, remembering the arrest and trial of Jesus. Except for a little piano support for the choir for the anthem at the beginning right before communion, I decided to go cold turkey and go for broke with acappella.

Results? Remember, we are used to singing most hymns with organ and some songs with a modest worship band. Result? People told me afterwards--we actually sang, we sang parts, on hymns not very familiar by the second verse we were sounding good.

I'm glad I trusted the people to take a small musical risk. Something changes among the people when the crutch of accompaniment is taken away. Something enabling after the first little fear that "we won't sound very good."

No sermon. The bread and cup. The shuffle of the congregants' feet as in silence they went to the "table" to eat the sacred meal--that was what finally gave me a holy moment. We are hungry. We are going to go where there is nourishment. That made me tremble with a holy moment.

Oh, sure. The rest nourished me. The readings of the story. The snuffing out of the twelve candles, one by one. The dimming of the hall lights. The singing. The silence.