Tradition, Tradition!

Ah,  Holy Week.  Ah, tradition.  How many of these ancient rituals do you follow in your parish?

 

Confession Line Noisemaker

A middle aged Knights-of-Columbus-type with an expression of bland good cheer on his face will station himself at the end of the pew closest to the confessional to perform the following traditional chant, to the accompaniment of clattering car keys, while you are trying to examine your conscience:

ff, rubato, un poco agitato:

JINGLE, JINGLE, JINGLE
harumph, harumph, harumph
mutter mutter JINGLE JINGLE
cough cough cough

 

sotto voce:

Hey, hey, how's it going?  How's it going? How's the wife?
Nice buncha kids you got, God bless, God bless!

 

cough cough cough

Da capo.

It was once believed that this chant had the power to drive off demons; and in medieval times, it was frequently confused with the efforts similar to that of a advocatus diaboli, an irritant deliberately placed in the path of one seeking absolution, as a way of proving a the pentitent's ardent desire to overcome sins, especially sins of irriation against fellow Christians.  The true significance of this ritual is actually very simple:  the guy is just trying to make more noise than the old ladies who forget to turn up their hearing aids before going into the confessional.  It's the eighth work of corporal mercy:  Drowning Out the Audible Penitent.

 

The Proper Use of Palm Branches in the Home

Speaking of confession, here's mine:  I was actually (if fleetingly) grateful that half of my kids were throwing up on Palm Sunday, and couldn't make it to Mass.  Why?  Because this year, we only came home with a few blessed palm leaves, instead of the usual car-full.  Palm Branches are my least favorite sacramental, because you're supposed to treat them with respect, but they are absolutely designed to encourage mistreatment.  Here is an exact transcript of my little pre-Mass meditation on the significance of our Lord's triumphant procession into Jerusalem:

Okay, kids.  Today is Palm Sunday.  Who can tell me what this means?  Never mind, I'll tell you.  It means NO SWORDS.  NO POKING THE LADY IN FRONT OF YOU.  No nibbling, no peeling, no sticking them in your sleeves and pretending to be Wolverine.  No trying to balance them on the back of your hand.  No trying to fit them into the screw holes in the pew.  Do not suck on them, do not wind them around your neck, do not scratch your back or clean your nails with them, and do NOT whip your little brother with them, not even one time!  DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Then, when we got home, I confiscated them all, wiped the spit off them, and reverently put them on top of the refrigerator with the expired children's Tylenol, old bank statements, and noisy space guns that we didn't want to hear anymore.

 

Penitential Tongue-Biting Over Unintentionally Blasphemous Catechetical Aids

Every year, I start writing about Empty Tomb Twinkies, and every year I tell myself that I should just shut up -- that if ever there was a time for giving people credit for good intentions, and for not using phrases like "ludicrously inappropriate" or "gut-churningly tacky" or "aieeeeeeeeeeeee," then that time is Holy Week.  So far, so good.

This tradition isn't just for Christians, by the way.  Ooh, woodgie woodgie da widdle slaying of the first born hand puppet

 

 

Holy Thursday Foot Wars

Sadly, I haven't been to a Holy Thursday service in many years, but my main memories of it feature women sheepishly darting into the sacristy to take off the pantyhose they forgot they had on.  Bare legs are more in style now, but something tells me the quivering outrage over imaginary sexism, along with quivering outrage over imaginary blasphemy, is alive and well.  Because nothing illustrates an understanding of humble service and self-abnegation better than quivering outrage.

This is why I submit for your consideration the institution of a new tradition:  setting off fireworks outside the Church during Holy Thursday services.  That way, everybody will be running around and yelling and calling the fire department, which seems to me much more reverent than the current practice of trying to score points in the gender wars.

 

Buying Ham

Ham!  It's on sale!  Salty, salty ham.  And that alone makes it the most wonderful time of the year.