Holy Week in Portugal

To date this Holy Week is unique, strange and out of character for me in many ways. This is the first year in 25 years when I have not been presiding as clergy during Holy Week. It is also one of the few years when I am away from family while travelling in Portugal.

I began this trip with a specific intention- that I would do more than see a sight, snap a quick picture and move on. My intention is to pay attention, especially during Holy Week.

So I tried.

In Lisbon I attended a Maundy Thursday worship at a Roman Catholic Church near our hotel. Of course the service was in Portuguese, of which I know little more than please and thank you.

Still the worship felt very familiar. The church is hugh compared to my United Church standards. High ceilings, pillars, a few dull stained glass windows and a cross. Well worn and loved, the plaster was falling off in a few corners. Before worship began, I smiled while watching the action as the ‘all to familiar’ tasks of those responsible for getting things ready unfolded. One checks the candles. Another checks the microphone. The organist checks a few notes. Red robes were being passed around. A friendly priest welcomed us. A few hands went up in response. I guessed he was asking if anyone was from out of town. A woman came rushing in at the last minute, found a red robe and joined the singers. Sound familiar?

Gradually the space filled. The liturgy began. Although I did not understand Portuguese I got a sense of what was happening. Then it happened. The cantor stepped to the microphone. This powerful baritone voice filled this holy space. And worship for me began. The cadences of the Lords’s Prayer, the scripture readings all bracketed by this voice. Once again, music did what music does. It took me to that Holy space. Words did not mater.

After worship we enjoyed a full course meal with ‘new to me’ friends who are also on the bus tour and committed to love one another as per that Maundy Thursday commandment.

Friday. Shouldn’t there be a Good Friday worship? On the streets life was going on as usual. Shops and restaurants are open. I went back to the site of Thursday’s worship and discovered there were no plans for a Good Friday worship. Our tour began. I’m watching for Good Friday. Where is there state sanctioned murder? Where is there betrayal and anguish?

Among the crowds, there were people on the street asking for help. The woman without a leg. The woman without an eye? The mother outside the church entrance.

Then it happened. Again with music - this time with Fado music, a haunting music wafting out from a small restaurant bar in Lisbon. Fado (meaning fate), is a type of Lisbon blues singing known for it’s melancholic character. So on Good Friday we listened to mournfully beautiful and haunting ballads about broken hearts. Isn’t that Good Friday? Especially when the broken hearts are state sanctioned?

Saturday. Much to my surprise I found myself, one among many, in a procession following a woman carrying a wooden cross around the football field size grounds at the Shrine of Fatima, a pilgrimage site for many practicing Roman Catholics. (To learn more ask your nearest Roman Catholic friend).

Once again, except for the occasional Christo and meu Deus, I understood little Portuguese. And I don’t begin to understand the mystery of Fatima.

Still, once again, the Spirit of the event, the music, the chanting, stirred my soul. It is amazing what can happen once you put yourself out there.

As I told a friend, even if the worship and music was in English I still might not have understood the literal words. It’s the mystery of the everyday events that unfold on Holy Week that stirs the heart.

Wonder what Easter morning will bring?

Happy Easter Everyone!