My mom used to tell me when I was a teenager that I had mood swings like a pretzel.  While I wasn’t exactly sure how a mood could be like a pretzel, and the phrase usually elicited an eye roll from me, I’m sure it had something to do with my overly emotional and dramatic responses to anything going on around me.  Last week I felt like I had mood swings like a pretzel.  Sure, Holy Week for pastors usually involves the gamut of emotion, from the entry Palm Sunday, through the anger of Jesus in the temple, to the tenderness with which he shared a meal with his friends and washed their feet, to betrayal, denial, death, and then a joyous Easter morning when we find Jesus risen.  I expect to be emotional during this week, I expect to be tired and busy, but last week was particularly difficult.     

Easter arrived on Sunday as I celebrated worship with my congregations.  But, truth be told, it didn’t feel much like Easter.  Thank goodness that God doesn’t rely on ornate altars, sanctuaries filled with lilies, egg hunts, Easter bonnets, our best dress, or even our exuberant joy in order to raise Jesus from the grave, because I really had none of that.  By the time I got to Easter Sunday, I was pretty depleted.  I was mourning not being with my church family, I was sad that all of my plans for how my first Easter with these wonderful people were down the drain.  I was frustrated at the thought that I’m not doing enough to help people during this time of crisis.  I don’t write this because I relish being overly vulnerable about it; after all, this is my job, my life, my calling.  I write this because sometimes it’s ok just to say we’re not ok.  Sometimes the joy we feel as Easter people comes in waves, in small doses when we least expect it, and not on a designated day that we have determined will be a day of great celebration. 

I felt Easter this year on Tuesday, two days after the actual celebration.  It was a day that started like many others, a quick workout and some coffee.  But then I had the opportunity to see glimpses of new life around me, glimpses of hope and a peek into the empty tomb.  I got to deliver money one of the churches had collected to pay bills for several families who had lost jobs, I got to pick up hand sewn masks from several congregants which will be donated to various locations in the community, and I got to deliver devotion books for several people who have not left their homes.  I cannot tell you how much good it did my heart to see their smiling faces through the glass doors as I left books on their porches.  There were “air hugs” and there was laughter!  When I went by one of the churches it was surrounded by beautifully blooming flowers as if God had put a lovely frame around the church building. 

While I know the coming days, weeks (and probably months?) ahead will be filled with new challenges and there will be plenty of times in which I will have “mood swings like a pretzel”, I am comforted by the fact that we serve a God who has encountered it all, who has laughed and celebrated the love of two people at a wedding, who has felt the sting and hurt of betrayal, who has felt the love of friendship, who has mourned the loss of a loved one, and who has experienced all that humanly life can offer.  So God gets me, mood swings and all.   

Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday.  I have struggled with Holy Week this year; trying to put together worship experiences that convey the human connection and congregational participation that is at the heart of worship in the midst of social distancing, when relying on technology to make that connection is key, has been difficult, at best.  How do believers come to the table when the table is a computer screen?  How do you wash one another’s feet when the act of physically being near someone can be harmful?

On Maundy Thursday we remember the mandate that Jesus gave his friends, to love one another as he not only taught them but showed them, once again, God’s intent for humanity. Love one another. Such simple words to say and yet such a profoundly difficult concept for us to live.  We read in the Gospel of John, Jesus “took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.”  It is in this most humble of acts that we see the self-sacrificing love that we are to offer. This year the way in which we express this love toward each other has shifted drastically; instead of being present, caring for one another in distinctly physical ways, we will express our love by remaining apart, by removing ourselves from our daily lives outside our homes in order to care for the most vulnerable among us.  Instead of eating together at a table, we will eat bread with our families or alone.  Instead of washing one another’s feet, we will wash our own hands.  Because these acts are acts of love in this time of global pandemic, they are holy.  We serve a God who is present with us regardless of our location.  As we gather in our homes, God’s presence will turn any kitchen or coffee table into an altar where we come to take the bread and drink from the cup and will transform ordinary elements of bread and juice into the tangible love that nourishes our soul and gives us strength to continue to do what it takes to care for one another. 

So ultimately, does it matter if all of my worship plans are changed for Holy Week?  No, God will show up, and I have a feeling, we will see God show up in amazing ways we couldn’t ever anticipate.