Holy Week is the most significant period on the Christian calendar. From Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, Jesus’ disciples accompany him from the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem to his glorious resurrection.
During the liturgies of Holy Week, Christians recreate sacred events. The Triduum, or three days leading up to Easter, is well known. The Lord’s Supper and foot washing take place on Holy Thursday, followed by the suffering and death of Christ on Good Friday and the silence of the tomb on Holy Saturday. Through participating in the liturgy, believers enter the Biblical episodes as though they are happening “again for the first time.” This is a theological “re-membering,” as the members relive the sacred story.
As significant as the Triduum is, the first four days of Holy Week give me particular insight into living with debilitating chronic illnesses. I have small fiber neuropathy and erythromelalgia (EM), a rare neuro-vascular condition. Even with medication and therapy, these disorders cause constant burning pain and make walking excruciatingly difficult.
The liturgical readings for the first four days of Holy Week provide me with prayer language that becomes my own as it opens a channel of communication with God and my illness. Applying the Holy Week prayers and events to myself does not miraculously remove my pain, but it does give me emotional solace and spiritual peace. Other people in comparable circumstances might find it helpful.
Consider the responsorial Psalm for Palm Sunday. The repeated response from Psalm 22 foreshadows Christ’s prayer from the cross, “My God, My God, why have you abandoned me?” This sorrowful call speaks to me of my situation. Although I have never felt forsaken by God, I frequently experience the anguish of suffering alone through the tedium of interminable days and the agony of endless nights. The silence of abandonment is the only answer I receive when I weep in torment. By entering Holy Week with my illnesses, I embrace this prayer in unity with Christ.
I confront my body: Why have you abandoned me? Why have you let me down and left me alone, disabled, and wounded? Why did you nail me to this cross? In praying this Psalm, I join my suffering to Christ’s Passion. Like all Christians, this happened proleptically in my baptism. But in uniting my daily prayer of suffering with Christ, I come to “know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings” (Philippians 3:10).
The Gospel readings for the next three days function in a similar way. They become increasingly somber as they involve the actions of Judas.
Monday’s pericope comes from John 12:1–11. Mary, Lazarus, and Martha welcome Jesus into their home. Mary anoints Jesus’ feet with a liter of expensive perfume as Martha serves and Lazarus reclines at the table. Apparently scandalized, Judas inquires, “Why was this oil not sold for three hundred days’ wages and given to the poor?” According to the text, Judas was not concerned with anyone’s well-being. “He was a thief and held the money bag and used to steal the contributions.”
How does this help me cope with my chronic illnesses? I liken my body to Judas. It doesn’t care about the plight of the poor (poor me). It is a thief who robs me of joy, time, and participation in life. This isn’t simply feeling sorry for myself; it acknowledges the truth of my daily experience. Thanks to Holy Monday, I have the language of to connect my suffering to the larger story of Christ.
The gospel reading for the Tuesday of Holy Week is John 13:21–33, 36–38. Jesus hands Judas a piece of bread. “After Judas took the morsel, Satan entered him.” Jesus cryptically pleads with Judas, “What you are going to do, do quickly.’ Now none of those reclining at table realized why he said this to him.” The text tells us the time of these events. “And it was night.” Of course, it was night. Everything seems worse at night.
How does this help me pray? The blazing neuropathic agony makes me feel like Judas; it’s as if Satan has invaded my body and turned it into a lake of fire. I plead with my flares to end quickly. Even though my family and friends can understand what I’m saying, they are unable to grasp its profundity or urgency because no one can fully appreciate another’s suffering. Without exaggerating, the EM blazes in my feet every night well past midnight. Knowing it’s unavoidable, I echo the words of Jesus, “What you are going to do, do quickly.”
On Wednesday, Judas seeks an occasion to betray Jesus. “What are you willing to give me if I hand him over to you,” he asks the authorities. After agreeing to 30 pieces of silver, Judas looks for an opportunity to hand Jesus over. While eating with the 12, Jesus predicts that one of his companions will betray him. Everyone asks if they will be the one. “Then Judas, his betrayer, said in reply, ‘Surely it is not I, Rabbi?’ He answered, ‘You have said so’” (Matthew 26:14–25).
My body, like Judas, often appears to be looking for an opportunity to betray me. Even though I feed and care for my body, I know the duplicity will happen. Sometimes, my body answers cynically, “Surely it is not I,” when we all know it is.
None of this is to say that I or anyone else who suffers is the same as Christ. A messianic complex does not alleviate suffering; rather, it displaces it, projects its cause onto the innocent, and seeks potentially dangerous ways to alleviate it.
Holy Week, though, opens doors to Christ’s ministry allowing us to make our suffering redemptive. In union with Christ, we redeem our suffering. It becomes the stuff that is transfigured into our salvation.
By uniting my everyday suffering to the greater narrative of Christ, I can live and pray more meaningfully and redemptively. We discover that Christ identifies with our sufferings when we humbly take on his. As Holy Week draws us into the drama of Christ, we thankfully know it ultimately leads to the resurrection of Easter.
