Holy Week

Being anointed by Mary in the village of Bethany begins one of the last of Jesus' public acts—those occurring during the final days of his life here on earth. The acts or ministries after these are considered "private," as they were intended for his disciples. And after his death and resurrection, his spiritual ministries begin.

Lent, for many years, was a time for me to concentrate on the finality of Jesus' life, with an "obligatory" self denial of something which was usually included in my daily life (generally something edible or potable). Because of my chosen profession, I also concentrated many times on the human physiology of the horrible suffering and agony of our Lord's final hours.

As many of you know, I have always been very involved in the music department of my church, and I found sorrow and much depth in the many Lenten offerings of both the great and the obscure composers. Two particular musical events come to my mind when I think of Lent. The first was a moment I experienced while singing Lotti's "Crucifixus" from the balcony of our cathedral on Good Friday. It is composed on that part of our creed which states that "he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered death and was buried." The music was so beautifully performed, the space so wonderful, and the sound so extraordinary, that at the end, with tears in my eyes, I felt that I was indeed transported to and had witnessed that terrible event. The second moment was the chanting of the passion gospel, also on Good Friday evening, when I was chosen to chant the part of Jesus. What a marvelous experience to sing, in solo, and concentrate solely on those actual words leading up to death hanging on a cross.

But the Lenten event which will never be surpassed was the passing of my beloved mother on Ash Wednesday. During many days of anticipation of some very risky cardiac surgery, she busied herself calling family and friends to tell them the news of her health, and to let them know how much she loved them, and how grateful she was to have had them in her life. She was admitted to the hospital on the day prior to surgery, and late in that evening, her minister brought her holy communion. I don't know what was said during that time as these were her "private" conversations. Some of her last words to me, however, included the insightful "Don't worry, Sweetheart, no matter what happens, I'll win."

I had prepared her continuously for the fact that I would be at the organ for the Ash Wednesday evening service (the Chenaults were leaving town for a recital), and that I would see her right after surgery, but if she wasn't quite alert after the anesthesia, not to worry, I would be right back. Her answer to me was, "Take your time, and play like I know you can. They need you, too." The surgery was indeed too risky and too extensive for her heart to bear, and at three o'clock in the afternoon, I held her hand, talked to her (knowing that she could hear me even in a nonconscious state), and kissed her forehead as she took her last breaths. Too many times, I have been the one who has pronounced death in my career as a physician; however, it did not come close to preparing me for the experience of having to do this for a parent.

After leaving the hospital, and after several stops and phone calls, it was time to be at church. Geoffrey and Noelle were there to support and comfort me, and to make sure I was up for playing the service. For me, there was no question—Mother had told me to play. At the appointed time, I began the Bach chorale prelude "I Call to Thee, Lord Jesus Christ." I don't remember concentrating so much on the music, but thinking more about playing it for my mother. I think it stands out in my mind as a perfect playing of that composition. I truly don't recall much else about that service, except that everything I played—the hymns, the anthem, et al.—I played for her. For those of you who were fortunate enough to know her, you know that she was the typical mother—one who reveled in the accomplishments of her child—and we know she would have been beaming if she had been there.

That Lent of 2007, I did indeed give back to God something very significant to me; however, the spiritual revitalization that I received was and will be lifelong. Just as Jesus' followers mourned his earthly passing and the end of his earthly works; they, too, were the recipients of his spiritual ministries after his resurrection. I continue to be the beneficiary of Mother's sweet spirit, and good works here on earth, and try to live my life in the kind and generous way that she taught me by example. Her grace, her courage in adversity, and her deep and unfailing faith in our Lord are goals to which I aspire. In the traditional Lenten giving up (or back) to help us prepare for the resurrection of our Lord, I can truly say that I now more fully understand what this means, and how this may prepare us for the true pleasures which are reserved for the followers of Christ.

During this season, you may hear me play the Bach chorale prelude mentioned above at one of the many meaningful All Saints' Lenten services. I hope I can play it for you in a perfect state, and I hope that we, in spirit or in person, can join each other in joy, or maybe in sorrow, in celebrating the lives of those members of the Church victorious who continue to speak to us spiritually. And then, when the final note is released, may we all look to the happiness and delight of Easter morning.

Michael Crowe, MD