I don't have time for this

Our parish observes the Stations of the Cross on the Tuesdays of Lent at 12:15. Today, it was especially inconvenient.

Tuesdays are always a hard day, the one day of the work week which I regularly dread. The morning is normally consumed by staff meeting, plus a follow-up meeting of the clergy and musician (me). After that, there are often many loose ends that must be promptly addressed. Today, with the Rector returning from a fortnight away and Holy Week looming ahead, there were more than usual. And what I want and need to do is Practice.

Noon found me mired in e-mail “conversations” concerning this Sunday's bulletin for the middle service and its music. I looked at the little clock in the corner of the computer screen, saw that it was 12:14, and rushed upstairs to the church, where I was to lead the service, leaving my work in shreds, loose ends and stray parts hanging about.

Part of the problem is copyrights. The musicians leading this service had suggested a song which one of them realized Sunday night was unsuitable; they sent me an alternative this morning, in PDF form. I got it pasted into the draft (after returning downstairs from the Stations), and opened our account with our copyright licensing service to record the modifications. But this PDF song is not covered under our license. It is an Oregon Catholic Press song, and we have the GIA license. These two companies are cutthroat competitors for the huge Roman Catholic market, and most decidedly do not cooperate with one another. So I had to get back to the group and request yet another replacement song; we shall see how that goes.

I hate copyrights. I hate the “Mickey Mouse” copyright law with which the Disney Corp. and its puppets in the U.S. Congress have saddled us. But it is the law of the land, and as Christians we must obey it: “Render tribute to whom tribute is due.” I equally hate it that the more “contemporary” (meaning “since 1960, and involving guitars”) side of church music has become so overtly about the maximization of Profit, ever since the publishers realized that there was serious Money to be made here if they could enforce their copyrights.

In the midst of all this: Stations of the Cross. “I don't have time for this,” I thought as I went up the stairs two steps at a time and rushed into the church at the stroke of 12:15. One lady was there; she and I have been the normal congregation for the Stations this spring; another gentleman (not from our parish) joined us about halfway through. He had come last Tuesday, and this week he sat, or rather knelt, in one of the pews in silence rather than following us around from station to station.

It is all highly inconvenient.

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
(Emily Dickinson)

Our Lord Christ found it highly inconvenient too. “Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause came I unto this hour” (St. John 12:27). The inconvenience is, I am learning, one of the chief spiritual benefits of observing the Stations. It brings me crashing to a halt right in the midst of my most hectic and frustrating work day when there is never enough time, shakes me by the scruff of my neck, and makes me look at what we have done, what I have done.

'Twas I, Lord Jesus,
I it was denied thee:
I crucified thee.
(Hymn 158: Ah, holy Jesus)