It is a sight that never ceases to make me shudder – and one that you're bound to miss unless you have your observant eyes locked onto such a detail. Indeed, from where the Choir is singing right now, in "diaspora" from the Corby transept, it could hardly have been noticed. But it was there (or perhaps more appropriate, not there) once again this year.
I speak of the grand Tabernacle in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart... And how, on Holy Thursday, the doors of this sacred vault are blown open.
On Friday afternoon, as I was preparing the Celtic harp for the Passion, I managed to quickly sneak into the sanctuary of the Basilica for this quick shot. I knew what I was looking for – the pillar of the Holy of Holies, exposed, vulnerable, the gaping emptiness allowing a rare glimpse directly through the heart of the Tower to the statue of the Virgin, far back in the Lady Chapel.
For it is the time of vulnerability: the momentary time when Death seems to have the last word, when betrayal, perhaps, will win the day. It is the time when symbolic actions on the part of an itinerant preacher could simply be interpreted as a nicety ... Or as the ultimate redemptive action of grace. Everything hangs in the balance.
For today, the doors are blown open. All is exposed, in hope and frailty, desperation and faith, blackness and blinding light.
I speak of the grand Tabernacle in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart... And how, on Holy Thursday, the doors of this sacred vault are blown open.
On Friday afternoon, as I was preparing the Celtic harp for the Passion, I managed to quickly sneak into the sanctuary of the Basilica for this quick shot. I knew what I was looking for – the pillar of the Holy of Holies, exposed, vulnerable, the gaping emptiness allowing a rare glimpse directly through the heart of the Tower to the statue of the Virgin, far back in the Lady Chapel.
For it is the time of vulnerability: the momentary time when Death seems to have the last word, when betrayal, perhaps, will win the day. It is the time when symbolic actions on the part of an itinerant preacher could simply be interpreted as a nicety ... Or as the ultimate redemptive action of grace. Everything hangs in the balance.
For today, the doors are blown open. All is exposed, in hope and frailty, desperation and faith, blackness and blinding light.
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