Empty Pews and a Full Heart
It was quiet. Terrifyingly quiet. When, as a seminarian, I stood in the sanctuary on Holy Thursday 2020, I looked at the empty pews. The church, which on this evening always pulsed with life- whispers, singing, the sound of handbags being shifted in the pews- was now silent. The scent of incense and of drops running down the wax candles hung in the air, but something was missing, something that had always made this place alive: people.
Everything was different. There was no crowd at the entrance, the one that always appeared at the last minute. There were none of those few familiar faces that for years had watched from the same spot, as if they had season tickets. There were no children who usually slipped quietly towards the sacristy to receive a sweet from the priest at the end of the service. And I myself had once been one of them.
And yet: He was there.
That Triduum was like the first Passover, the one from thousands of years ago, in Egypt. People shut in their homes, fear in the streets, an invisible threat circling among them. On that night the Israelites ate the lamb in haste, ready for the road. We, feeling as if in some surreal reality, celebrated the Liturgy without knowing what tomorrow would bring. Knowing absolutely nothing…
Holy Thursday: the Eucharist
It was meant to be an evening of celebration. The Mass of the Lord's Supper always had
something of a family atmosphere about it: priests who on this day carried within them gratitude for the gift of the priesthood, people looking at one another with greater tenderness, because after all, on this night Jesus gave us the Eucharist and taught us service.
But that evening, in 2020, the liturgy was not a home. It was more like an empty flat in which the lights were going out. There was no washing of feet, which always reminded us that the priesthood exists not in order to rule, but to kneel before another human being. There was no solemn procession to the altar of repose, only a simple transfer of the Blessed Sacrament, as if we ourselves did not know what would come next.
It was then that it first dawned on me how profoundly the Eucharist is a relationship. That it cannot be lived in solitude, because of its very nature it is an invitation to communion. And that so many people were longing then for Holy Communion the way one longs for a loved one whom one cannot visit. I could not hold back my tears.
Today, when I look at the full churches on Holy Thursday, I wonder how many of us have really come here out of love, and how many out of habit. Do I still remember that the Eucharist is a gift, not an obligation?
Good Friday: silence
It always seemed to me that Good Friday is the most difficult day. On this day the Church does not celebrate the Eucharist. The altar is stripped bare, the tabernacle open and empty. We come to the liturgy of the Lord's Passion and stand before something that surpasses us: the death of God.
That year it was even more tangible. No people, no murmurs in the pews, no queue for the adoration of the Cross. I stood to the side and watched as the priests approached, knelt, and kissed the wood, and something in me was breaking. Instead of the veil of the temple, it was my heart that was being torn in two.
Because in that silence, for the first time, I truly understood that the Cross is not merely history. That these are not just verses of the Gospel to be read. That these are not only holy words, but something that touches me personally.
Can I stand beneath that Cross like Mary? Can I look into the face of the Crucified One and tell Him that I am here? Or do I prefer to look away, because I do not want to confront how much love really costs?
When I see people adoring the Cross, I wonder how many of us at that moment are truly giving Him our lives, and how many are simply bowing before a figure.
Holy Saturday: waiting
In my view, the most underappreciated day of the Triduum. For what happens on Holy Saturday? Nothing. Christ is in the tomb, and we are to wait.
On this day the church usually comes alive: people arrive with their Easter baskets, children carry the little hampers, it becomes noisy and joyful. But in 2020 there was none of that. There was only a silence that forced one to ask questions.
And perhaps that is the point. Perhaps Holy Saturday is the day meant to teach us that we do not always see the answer. That sometimes we must wait even when we see no meaning. That faith is not only great emotions and stirrings of the heart, but also a darkness in which we must trust that God has truly conquered.
Now, as I look at the people coming to church on Holy Saturday, I wonder how many of us truly live it as a time of waiting, and how many come only to have their food blessed.
The Easter Vigil: light
That night there were no people, there was no great singing, there were no hundreds of candles kindling the darkness. There were only a few persons and He: the Risen One.
And then, for the first time, it dawned on me that He truly does not need crowds in order to conquer. That His light does not depend on how many people hold candles, but on whether I allow Him to illuminate my heart.
And how is it today? The Easter Vigil: I see people rising when the priest proclaims the Resurrection, but I wonder how many of us truly rise to new life. A life in the light.
Today, as I live through the Triduum once again, those empty pews come back. The question comes back: is my heart not empty?
So I look at the Eucharist and try to see in it a gift, not an obligation. I come to church and ask myself whether I really believe that Jesus is in this Bread. I stand beneath the Cross and wonder what I would say to Jesus if it were there, then, in Jerusalem. I fall silent on Holy Saturday and learn to wait, though my heart demands immediate answers. I hear the joyful "Alleluia" and try to let this Resurrection truly change something in me.
The Paschal Triduum does not end in the church. It begins in me. And though those empty pews from years ago will (God grant) not return, the question remains the same: is my heart full of the Pasch? And your heart: is the Pasch in it?
Fr Adam Płonka
Everything was different. There was no crowd at the entrance, the one that always appeared at the last minute. There were none of those few familiar faces that for years had watched from the same spot, as if they had season tickets. There were no children who usually slipped quietly towards the sacristy to receive a sweet from the priest at the end of the service. And I myself had once been one of them.
And yet: He was there.
That Triduum was like the first Passover, the one from thousands of years ago, in Egypt. People shut in their homes, fear in the streets, an invisible threat circling among them. On that night the Israelites ate the lamb in haste, ready for the road. We, feeling as if in some surreal reality, celebrated the Liturgy without knowing what tomorrow would bring. Knowing absolutely nothing…
Holy Thursday: the Eucharist
It was meant to be an evening of celebration. The Mass of the Lord's Supper always had
something of a family atmosphere about it: priests who on this day carried within them gratitude for the gift of the priesthood, people looking at one another with greater tenderness, because after all, on this night Jesus gave us the Eucharist and taught us service.
But that evening, in 2020, the liturgy was not a home. It was more like an empty flat in which the lights were going out. There was no washing of feet, which always reminded us that the priesthood exists not in order to rule, but to kneel before another human being. There was no solemn procession to the altar of repose, only a simple transfer of the Blessed Sacrament, as if we ourselves did not know what would come next.
It was then that it first dawned on me how profoundly the Eucharist is a relationship. That it cannot be lived in solitude, because of its very nature it is an invitation to communion. And that so many people were longing then for Holy Communion the way one longs for a loved one whom one cannot visit. I could not hold back my tears.
Today, when I look at the full churches on Holy Thursday, I wonder how many of us have really come here out of love, and how many out of habit. Do I still remember that the Eucharist is a gift, not an obligation?
Good Friday: silence
It always seemed to me that Good Friday is the most difficult day. On this day the Church does not celebrate the Eucharist. The altar is stripped bare, the tabernacle open and empty. We come to the liturgy of the Lord's Passion and stand before something that surpasses us: the death of God.
That year it was even more tangible. No people, no murmurs in the pews, no queue for the adoration of the Cross. I stood to the side and watched as the priests approached, knelt, and kissed the wood, and something in me was breaking. Instead of the veil of the temple, it was my heart that was being torn in two.
Because in that silence, for the first time, I truly understood that the Cross is not merely history. That these are not just verses of the Gospel to be read. That these are not only holy words, but something that touches me personally.
Can I stand beneath that Cross like Mary? Can I look into the face of the Crucified One and tell Him that I am here? Or do I prefer to look away, because I do not want to confront how much love really costs?
When I see people adoring the Cross, I wonder how many of us at that moment are truly giving Him our lives, and how many are simply bowing before a figure.
Holy Saturday: waiting
In my view, the most underappreciated day of the Triduum. For what happens on Holy Saturday? Nothing. Christ is in the tomb, and we are to wait.
On this day the church usually comes alive: people arrive with their Easter baskets, children carry the little hampers, it becomes noisy and joyful. But in 2020 there was none of that. There was only a silence that forced one to ask questions.
And perhaps that is the point. Perhaps Holy Saturday is the day meant to teach us that we do not always see the answer. That sometimes we must wait even when we see no meaning. That faith is not only great emotions and stirrings of the heart, but also a darkness in which we must trust that God has truly conquered.
Now, as I look at the people coming to church on Holy Saturday, I wonder how many of us truly live it as a time of waiting, and how many come only to have their food blessed.
The Easter Vigil: light
That night there were no people, there was no great singing, there were no hundreds of candles kindling the darkness. There were only a few persons and He: the Risen One.
And then, for the first time, it dawned on me that He truly does not need crowds in order to conquer. That His light does not depend on how many people hold candles, but on whether I allow Him to illuminate my heart.
And how is it today? The Easter Vigil: I see people rising when the priest proclaims the Resurrection, but I wonder how many of us truly rise to new life. A life in the light.
Today, as I live through the Triduum once again, those empty pews come back. The question comes back: is my heart not empty?
So I look at the Eucharist and try to see in it a gift, not an obligation. I come to church and ask myself whether I really believe that Jesus is in this Bread. I stand beneath the Cross and wonder what I would say to Jesus if it were there, then, in Jerusalem. I fall silent on Holy Saturday and learn to wait, though my heart demands immediate answers. I hear the joyful "Alleluia" and try to let this Resurrection truly change something in me.
The Paschal Triduum does not end in the church. It begins in me. And though those empty pews from years ago will (God grant) not return, the question remains the same: is my heart full of the Pasch? And your heart: is the Pasch in it?
Fr Adam Płonka
