After the Evening Mass on Holy Thursday, we stripped the altar. We took everything out of the church we could. And covered up anything we couldn’t.
No one spoke while we worked. It got quieter as people finished moving stuff. Until the only sound was the deacon’s broom as he swept.
Even that stopped. And in the silence, the empty church with its barren tabernacle hit me.
It didn’t just look empty, it felt empty. Not because all the usual things weren’t there. But because a presence was missing. He wasn’t there.