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In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
[At
the Easter Vigil:
He is risen!
He is risen indeed!
Admit
it: some of you thought we were going to read the entire Bible tonight.
This evening,
Our heavenly Father has brought us into His home, the parish church, where we
get to encounter the great mystery of His Risen Son, Our Savior Jesus Christ.
To
our catechumens and candidates, those who will be receiving the first sacraments
this evening, and to your families – a warm welcome and congratulations to you.
We have been praying for you during your long months of preparation. And God
has been with you all these years, leading you to this moment. May the joy and
peace of this Easter night be with you and rest upon you and your homes. ]
We
live in a very mystical world.
I often look at the things of nature and wonder why
things are the way they are. If I were an alien from outer space, I would find
certain things rather… peculiar. Like green grass. Why is it green? When God
made the heavens and the earth, why didn’t He make it red or purple? And given
how much grass there is, that would seem like it was a pretty important
decision. Clearly God likes that color!
Or why does helium make us sound like chipmunks? (And
if heavier air sinks and lighter air rises, then shouldn’t people in Denver
have higher voices while people in Chesterfield have lower voices?)
And I know that these are odd thoughts. But, in this
moment when the earth, who had been “groaning in labor pains” (cf Romans
8:19ff) for the redeemer, I think it important that we admit that, right now,
in this Easter celebration, we are admitting something even more peculiar—in fact,
the strangest, most “oddest”… mystery… of the world: that a person who was both God and man… died … – and then came back to life. And not only came back to
life, like a resuscitation, or died again (as would happen again to Lazarus), but
that Jesus the Son of God came back to life… glowing… filled with glory. Which
we call “The Resurrection.”
This moment is the center of earth’s history. This
is the reason why we have any hope after we die. That there is even a shred of
meaning to our suffering. That we can say our God is good and present and with
us and wanting us. And it is very odd.
We live in a very mystical world, indeed.
For me, I think of Mary Magdalene at
the tomb, sitting, weeping, wiping her tears, and then just quietly waiting,
looking for the Lord. This tomb, with the stone rolled in front, was the most
mystical place on earth. A seed had fallen to the ground and died. (Seeds are
mystical, too, you know – that the smooth, wooden seed can produce stems and
leaves and flowers and fruit. It’s as peculiar as a fuzzy chick coming from a
smooth egg). I think of Mary Magdalene sitting there, like a sunflower that
awaits the sun.
Sunflowers, when they are young, follow the sun wherever it goes, receiving it like a devoted lover. How odd it is that flowers can follow. If we are flowers in God’s garden as St. Therese once said, Mary Magdalene is the sunflower.
Going back to the tomb, in the quiet absence
of night, even before Mary was there, I picture in my imagination the darkness
of the stone in front of the tomb and then light – light emanating around the
stone like the way the sun does around the moon in an eclipse. Eclipses are
awe-filled moments. And, oddly enough, they remind me of sunflowers, too.
From this tomb, Jesus emerges, spilling light into the dark of night. Not as an idea. Not as a ghost or a spirit. But in flesh and blood and glory and power. Really real.
As a priest, I am sometimes asked: “What
makes you so certain about your religion?” I believe this faith because it is
so odd, like the odd shape of a key that magically opens a door. Things fit so
beautifully here. Take water, for example. In its natural state, water can give
you life – but oddly enough, it can also kill you. In baptism, that same water,
raised up to the supernatural, can give you eternal life and at the same time ends
the rebellion of sin and puts to death, death.
I would never have believed all of
this except for the fact that I have seen eclipses and I have seen sunflowers
and I have seen people changed by water and by blood and by faith and by this
beautiful religion we call ours.
I believe Mary Magdalene. And I believe Peter. And I
believe Thomas. I believe what they saw. I believe them in having seen and
touched and heard, even though my eyes have not yet seen.
For on that Easter night, a new day had dawned. It
was the first day of the week. The previous week, the week of all time, had
been seven days of creation. But this “First day of the week,” Easter, would
forever bring the new creation. And we call it the Eighth Day. “For Christians,
it has become the first of all days, the first of all feasts,” (CCC 2174), the
Lord’s Day, the Son’s Day. And hence the name: Sunday.
The Catechism puts in eloquently when
it says that here, today, “the first creation finds its meaning and summit in
Christ, the splendor of which surpasses that of the first creation” (cf CCC
349).
This is all to say, if we find the world marvelous in its beauty, from sunsets and beaches to mountains and star gazing, even more glorious is our redemption in Christ for whom all the world was waiting.
What possibly can our response be to this mystical
moment?
Again, I think of Mary Magdalene. And
the word that comes to my mind when I think of her is this: Devotion.
Devotion comes from the Latin, “devotio,” which means to be “vowed.” Promised. Given over to forever. It’s Mary Magdalene at the tomb. Or Peter when he goes to Rome and dies like Christ on a Cross. Devotion.
Devotion expresses itself in
dedication, commitment, sacrifice. To keep our vows, our baptismal promises. Sundays
are no longer mine, but the Lord’s. And not just Sunday, but every moment,
following the Son wherever He goes.
And I follow Him because I have met Him here, the God who loves me. Who has entered into suffering and knows its pain and even its death. I follow Him because He tells me I am known and I am wanted. It is here, before Him, that my life has purpose and direction. Where I am called not simply to be good and kind, but where my natural life is raised to the supernatural: for I eat of His body, blood, soul, … and divinity. It is mysterious and mystical and at times too much to take in, but I am surrounded by saints who have walked such paths – saints who, like Mary Magdalene, were once sinners.
I love the mountains. I love poetry.
But nothing brings me greater healing and a greater sense of life than to be
with Him in the Eucharist. I love to console Him, as odd as that may sound,
especially here at the altar, when I lift Him up at the altar and say to Him in
secret, “Lord, I want to receive any of those graces that others may reject
right now, that I may give those graces to them through my life.”
I am made for this. You are made for this. Every human being
every made is made for this. For Him!
And I find it lovely that, when Sunday
Mass is over, He waits for me in the adoration chapel, kept in a
peculiar-looking container called a monstrance (latin: to show) which has the
shape that has, oddly enough, reminded me of an eclipse or a sunflower.
And sunflowers, as they grow very old,
you may find it cool to know, no longer follow the sun as it treks across the
sky. They simply point east: to the rising sun. Ad orientem. To the east. The
direction of dawn, of a new day, of Christ’s coming again. As we get older, we hope, we long just to be forever with Him in heaven.
I find in all of this something beautiful
and mysterious, a secret that saints and mystics and poets – and anyone who
dares take it in – changes the drear of our days into the splendor of heaven. The Resurrection truly brings us into a new life!
EASTER - by Joyce Kilmer
The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue
wings
The happy earth looks at
the sky
And sings.
+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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