I have fond
memories of my first Easter Vigil service. Growing up Methodist, I had attended
several Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter morning services but the Vigil
was something new for me. It was my first year of seminary and Jeremiah was
doing his student ministry at an Episcopal church by our school in New Jersey.
His priest was giving him the opportunity to chant the Exsultet and he was
nervous about it.
I walked across campus with him from the student apartments
to the darkened chapel where he practiced over and over again. To this day,
when I hear it chanted I still think back to sitting in that empty chapel and listening
as the words bounced off the large wooden cross and empty altar. The next day I
attended the service and was completely caught up in it. The dramatic fire
lighting up the pitch black space, the series of readings that layered upon one
another to build up to the dramatic moment we are now in, the loud organ and
passionate shouts of Alleluia as the big black curtain dropped and massive
amounts of lilies appeared. The joy on everyone's faces as we sang those first
Alleluias that had been buried away since Ash Wednesday. It gave me goosebumps
on my arms and tears in my eyes. The strawberries and champagne that followed
the service were also a surprise for this cradle Methodist.
While it was
all very new to me, it of course is very old to the church. The first evidence
of the Great Vigil service is from the second century in the region that is now
Turkey. In my church history class, I remember my professor detailing the way
in which the ancient church celebrated this liturgy, processing in the
candidates for baptism who proclaimed their beliefs and were celebrated as new
Christians. It is in fact one of our oldest Christian liturgies and yet it
still feels so very relevant and even at times emotional. It still speaks to us
today- in this very different time and in this very different part of the
world.
Perhaps that
is because this story that we are reenacting, retelling and recelebrating is so
very real. We all know darkness. We all know heartbreak, pain and uncertainty.
One of the
things that always strikes me on Good Friday is how normal the day is outside
of the church. Inside the church it is a dark, empty, sad space full of
mourning and loss. We read the last words of Christ and sing songs about
crucifixion and loss. We walk out in silence and some even with stomachs
growling from fasting and we contemplate the emptiness of a world without a Savior. But when we walk outside the doors it is a
normal Friday with school, work, social activities, movies to watch and tasks
to complete- you can even find Easter egg hunts and kids sitting on the laps of
giant bunnies on that day when our hearts sit in darkness.
In the same
way when tragedy strikes or when a loved one dies we experience that same
strangeness- when the mourner's world is shattered and their heart
grief-stricken but the rest of the world goes on. Cars keep going up and down
the roads, children keep laughing and the world continues to spin. It is
strange to have one reality in your heart while living in the midst of a very
different reality. To have a thick and heavy darkness inside while standing in
the sunshine next to people going about their normal days.
It is a
juxtaposition we Christians know well. We go about our normal lives and daily
routines but with this remarkable story filling our hearts, bringing us hope
even in the despair and wisdom even in uncertainty. We mark our seasons not by
the sports calendar or the sales events at the car lots, but rather by this
ancient calendar that takes us through birth, life, death and resurrection. We
believe in crazy countercultural ideas like that love is the source of all
being, that justice matters and that we should do nonsensical things like feed
the poor, clothe the naked, bring healing to the suffering and actually care
about people other than ourselves. Where widows and children have more wisdom
than rulers and things like water, bread and wine are more valuable than the
most expensive jewels.
And today we
got to participate in the miracle of new people entering this life of faith
with us, newly baptized Christians that will be nurtured by our community,
loved into faith by their parents and guided by their godparents and sponsors.
It isn't
always an easy thing, guiding people into this life of faith. In fact, I am a
godparent and often wonder how best to live into that role. I try to find ways
to teach my godchildren about the faith, give them meaningful gifts to remind
them of their faith and always make it known that I am available to talk about
anything- even doubts. But it isn't as if one can force another into believing,
or persuade someone simply by words to live into this countercultural value
system we swear to. Perhaps the best that we can do is promise to be with them
through the whole story- through the darkness and unknown and through the
resurrection and joy. And to keep reminding them of that story, keep finding
ways to whisper it into their lives- that love wins, hope is real and
resurrection will come. That the flowers that withered and died will burst
forth from the ground again, that those who suffer in pain will rise in glory,
that the sun that has set will rise again, that no matter how heavy the
darkness, how uncertain the path, how miserable the anguish … God doesn't let
go.
Thinking back
on that first Easter Vigil I experienced, the one that started with an Exsultet
chanted again and again into a dark and empty space- one of the reasons I
remember it so fondly is because that was a special place for me that I like to
remember. Part of why it is special is because it was a place where I often
felt carried in my faith by others. A good seminary experience is a time of
deep questioning, a time of picking all aspects of your faith apart, a time of
being confronted over and over again with the injustices and pains of the world,
a time for constructive arguments, life's deepest questions and brave people
sharing their doubts. It is a time to let your walls down so that you can be
shaped and molded into someone who can lead others into this life of faith. One
of the things that helped me most during that time took place every Thursday in
that chapel where I listened to Jeremiah practice his Exsultet- my fellow
students and professors who were asking those hard questions and sharing their
own pains and vulnerabilities, who were questioning and challenging- they all
knelt for the bread and the wine together every Thursday and in kneeling with
them, I knew I could get back up. I remembered the rest of the story, I
remembered and was carried by the power of faith, I was prepared for kneeling
alongside others in their darkness.
Their model of faith even in darkness, strengthened mine.
Perhaps this
is how we can be good God parents, good church members, good fellow Christians
along the journey- we can keep kneeling together, keep reaching up for the Holy
Mystery of the body and blood of Christ even in a world where that doesn't make
sense to most people. We can keep reminding each other that the dark curtain
will drop, the Alleluias will return and the lilies are just hiding behind the
altar. We keep walking this story together over and over again and praying it
into the world. So that when the tomb is empty we can see it, we can understand
it and we can shout Alleluia even when the rest of the world is just going
about their daily lives.
After all, we
baptize while it is still dark. The baptisms tonight were before the lilies
sparkled and the Alleluias rang out and the tomb was declared empty. They were
baptized into darkness, uncertainty and loss. That is faith. That is our radical
story of hope and persistent belief. Of a God who is still with us in the dark.
That is our countercultural, radical, strange, hard to explain Christian story-
that we believe even in the dark, that hope never dies, that love is stronger
than death and that faith is worth having. That is why it feels so good to
shout Alleluia, not because we don't know darkness, but because we do.
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