After a seemingly endless Lent, we find ourselves at Easter Morning. Our Gospel from John details the rapid rush of events: Jesus’ missing body, Mary Magdalene’s agitated and anxious cry of alarm, and the lumbering St. Peter’s and sprightly St. John’s (although the Evangelist humbly omits his own name) footrace to the empty tomb. And finally, the line in the text that unfailingly arrests my attention each time I ponder this passage, “Then the other disciple also went in, the one who had arrived at the tomb first, and he saw and believed.”
Let your Holy Imagination see that same John, now as a very old man recording the most significant incidents in his time with Jesus walking along dusty roads during our Lord’s earthly ministry, as he nears the end of what we call his Gospel. Imagine what he was thinking as he penned, “…he saw and believed,” knowing that his words cannot convey that earth-shaking event that changed the course of his life. Tradition says John died in Ephesus some 65 or more years after Jesus’ ascended to where he awaits us. What images did John’s reverie evoke? What emotions reawakened as he wrote? How did he perceive the transition from that critical event in his distant past through the multiple decades of his ministry and his teaching and training of early priests and bishops in the succeeding years? John was a man of the people and understood that faith spreads like the Lord taught him slowly and incrementally, “The Kingdom of Heaven is like yeast….” and “you are the salt of the earth….”. John assuredly had his memories and insights, but God graces us with our own, that like John’s unfading reminiscences, will never leave us. I have one that forever transformed my perspective of our faith and my personal ministry.
Many of us have participated in the Easter Vigil in our parishes. I sat in the pews or choir loft for many years but my first as an assisting deacon seemed miraculous to me. I processed up the central aisle carrying the (remarkably heavy) Paschal candle that had just been lit from the Easter fire blazing outside of the Church. I paused at defined intervals and chanted, “Christ be our Light!” and then ultimately reached the foot of the altar where I carefully lowered the candle and the Elect (those who would enter the Church that evening) lit their own tiny tapers. Those of you who’ve been there recall that the Elect then go back along the central aisle offering a light to congregants along the way who, in turn, ignite the candles of the folks next to them who do the same until everyone in the building holds a lit candle. So, what struck me as miraculous?
For the first time I was facing the congregation and at the start the only light to be seen was that small flickering flame far above my head atop the large candle I held. Then the flames of 15 or 20 Elect joined mine and one could finally see the vaulted ceiling. Then I watched light fan out along the pews, shadowy forms and pinpricks of light yielded to recognizable faces until the entire nave glowed to reveal hundreds of joy-filled people. And, most astonishingly of all, those 400 or so small flickers dispelled the cold that had rolled in through the open Church doors at the beginning of the procession. Light and warmth. Isn’t that the perfect metaphor for our faith? I imagine St. John as that old man penning his Gospel while reflecting on the growth of the Church, not through programs or evangelistic initiatives but, like the candles at our Easter Vigils, person to person, heart to heart… soul to soul. Which brings us to our own calling. We were all baptized to become priests, prophets, and kings. Few of us are necessarily called to formally preach to large numbers of strangers in far-flung places but all of us are commanded to share our Easter joy lighting our candle and spreading its warmth person to person, heart to heart, and soul to soul one person at a time. Let’s think about that! God’s peace, light, and warmth to us all this Easter!
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