Christ Our Light

Christ Our Light

The highlight of the liturgical year isn't Christmas but Easter. Its importance is shown by the fact that, liturgically, Easter Day lasts a week. The highlight of Easter, the exact pinnacle of the story of salvation, comes at the very beginning of that celebration, with the Easter Vigil. Things have been building up to it for the forty days of Lent. The word "Alleluia" has not been heard or spoken in any liturgical prayer since Mardi Gras (literally, "Fat Tuesday") gave way to Ash Wednesday, reminding us that we human beings can't even say "Praise the Lord" under our own power. Then the "Triduum" or "Three Days" beginning with the evening of Holy Thursday raise the intensity another notch. Mass is never celebrated on Good Friday (there are Good Friday services, but not Mass); this puts us alongside the first disciples in their grief at the loss of Jesus. It also leads into Holy Saturday, the quietest day of the liturgical year; Jesus is still in the tomb, and the Church gives us a second day without Mass, this time even without services. These two days are the only time during the year that you won't find Mass being celebrated somewhere in the world.

Thanks to our Jewish liturgical ancestors, important days begin with the "evening before" (the reason behind Saturday evening Mass "counting" for Sunday - it is Sunday). This practice gives us the phenomenon of vigils, which originally did last all night. In some communities of religious, who don't have to worry about cranky kids, the Easter Vigil still does. I first began attending the Easter Vigil in the early 1970's, shortly after Vatican II had breathed life back into the sadly forgotten celebration, and the starting time was set so that the "Glory to God" of the Mass began exactly at midnight (after close to two hours of Scripture readings and psalms taking us through the entire history of salvation). Since then, the Easter vigil has become more of a parish-wide event - which is a good thing - so it starts earlier in the evening and isn't as long as it used to be (even though all of those Scripture readings are still "in the book" for any parish that wants to use them, virtually all of them use only the few most important ones). As someone who still doesn't have to worry about cranky kids, this is an emotional disappointment to me, because it's more difficult for me to feel I'm present at the Resurrection at 8:00 p.m. on Holy Saturday than at midnight or after on Easter Sunday. But, as always, whether or not I feel something has nothing to do with its truth, and the Easter Vigil is still the most primal event of the liturgical year, even for me.

Primal? Yes, in the sense of connection with the deepest mystery of Christian faith. Also in the sense of unity with the earliest Christians who also gathered on this night to wait and pray and baptize. Also in the sense of gut-level human experience.

Like any liturgical celebration, you can have well-done Easter vigils and not-so-well-done Easter vigils. Parishes with the good fortune to have (and the wisdom to use) excellent singers and musicians (especially, God be praised, a deacon with a good singing voice!), Scripture readers who have the gift of truly proclaiming the Word of God so that we hear it as that, and a liturgy committee whose members understand and highlight the meaning of it all, can "put on" an Easter Vigil that's the experience of a lifetime. But even parishes without those special gifts will be following the same liturgy and proclaiming the same truths and - most importantly - walking in the same grass of the Resurrection as those that have vigils that are more spectacular according to a human critique.

But if you follow the link given in the previous paragraph, you'll be reminded that Catholics believe we become present to Christ's death and resurrection each time Mass is celebrated. Do we become more present to that event at the Easter vigil than we did, say, on the second Sunday of last July, or one of those weekdays that I rushed-over-to-Sacred-Heart-after-work-to-catch-5:15-Mass? When you're talking about an infinite mystery, can there be more? No, not from the mystery's (that is, from God's) point of view. But from the vantage point of our finite human minds, yes, there can, because we can't take in everything at once. After all, my finite human mind can't even entirely take in the mystery of myself, or of any other human being. That's why we celebrate birthdays (and Mother's Day, Father's Day, wedding anniversaries...): to remind ourselves that someone who is special to us every day is special, because we have the unfortunate habit of taking everyday realities for granted if we don't pay extra attention to them at times. That's also the purpose behind the annual cycle of the liturgy. (Those Christians who omit birthday and holiday celebrations from their lives because of St. Paul's statement that no day is more important than any other day, are a reminder to the rest of us that the other side of this paradox is also true - at all times.)

At every Mass, we ask the saints and angels to join us in praising God. At the Easter vigil, we hear that invitation more intensely as the deacon intones from the back of a darkened Church, "Come, choirs of angels..." At every Mass, we say, "Christ has died, Christ is risen..." or its equivalent. But since we do say it at every Mass, we can start taking its meaning for granted. It's harder to do that as the deacon proclaims "Christ our Lord has risen!" as if we're present at the event (which, of course, we are, but how often do we forget that?). Every moment of our existence we can respond to the fact that Christ is our Light by singing "Thanks be to God," but as one candle is lit in the still-dark church, we can, perhaps, focus on that truth more than we usually do.

Since we're talking about Catholics, and a celebration that came into being when few people could read, even these more intense words can't match the visceral effect of the non-verbals, as the light of one candle becomes the light of many candles - as it becomes the light of the candle I'm holding as the person on my right uses their candle to light mine, and I turn to pass the same light to the candle being held by the person on my left - but still, in essence, remains but one light, as does the One Light, for each of us every day, a constant truth that we need to be reminded of. That's why it's essential that the light of each candle in the church comes ultimately from the flame of that first candle that was lit in the darkness and spreads from it, as the deacon stops several times on his way down the aisle toward the front of the church to proclaim "Christ, our Light" and to give the people on the ends of the pews nearest him a moment to light their candles from it, so that the one light can be passed from neighbor to neighbor, until he reaches the front of the church, now filled with light, and we say/sing/shout for the first time in over a month, "Alleluia!" Christ our Lord is risen!

And that's just the first few minutes. And I have tears in my eyes just writing about it. Because of what we call "liturgy," this same thing is happening on the evening of Holy Saturday in Catholic churches all over the world. It does, in deed and truth, "keep us together."

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	Christ Our Light The highlight of the liturgical year isn't Christmas but Easter. Its importance is shown by the fact that, liturgically, Easter Day lasts a week. The highlight of Easter, the exact pinnacle of the story of salvation, comes at the very beginning of that celebration, with the Easter Vigil. Things have been building up to it for the forty days of Lent. The word "Alleluia" has not been heard or spoken in any liturgical prayer since Mardi Gras (literally, "Fat Tuesday") gave way to Ash Wednesday, reminding us that we human beings can't even say "Praise the Lord" under our own power. Then the "Triduum" or "Three Days" beginning with the evening of Holy Thursday raise the intensity another notch. Mass is never celebrated on Good Friday (there are Good Friday services, but not Mass); this puts us alongside the first disciples in their grief at the loss of Jesus. It also leads into Holy Saturday, the quietest day of the liturgical year; Jesus is still in the tomb, and the Church gives us a second day without Mass, this time even without services. These two days are the only time during the year that you won't find Mass being celebrated somewhere in the world. Thanks to our Jewish liturgical ancestors, important days begin with the "evening before" (the reason behind Saturday evening Mass "counting" for Sunday - it is Sunday). This practice gives us the phenomenon of vigils, which originally did last all night. In some communities of religious, who don't have to worry about cranky kids, the Easter Vigil still does. I first began attending the Easter Vigil in the early 1970's, shortly after Vatican II had breathed life back into the sadly forgotten celebration, and the starting time was set so that the "Glory to God" of the Mass began exactly at midnight (after close to two hours of Scripture readings and psalms taking us through the entire history of salvation). Since then, the Easter vigil has become more of a parish-wide event - which is a good thing - so it starts earlier in the evening and isn't as long as it used to be (even though all of those Scripture readings are still "in the book" for any parish that wants to use them, virtually all of them use only the few most important ones). As someone who still doesn't have to worry about cranky kids, this is an emotional disappointment to me, because it's more difficult for me to feel I'm present at the Resurrection at 8:00 p.m. on Holy Saturday than at midnight or after on Easter Sunday. But, as always, whether or not I feel something has nothing to do with its truth, and the Easter Vigil is still the most primal event of the liturgical year, even for me. Primal? Yes, in the sense of connection with the deepest mystery of Christian faith. Also in the sense of unity with the earliest Christians who also gathered on this night to wait and pray and baptize. Also in the sense of gut-level human experience. Like any liturgical celebration, you can have well-done Easter vigils and not-so-well-done Easter vigils. Parishes with the good fortune to have (and the wisdom to use) excellent singers and musicians (especially, God be praised, a deacon with a good singing voice!), Scripture readers who have the gift of truly proclaiming the Word of God so that we hear it as that, and a liturgy committee whose members understand and highlight the meaning of it all, can "put on" an Easter Vigil that's the experience of a lifetime. But even parishes without those special gifts will be following the same liturgy and proclaiming the same truths and - most importantly - walking in the same grass of the Resurrection as those that have vigils that are more spectacular according to a human critique. But if you follow the link given in the previous paragraph, you'll be reminded that Catholics believe we become present to Christ's death and resurrection each time Mass is celebrated. Do we become more present to that event at the Easter vigil than we did, say, on the second Sunday of last July, or one of those weekdays that I rushed-over-to-Sacred-Heart-after-work-to-catch-5:15-Mass? When you're talking about an infinite mystery, can there be more? No, not from the mystery's (that is, from God's) point of view. But from the vantage point of our finite human minds, yes, there can, because we can't take in everything at once. After all, my finite human mind can't even entirely take in the mystery of myself, or of any other human being. That's why we celebrate birthdays (and Mother's Day, Father's Day, wedding anniversaries...): to remind ourselves that someone who is special to us every day is special, because we have the unfortunate habit of taking everyday realities for granted if we don't pay extra attention to them at times. That's also the purpose behind the annual cycle of the liturgy. (Those Christians who omit birthday and holiday celebrations from their lives because of St. Paul's statement that no day is more important than any other day, are a reminder to the rest of us that the other side of this paradox is also true - at all times.) At every Mass, we ask the saints and angels to join us in praising God. At the Easter vigil, we hear that invitation more intensely as the deacon intones from the back of a darkened Church, "Come, choirs of angels..." At every Mass, we say, "Christ has died, Christ is risen..." or its equivalent. But since we do say it at every Mass, we can start taking its meaning for granted. It's harder to do that as the deacon proclaims "Christ our Lord has risen!" as if we're present at the event (which, of course, we are, but how often do we forget that?). Every moment of our existence we can respond to the fact that Christ is our Light by singing "Thanks be to God," but as one candle is lit in the still-dark church, we can, perhaps, focus on that truth more than we usually do. Since we're talking about Catholics, and a celebration that came into being when few people could read, even these more intense words can't match the visceral effect of the non-verbals, as the light of one candle becomes the light of many candles - as it becomes the light of the candle I'm holding as the person on my right uses their candle to light mine, and I turn to pass the same light to the candle being held by the person on my left - but still, in essence, remains but one light, as does the One Light, for each of us every day, a constant truth that we need to be reminded of. That's why it's essential that the light of each candle in the church comes ultimately from the flame of that first candle that was lit in the darkness and spreads from it, as the deacon stops several times on his way down the aisle toward the front of the church to proclaim "Christ, our Light" and to give the people on the ends of the pews nearest him a moment to light their candles from it, so that the one light can be passed from neighbor to neighbor, until he reaches the front of the church, now filled with light, and we say/sing/shout for the first time in over a month, "Alleluia!" Christ our Lord is risen! And that's just the first few minutes. And I have tears in my eyes just writing about it. Because of what we call "liturgy," this same thing is happening on the evening of Holy Saturday in Catholic churches all over the world. It does, in deed and truth, "keep us together." Back to main essay