EASTER 7

(Sunday after the Ascension)  

Cathedral of All Saints, Albany, New York

May 21, 2023

 

Acts 1:6-14

 

“Then they returned to Jerusalem … and when they had entered, they went up to the upper room where they were staying …”

 

If you visit Jerusalem, one of the places you can see is the Cenacle or Upper Room on Mount Zion, just outside the old city walls. On the ground floor is the site venerated by Jews as the tomb of King David. Destroyed and rebuilt several times, the present gothic structure dates from the twelfth century. But still, a church has stood on the site since at least the fourth century, when it was known as the Church of the Holy Apostles. And there’s no reason to suppose why it may not be the location mentioned in today’s reading from Acts where the apostles stayed in Jerusalem during the days of our Lord’s death, Resurrection, and Ascension.

 

Tradition identifies the Cenacle or Upper Room as the location of the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday, at least two of our Lord’s Resurrection appearances to his disciples, and the descent of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost – which we shall celebrate a week from today.  What sort of place, then, was this Upper Room?

In biblical Palestine, houses were generally built one story high, with flat roofs accessible by exterior staircases. The roof was the location of many and varied activities. During the heat of summer, people would often sleep on the roof where it was cooler than in the enclosed spaces below. Sometimes, also, people would pitch tents on their roofs; those with larger houses might even erect makeshift shelters. Eventually these light structures became in effect second stories. When guests came to stay, they might literally be “put up” in one of these dwellings, where the outside staircase allowed them free access. And hosting a meal or party, one might seat one’s guests upstairs in one of these rooftop pavilions.

 

It seems likely, then, that when our Lord and his disciples came to Jerusalem, they received guest accommodation in just such a space. The room must have been fairly large to accommodate them all, as well as to provide the setting for the Last Supper. According to Catholic tradition, moreover, the upper room or cenacle was, in effect, the first Christian Church. 

 

(By the way, the word “cenacle” comes from the Latin cenaculum, which means something like “dining room” or “dining hall”; and my Latin dictionary notes that in ancient Rome such rooms were usually located in the upper floors of houses.)

In our reading from Acts, Luke records that after our Lord’s Ascension the eleven apostles returned to the upper room; and, after listing them by name, he adds: “All these with one accord devoted themselves to prayer, together with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with his brothers.” Before his Ascension, Jesus told the apostles that after the Holy Spirit would come upon them, they’d be his witnesses in Jerusalem, in Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. But in the meantime, they must remain in the city until they’re clothed with power from on high. 

 

Thus, the interval between the Ascension and Pentecost becomes a time of waiting and prayer. The apostles have just completed one phase of activity – of being with the risen Lord and of receiving his teaching and instruction for the forty days after his Resurrection. Now, they’re about to embark upon a whole new phase, namely their mission as the Church to the world, impelled and empowered by the Holy Spirit. But Pentecost doesn’t happen right away. There’s an in-between time: a time, perhaps, to try to begin to absorb all that’s happened, and to get ready as far as humanly possible for what comes next.

Notice also the presence of the Blessed Virgin Mary with the apostles during this time of waiting. Yesterday, the Saturday after the Ascension, is kept in some places as the Feast of Our Lady Queen of Apostles. This title invokes the image of Mary praying together with the apostles in the upper room. According to Catholic tradition, our Lady’s prayers during this period were instrumental in obtaining for the apostles the graces that they would receive from the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.

 

The apostles gather in the upper room to watch, wait, prepare, and pray for the coming of the Holy Spirit. The upper room thus symbolizes for us all the in-between times in our lives, the times of waiting and preparation. Today marks my thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, and two weeks from tomorrow marks the thirtieth anniversary of my ordination to the priesthood. Before ordination, bishops, priests, and deacons often undertake a silent retreat – a time to go apart to reflect and pray in preparation for receiving the Holy Spirit’s gifts for ordained ministry. The Church’s tradition similarly recommends such a time apart for those about to receive the other sacraments of initiation and vocation: namely, Baptism, Confirmation, and Matrimony. 

By extension of the same principle, it’s not a bad idea at the times of transition in our lives, such as preparing to move, graduate, take on a new job, or retire. In all these ways, we follow the example of the apostles who retreated to the upper room for a season of prayer before commencing their mission as the Church.

 

Just as the Upper Room became the first Christian church, so this Cathedral of All Saints is is an Upper Room for all who gather here: the place where we share the sacred meal that Christ instituted at the Last Supper; the place where we meet the risen Lord in his Word and Sacraments; the place where the Holy Spirit descends to empower us for Christ’s mission in the world. One of my favorite hymns is number 305: “Come risen Lord, and deign to be our guest.” Its second verse begins: “We meet as in that upper room they met …” We do well, then, always to be faithful in returning here, to this upper room, so that like Our Lady and the apostles we may devote ourselves to prayer for the coming of the Holy Spirit.

 

SIXTH SUNDAY OF EASTER, YEAR A

May 14, 2023

Christ Episcopal Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

 

John 15:1-8

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus uses some vivid images to describe himself. “I am the bread of life.” “I am the light of the world.” “I am the Good Shepherd.” But of all these images, none conveys the sheer intimacy, the mutual indwelling, between Christ and the members of his Church as effectively as that from today’s Gospel: “I am the vine, you are the branches.”

 

And Jesus makes three points about the vine and the branches. First, to stay alive, the branches must remain connected to the vine. Second, the branches must bear fruit. And, third, in order to bear the maximum amount of fruit, the branches must be pruned. Let’s look at each of these three points in turn. 

 

First, the branches must abide in the vine. Under the hot Middle Eastern sun, a branch that gets cut off withers and dies in a matter of minutes. In the same way, we must remain connected to Jesus as the source of our life.

 

But this connection is not an individual matter. In a grapevine, all the branches run together—interweaving, intertwining, and encircling one another until they’re almost indistinguishable.

 

So, to abide in Christ means to be a member of the Church. And this image of the vine and its branches depicts the Church as an organism of inter‑connected and interdependent members, with Christ the source of their life, strength, and fruitfulness.

 

As Christians we abide in Christ first and foremost by our faithful participation in the worshipping community. Just as the branches draw their vitality and strength from the vine, so we draw our sustenance and nourishment from the grace of Word and Sacrament that flows to us through our participation in the Church’s worship.

 

The second point is that the branches must bear fruit. They can’t just sop up nutrients from the vine just to hang on and stay alive. They’re expected to flower and be productive.

 

I once came across the following description of how a grapevine grows through the different seasons of the year:

 

“In winter the vine is pruned back to its main, twisted vine stock. The main stock often appears gnarled and strong. In spring, the vine is transformed into a hub of activity. New branches and new shoots spring from the vine with incredible speed and energy. The new shoots of the vine can grow several feet in a period of a few weeks. The image is one of vitality and energy . . .

 

“As summer turns to autumn and the fruit begins to ripen, the vine becomes heavy with grape clusters hanging in the sun. The form of the grape clusters, their color and very number convey a powerful image of life and fruitfulness.”

 

Our Catholic Christian spiritual tradition has always maintained that the primary test of our spiritual life is the fruit that it brings forth in our lives.

 

This fruit can take many different forms: calling someone you haven’t seen at church for a while, taking a casserole to a house where someone is sick, or inviting a lonely person to dinner. Again, the fruit we bring forth may be simply doing our best to fulfill cheerfully the routines of our daily responsibilities: getting to work on time, showing up for our appointments, completing our assignments, cleaning up after dinner, paying the bills.

 

But in the deepest sense of all, the fruit of our relationship with Christ manifests itself in the type of people we become, as reflected in the attitudes, dispositions, and virtues that mark the development of our character over the years. The fruit of the Spirit, says St. Paul in his Letter to the Galatians, is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, fidelity, gentleness, and self-control.” By nurturing our vital union with Christ in his Church, we gradually bring forth this fruit in our lives.

 

The third point, however, is that in order to bring forth the most fruit possible, the branches must be pruned. To maximize the yield from a grapevine, the vinedresser is continually cutting off dead and unproductive branches to channel the vine’s life towards the developing grapes.

 

Pruning can be a deceptive operation. A couple of years ago, in my previous parish, the Buildings and Grounds Committee cut some hedges on the church property down from a height of around eight or nine feet down to around three or four feet. Most of the leafy parts of the branches were cut away, leaving only sorry-looking clumps of bare sticks poking in the air with almost no green left. Several people were distressed and angry, and accused us of killing the hedges. But within a month or so, the branches had sprouted hundreds of shoots studded with thousands of buds of new leaves. And so, as a result of this pruning, the hedge ultimately grew healthier, thicker, and greener than ever.

 

If branches could feel pain, however, they’d find pruning quite a painful operation. And if they could think, they’d probably ask: “Why is this happening to me? I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t deserve this.” What the branches don’t realize is that ultimately the pruning strengthens them and makes them even more productive and fruitful than before.

 

Likewise, in our lives there may well be times when we feel like we’re being cut back and pruned – and it hurts! But whatever setbacks or pain we may suffer, in the end we too emerge strengthened and fortified, provided that we maintain our vital union with Christ in the fellowship of his Body, nourished and sustained by the grace of his Sacraments.

 

So, this morning, we’re invited each of us to abide in Christ specifically by renewing our commitment to the life and worship of this parish. Christ is the vine and we are the branches; and if we abide in him, then we shall continue to bear good fruit in his Name, in the weeks, months, and years to come.

FIFTH SUNDAY OF EASTER, YEAR A

May 7, 2023

Christ Episcopal Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

Acts 17:1-15

Psalm 66:1-8

I Peter 2:1-10

John 14:1-14

 

Our Lord makes a bold and perhaps even audacious claim in today’s Gospel: “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No-one comes to the Father but by me.” 

 

The Collect for the Fifth Sunday of Easter takes up the theme: “O Almighty God, whom truly to know is everlasting life: Grant us so perfectly to know thy Son Jesus Christ to be the way, the truth, and the life, that we may steadfastly follow his steps in the way that leadeth to eternal life …” The Collect affirms, first, that eternal life comes from the true knowledge of God; and second, that it’s in Jesus Christ that such true knowledge is to be found.

 

Notice also that Jesus doesn’t merely say that he shows us the way, or that he teaches us the truth by which we may attain eternal life for ourselves. Rather, he is himself the way, the truth, and the life. Our goal is eternal life through union with him. And as we enter into the process of being united with him, we discover that we’re already following his way, knowing his truth, and sharing his life.

 

Some readers of this Gospel passage become distressed at what seems to them its exclusionary implications. If no-one can come to the Father but by Jesus, then does that mean that those who do not know Jesus are thereby excluded from access to God? I don’t think that necessarily follows at all. 

 

Indeed, it could be argued that members of other religions or none who catch authentic glimpses of God’s way, truth, and life are thereby catching glimpses of Jesus implicitly if not explicitly. It’s not up to us to judge whether or how God will bring them salvation in the end. One of the distinctive features of yesterday morning’s coronation service was the intentional participation of representatives of the different faiths of people in the United Kingdom, even while King Charles swore to preserve and defend the faith of the Church of England as by law established.

 

But I digress. The question of what happens to those who don’t know Christ is really one that this Gospel text neither asks nor attempts to answer. Instead, Jesus is speaking words of comfort and reassurance to his disciples in view of his coming departure from them. Because they have seen and heard him in the flesh, they know him. And for all of us who know him and believe in him, he is the bearer of God’s way, God’s truth, and God’s life. Moreover, this saving faith is something that we’re called not only to savor and treasure, but also to share with any and all who are able to receive it.

 

So, in today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles, we encounter Paul and Silas preaching the Gospel of Christ’s death and resurrection to members of the synagogues in the cities of Thessalonica and Beroea in what is today northern Greece: “And Paul went in, as was his custom, and for three weeks he argued with them from the scriptures, explaining and proving that it was necessary for the Messiah to suffer and to rise from the dead, and saying, ‘This Jesus, whom I proclaim to you, is the Messiah.’ … Many of them therefore believed, with not a few Greek women of high standing as well as men.”

 

Paul and his fellow missionaries are willing to travel to the ends of the earth, and undergo enormous hardships and dangers, to share the good news with all peoples everywhere that Christ is the way, the truth, and the life. And so, Paul’s success in winning new believers to Christ in foreign lands fulfills the words of Psalm 66: “Be joyful in God, all you lands … Bless our God, you peoples, make the voice of his praise to be heard.”

 

We know that those who heard the apostolic preaching and believed the good news typically responded by accepting the invitation to be baptized and thus incorporated into the fellowship of Christ’s Body, the Church. And today’s Epistle reading from the First Letter of Peter describes in wonderful imagery the consequences of baptism. Indeed, some New Testament scholars speculate that First Peter incorporates the text of a sermon originally preached to newly baptized converts to the faith.

 

Thus, Peter exhorts the newly baptized, “like newborn babes,” to long for the “pure spiritual milk” of sound teaching by which they’ll grow into their new identity as Christians, for they “have tasted of the kindness of the Lord”—almost certainly an allusion to their having received Holy Communion for the first time following their baptism. 

 

The letter goes on to offer a marvelous description of our calling as baptized Christians: We are to be “built like living stones into a spiritual house, a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices to God through Christ Jesus.” We are “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, that [we] may declare the wonderful deeds of him who called [us] out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

 

All this follows from knowing Jesus as the way, the truth, and the life. So, we have cause for rejoicing and celebration. As Jesus reassures us, “Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me.” Having been baptized into Christ, we don’t need to find the way because we’re already on the way; we don’t need to seek the truth because we already know him who is the truth; and we don’t need to strive for eternal life because that life is already ours in him who is himself the way, the truth, and the life. 

EASTER 4, YEAR A

April 30, 2023

Christ Episcopal Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

John 1:1-10

 

On the Fourth Sunday of the Easter Season, the Gospel reading is always taken from the tenth chapter of Saint John, in which the dominant image is the Good Shepherd. In the particular passage appointed for today in the three-year lectionary, however, Our Lord nowhere explicitly says, “I am the good shepherd.” For that we have to wait until next year. Instead, this year, he says something curious, “I am the door of the sheep.” An equally good translation might be, “I am the gate of the sheep.”

 

That’s a rather odd image. What does our Lord mean by likening himself to a sheep gate? “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” 

 

The picture here is one of a first century Palestinian sheepfold. Imagine a great circular enclosure with walls built of loose stones, with a single opening to go in or out. The opening is sealed by a primitive retractable barrier, made perhaps of planks of wood or even just sticks. In the morning, this gate is opened, and the sheep follow their shepherd out to the pastures where they can graze, and streams of running water where they can drink. In the evening, the sheep follow their shepherd back in through the gate, which is then closed for the night to protect them from predators, both animal and human, as they sleep.

 

The gate of the sheep is thus the portal between the safety of the fold and the life and freedom of the wider world. If the gate doesn’t open to let the sheep out in the morning, they’ll eventually die of thirst and starvation cooped up in the fold. Conversely, if the gate doesn’t open to let the sheep back into the fold in the evening, and then close securely behind them, then they’ll become vulnerable to attack. The sheep find life and salvation, then, not just within the sheepfold, and not just out in the pastures, but rather in the constant movement back and forth by way of the gate.

 

People in the ancient world knew all about such gates. Most cities and towns were enclosed within walls, in which a gate or perhaps several gates provided passage in and out. These city gates would be open during the day but then closed at night so that the inhabitants within could sleep securely. When a hostile army approached, the gates would be shut. Sturdy gates and strong walls promised effective defense. But, if the enemy laid siege to the city, then the gates might not be opened for months or even years to come. The city walls then would become prison walls, and the inhabitants would begin to die of starvation and disease.

 

Think for a moment of the role of doors and gates in our lives today. Most of us are fortunate enough to live in houses or apartments secured by doors that we can open and shut and lock as we please. These doors function as they’re supposed to when they let us come and go at will. The results can be disastrous when they don’t.

 

A few years ago, I went outside without either my keys or my cell phone. Unthinkingly, I pulled the door shut behind me, and suddenly found myself locked out with no-one home, and no way to get into my car or back into my house. So, the door – normally the means of entry into my home – had become instead an insuperable barrier. Eventually, I rang a neighbor’s doorbell to get access to a telephone to call for help. It was not a pleasant experience. On the other hand, doors that fail to open when people need to get out quickly – say, in the event of a fire – can turn a building into a deathtrap.

 

Much Christian iconography and devotion depicts Christ as the one who opens doors. One ancient tradition holds that in the interval between his death and Resurrection Christ broke open the gates of hell to set free the departed souls there held captive. Another image portrays Christ as opening the gates of heaven to us. At the end of the New Testament, the Revelation to Saint John describes the gates of the New Jerusalem as always open; by day or night they are never shut – an image of a world where threats to our safety and security are nonexistent.

 

But, to return to more mundane doors, aside from letting us in and out, the entryways of our homes mark the threshold between private space and public space. For most of us, life is good when we’re able to move freely back and forth between these two spheres. The tragedy of homelessness is to have no choice but to spend all one’s time out in public, with no private spaces behind closed doors to call one’s own. Conversely, the tragedy of becoming a recluse is to live all one’s life behind closed doors, never venturing forth into the sunlight of public places and the warmth of human fellowship. 

 

And then there are church doors. Just as the doors of our homes mark the threshold between public space and private space, so the doors of our churches mark an analogous passage between sacred space and secular space –between the “in here” of a building set apart for the worship of God and the “out there” of the wider secular world where we carry out so much of the daily business of our lives.

 

So, if we think of the church as a sheepfold, then what might it mean for Christ to call himself the gate or the door? Well, we enter by him, and we exit by him. Unlike the thief, who comes to steal and kill and destroy, we enter in his Name to join in the worship of Almighty God. And then we exit in his Name to do his work in the world. He is both the way in and the way out.

 

If Christ is the gate, then it’s always a mistake to think that we find him only in here or only out there. When we’re out in the wider secular world, he beckons us to come back inside, to take our rest and renew our strength. He unfailingly opens to all who want to be part of his flock. Here we encounter him in worship, Word, and Sacrament. But then, he inevitably sends us back out again to do his work in the world. And there we encounter him among our neighbors and coworkers, friends and strangers—and, above all, in the faces of those whom we’re called to serve in his Name: those who are sick, hungry, homeless, or imprisoned. And so, we find our life and salvation neither exclusively in the sacred space of the church, nor exclusively in the secular space of the wider world, but rather in the continual transitioning back and forth between the two – coming in and going out by way of him who is the gate. 

EASTER DAY

Sunday 9 April 2023

Christ Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

John 20:1-18

 

The Church’s faith in the bodily Resurrection of Jesus Christ hinges upon two items of evidence attested in the New Testament (and a third, about which I will say more presently). The first item is the empty tomb. The second is the series of the appearances of the risen Christ to women and the disciples beginning on the first Easter Day.

 

These New Testament accounts are remarkably spare and restrained. Nowhere do they attempt to describe what happened inside the tomb when Jesus came back to life. They confine themselves simply to the eyewitness testimony of those who were there that morning on the first day of the week, and in the days and weeks following: the empty tomb and the appearances of the Risen One.

Neither piece of evidence signifies that much on its own. An empty tomb by itself could result from the body being stolen or hidden, just as Mary Magdalene supposes in the Gospel we’ve just heard. And appearances of a dead person to the living were not all that uncommon in the ancient world – just as some would argue that they’re not that uncommon today either. Over the years, a number of people, both parishioners and friends, have told me about departed loved ones appearing and speaking with them in the days following the death and burial. Ghosts, spirits, hallucinations, or over-active imaginations? You decide.

 

No, it’s the combination of the two, the empty tomb and the bodily resurrection appearances, that affords the strongest evidence that something utterly unique and unprecedented happened that first Easter morning. And the Gospel reading from John, traditionally appointed for the principal Mass of Easter Day, explicitly brings out both these elements in wonderful detail: the tomb is found empty; the Risen Lord appears to Mary Magdalene.

Part of the beauty of John’s account is the way he describes the respective responses of the three principal characters: Peter, the Beloved Disciple, and Mary Magdalene. Before dawn, while it’s still dark, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb, finds the stone rolled away, and the interior empty. She runs to tell Peter and the other disciple, whom Jesus loved. This other disciple is generally believed to be John, the author of this Gospel, so this really does present itself as an eyewitness account. 

 

Peter and the Beloved Disciple run to the tomb. John is probably younger and in better physical shape than Peter, so he gets there first, but he doesn’t go in – perhaps out of deference to Peter’s position of leadership. When Peter arrives, they both go in. At this point, John’s description really does suggest eyewitness testimony: the linen cloths are lying there, and the linen napkin which had covered the Lord’s head is rolled up separately in a place by itself: not the sorts of details that are likely to be made up.

 

John does not explicitly tell us Peter’s reaction. But Peter seems to take it all in, not knowing what to think for the time being. By contrast, the Beloved Disciple sees and believes. Neither of them yet know the scriptural prophecies foretelling that the Son of God must die and rise again. But the Beloved Disciple—that is, John himself—has an almost mystical intuition that if Jesus isn’t here, he must be alive. Then, having seen all that there is to see, the two disciples return to their homes.

 

I’ll wager that some of us here today are more like Peter, and others more like John. Some come to church, listen to the biblical stories, take them all in, and don’t know what to think. The jury is still out. Others have no difficulty hearing and believing. Notice that John doesn’t say that either response is better than the other. He simply notes them both and moves on with the story.

 

Mary Magdalene doesn’t return home, however, but remains outside the tomb, weeping. Unlike Peter and the Beloved Disciple, she thinks she knows exactly what’s happened: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” And even when she encounters two angels inside the tomb who ask her why she’s weeping, she persists: “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When Jesus appears and asks why she’s weeping and whom she seeks, she doesn’t recognize him. Supposing that he’s the gardener, she pleads, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

 

It’s only when he addresses her by name that the realization dawns on her. The penny drops. We can only imagine her joy as she exclaims, “Rabboni! Teacher!” Down through the centuries, commentators have spilled much ink on the meaning of the Lord’s mysterious words, “Do not hold me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father …” But at least part of their meaning is that the Jesus Mary Magdalene has been seeking is Jesus as he was, the Jesus who died, the corpse for whom she wanted to complete the rites of burial. He exhorts her to let go of all that. Instead of trying to hold on to the past, her mission now is redirected to the future: to go and tell the disciples what she’s seen and heard; bear witness to the Lord’s Resurrection.

 

And again, I’ll wager that Mary’s experience exemplifies the pattern for many of us. C. S. Lewis writes somewhere that “humanity’s search for God” – the topic of innumerable lectures, articles, and books – is a bit like the mouse’s search for the cat. That is, it gets things completely the wrong way round. We may search for God and God’s truth all we want, but ultimately the end of our quest comes not when we find God but when God finds us, calls us by name, and gives us some task or mission to fulfill during our earthly life. This was certainly my experience when I came to faith in Christ: not one of finding God, but of being found by him. It’s a little unnerving when one realizes that one isn’t nearly as much in control of one’s life as one thought.

 

And so, the third piece of evidence supporting the Church’s faith in the Resurrection – after the eyewitness accounts of empty tomb and the Risen One’s appearances – is the difference it makes in our own lives here and now. I believe in the Resurrection of Christ because I encounter the Risen Jesus here, in the life of his Church, in his Word and Sacraments, and not least, in the faces of his faithful people. The Church’s Easter proclamation is that Christ is alive. And as we seek him, he will find us.

THE GREAT VIGIL OF EASTER

April 8, 2023

Christ Episcopal Church, Woodbury, N. J.

 

 

The Easter Vigil is not only, in my opinion, the most exciting and powerful service of the entire Church year, but also one of the most ancient Christian liturgies we have on record. By the third century it was firmly established in many places as the Church’s annual occasion of administering Holy Baptism. While practices varied from place to place, the typical pattern was for adult converts to undertake a period of preparation for baptism lasting as long as three years or more. During this period, they were called catechumens. The final forty days before Easter – which gradually evolved into the season of Lent – comprised intensive instruction in the essentials of the faith, as well as fasting and prayer undertaken by the whole Church together with and on behalf of the catechumens.

 

Finally, between sunset and sunrise on Easter Eve, a long vigil service would take place, lasting many hours. (What we’re doing here this evening is a highly abbreviated version of that.) Down through the centuries, various ceremonies evolved to punctuate this liturgy: kindling new fire; lighting the Paschal Candle; chanting the Exultet; proclaiming the Easter Alleluia. 

 

From the earliest days, however, the heart of this liturgy comprised three basic components: first, a lengthy service of readings from the Old Testament, each pointing by way of anticipation to Christ’s death and Resurrection; second, the administration of Holy Baptism; and third, the celebration of the First Eucharist of Easter, at which the newly baptized adults would receive Holy Communion for the first time.

 

From the beginning, then, the Church’s celebration of the Great Vigil was paired with Holy Baptism – so nothing could be more appropriate than administering the Sacrament of Holy Baptism to our three candidates this evening. And the point I want to emphasize is that this pairing of Holy Baptism with the Easter Vigil was neither accidental nor arbitrary, but deliberate and intentional. To see why, we need look no further than our Epistle for this evening, from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Romans.

 

Here, the Apostle describes Baptism as a kind of virtual participation in Christ’s death, burial, and Resurrection. “Do you not know,” Paul writes, “that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death. We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.” 

 

It’s a remarkable passage. Here baptism appears as a symbol not only of washing and cleansing, but also of death-by-drowning. And Paul is saying that this enacted sign of death-by-water becomes for Christians the means of participation in Christ’s own death and burial. In other words, Christ saves us not merely as external beneficiaries of, but rather as active virtual participants in, his crucifixion and entombment. And the vehicle by which we share in his death and burial is none other than the Sacrament of Holy Baptism.

 

It’s not really that Christ pays the price of our sins on the cross for us as a kind of divine bookkeeping transaction. The supernatural reality at play here is more organic than forensic. We participate in Christ’s death through baptism, so that, as Paul writes, “we might no longer be enslaved to sin. For he who has died is freed from sin.” In the background here is the ancient understanding that a slave is a slave only for life, but in death the slave gains freedom from the former master. So, by participation in Christ’s death through Baptism, we receive liberation from the former mastery that sin and death held over our lives.

 

And through Baptism we participate not only in Christ’s death but also in his Resurrection. This sharing in Christ’s risen life is both a future and a present reality. On one hand, Paul writes, “If we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” That’s the future aspect: the hope of sharing in the glory of resurrection on the last day. But at the same time, Paul writes, “The death he died, he died to sin, once for all, but the life he lives he lives to God. So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.” In other words, through Baptism we enjoy an anticipatory foretaste here and now of the life of the world to come, making possible new lives in this world marked by love, joy, hope, self-giving, and sacrificial service to others. As Paul puts it, we were buried with Christ by baptism into death, so that “we too might walk in newness of life.” 

 

Holy Baptism is, then, the link between the first Easter Day two millennia ago, and our life together in the Church today. The Easter Vigil liturgy commemorates not only Christ’s victory over death, but also our death to sin and our resurrection to new and eternal life in him. On this most holy night, then, we have fittingly renewed our baptismal commitment, and we celebrate the power of Christ’s resurrection in our lives today.