Experiencing Easter

Eucharistic Homily

at the

Solemn Paschal Vigil in the Holy Night (2024) 

As some of you may know, I went to the seminary twice, first in California, and again here in Edmonton.  What I am about to share is not something I’ve shared with many people, but I think the joy of this Night warrants its telling, a story of how I experienced my own ‘Good Friday’ and, eventually, a ‘Resurrection.’

          My first round of seminary training was anything but pleasant—in fact, it soon plunged me into deep grief.  Why this was isn’t important, but the darkness was such that I even descended to the point where not even books, coffee, and sunshine brought me any joy.  As I was packing up after two years of formation, a seminary professor—who, in fact, happens to be a friend of B.—Sr Sharon McMillan--intercepted me in the hallway, pointed her finger at me, and said simply and serenely:  “You will be back.”  The grief was compounded by the fact that I was baptised, confirmed, and shared in Holy Communion precisely because I wanted a priest, and it seemed like my whole world was collapsing.

          But it had to happen.  My attitude in the seminary was one of presumptuousness:  “No matter how badly I perform, I’m going to get ordained because God wills it anyway!”  Big, big mistake.  So, the ambition had to die.  Out of that death, however, arose a more authentic vocation, because I had to ‘let go’ of my plans, my future.  That was in 2005.

          Fast forward to 2009, when I was surprisingly invited by the Archbishop to reenter seminary here in Edmonton.  But, as part of the process for all candidates, I had to go through extensive personality assessments and psychological evaluations, and for this I was sent to a Catholic house where these sorts of things were done.  Truth be told, I was annoyed I even had to go.  I already explained the whole story a thousand times, and to tell it one more time was just too much, but I did.  That week just so happened to be Easter Week of 2010.

          One day while I was there, I went into the chapel to pray the Office, and in the middle of the Old Testament Canticle where we repeat, “…bless the Lord / praise and highly exalt him for ever,” I suddenly sensed deep in my heart something different and new.  Even though my grief was long gone, I felt as though the heaviness of the memories was lifted, and I was able to let go of the past.  At that moment, I had a personal experience of the Resurrection and the joy of the Risen Christ who destroys death and bestows life; I experienced Easter.  At that moment I noticed, in that small chapel, the overwhelming fragrance of the Easter lilies, and knew that life would never again be the same, because everything that once weighed me down yielded to the Lordship of the exalted Jesus.

          At that name every knee must bend,
          Every knee should bow and bend low,
          How great is that name, great is that name,
          All creatures of earth and heaven praise Him!

The Resurrection of the Lord Jesus is not merely a past event, over and gone.  Rather, it is a present reality by which the very fabric of the cosmos was re-engineered in such a way that, now, human history is irrevocably and inexorably headed toward glory.  Nor is it something provisional, something we need to wait for until after we die, and reminded of it only at funerals.  No!  Easter, because Christ has destroyed not only death but everything that is deathly, gives us reason for joy.  “Joy,” not optimism!  Optimism is wishing that everything will turn out for the better; joy means knowing, with every fibre of our baptized being, that our good is inevitable, and it arises out of the experience of the Risen Lord.

This is especially clear in the gospel reading we’ve just heard.  The Holy Myrrhbearing Women—whose icon are on the top of the Paschal Candle—went to the tomb, no doubt filled with grief, only to discover that the Crucified is now Risen, but at that point, the Risen Lord was only an idea:  “He has been raised up; He is not here.”  Moments later, the Women were told that the idea of the Risen Lord would give way to experience:  “He is going ahead of you to Galilee, where you will see Him just as He told you.”  At the end of verse 8, Mark’s gospel ends abruptly.

Where’s the rest of the story?  Listen again how St Mark ends:  “They…fled from the tomb bewildered and trembling; and because of their great fear, they said nothing to anyone.”  It’s an unsettling conclusion to what’s supposed to be the Greatest Story Ever Told.

Every tongue acclaim:  Christ is Lord!
          Jesus Christ is Lord ever more!
          For Jesus is Lord, Jesus is Lord,
          The glory of God the Father!

Where’s the rest of the story?  You and me.  We are the rest of the story, we pick up where Mark’s gospel ended, because Easter continues to be written in the lives of every person who has experienced the Lordly Resurrection of Jesus.

          Life is not easy.  God has not promised us all apple trees and cherry blossoms.  But God has promised to accompany us, and this God did in the Son when He took upon himself our human nature at Christmas and transformed human nature at Easter; in baptism, we are joined to Jesus Christ and, in confirmation, we are given an overflow of His own anointing by the Holy Spirit.  In this way, whatever happens to us—for good or ill—multiplies into new chapters of the gospel narrative.  In this way, the Lordship of Jesus is extended:  His Resurrection becomes our many resurrections, and together everything is transfigured.

At that name every knee must bend,
          Every knee should bow and bend low,
          How great is that name, great is that name,
          All creatures of earth and heaven praise Him!

Every tongue acclaim:  Christ is Lord!
          Jesus Christ is Lord ever more!
          For Jesus is Lord, Jesus is Lord,
          The glory of God the Father!

Let us return for a moment to when the Archbishop [of Edmonton] invited me to resume seminary training here in Edmonton.  While we were speaking about my past griefs, I found myself saying this:  “Your Grace:  If I could go back in time and erase that dark chapter from my past in hopes of increasing my chances of entering the priesthood, I would not.  It has given me a heart to be ready to support others who are in grief.”

              My friends, Easter, if we let it, is contagious.  The joy that comes from experiencing the Risen Lord is infectious.  As we heard St Paul remind us tonight, “…just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life.”  The newness of being baptized into the Risen One is a perennial newness, a permanent newness that never grows old or fades away.  We will see the beginnings of this when A. is baptised fifty days from now.

              Tonight is an invitation for us to rediscover what Easter can do for you and me, and together, what it can do for the world.  Let us, then, with the help of the saints process to the font and ask the Lord to continue Mark’s gospel narrative of the Resurrection in our lives by our renewal of baptismal discipleship.

This post is dedicated to the honour
of Sr Sharon McMillan SNDdeN SDL,
who was my Professor of Liturgy
at St Patrick's Seminary & University

The Thunder of the New Creation

 

Eucharistic Homily
at the
Solemn Paschal Vigil in the Holy Night

 In 1927, a Catholic priest who later became friends with Albert Einstein completely changed our understanding of the universe’s origins.  His name was Fr Georges Lemaître, and he was the first to propose what we now call the Big Bang Theory.

He suggested that, billions of years ago, the universe began as a kind of “cosmic egg” that burst forth in a primordial explosion of energy—energy so primordial and inaccessible that physics and mathematics cannot fully grasp it.  Scientists tell us the smallest measurable unit of physical action is the joule-second, the Planck constant—so minuscule it nearly defies comprehension. And yet, in that whisper of time, worlds were born, light began, and matter stirred.

The Word of God alludes to this mystery when Job is asked:
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth… when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?”

In the Resurrection of Christ, we encounter a kind of theological joule-second: a moment so still, so silent, so hidden, that the Gospels do not even try to describe it.  The stone is already rolled away.  The tomb is already empty.  But in that unfathomable instant—like the very first spark from the cosmic egg—everything changed.

The silence of the Resurrection is not absence.  It is pregnant fullness.  It is the divine hush before the thunder of the New Creation.

Scientists say it is only one ten-quadrillion-quadrillion-quadrillionth of a joule-second after the Big Bang that they can begin to detect the emergence of forces:  Gravity, radiation, nuclear energy, and so on.

In tonight’s Gospel, we witness something similar at the Empty Tomb—a burst of new energy that marks the second Big Bang, inaugurating a New Creation:
“Suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them… ‘Why do you look for the Living One among the dead? He is not here, but has risen!’”

It mirrors the beginning of our celebration tonight:
“Rejoice!  Let Mother Church also rejoice, arrayed with the lightning of his glory!”

But Easter is not merely a grand idea. It is cosmic transformation.
And so I ask you:
What New Creation is Christ beginning in you tonight?

Let us unpack this by reflecting on three bursts of energy that emanate from this Big Bang of the Resurrection, all of which are distilled in the flame of the Easter Candle.

First: “Let there be light.”
The first day of the old creation began with a burst of light—bringing warmth, visibility, and understanding.  Tonight, joined with the Paschal Fire below and the Full Moon above, we are reminded that light is the primal metaphor of the Risen Christ, who alone brings consolation, perception, and revelation.

Second: “He is not here… He is risen!”
When the old universe began, it already began to decay—what scientists call entropy.  St Paul speaks of this as creation “groaning” and the outer self “decaying.”  But the Resurrection reverses the curse.  The burst of Christ’s rising has somehow saved—salvaged—the universe itself.  Easter is the beginning of the New Heavens and the New Earth.

Third: “Receive the Light of Christ.”
Tonight, news outlets report record numbers of baptisms around the world.  These newly baptized—these neophytes—will burst forth in faith, bearing candles lit from the Paschal flame. They recapitulate all three bursts:  Light, resurrection, and new life.  And for us who were once baptized, we are invited once again to lay aside every encumbrance that hinders our perennial newness in Christ.

And so, beloved, as we now prepare to renew our baptismal promises, let us remember:  We do not merely recall the Resurrection as a past event. We stand within it.  The burst of the New Creation reaches us tonight—not just as memory, but as power.

As we are sprinkled with the waters of baptism, may we feel the freshness of the world reborn.  As we approach the Eucharistic Table, may we recognize the Risen One—the same Lord who appeared in dazzling glory, now humbly present under the appearance of bread and wine.

This is the energy of the New Creation:  Christ Himself, alive and active, speaking your name and calling you out of the tomb.

So bring to this altar your darkness, your decay, your entropy—
and receive instead His light, His life, His love.

Christ is risen.

The New Creation has begun.

Let it begin in us.

Between Two Gardens

Homily at the Celebration of the Lord’s Passion

On Ash Wednesday, we began our pilgrimage to the Triduum

by comparing the garden tools of trellis, pruning shears, and seeds
to prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. 

Today, St John’s Passion opens and closes in a garden—
Gethsemane and the garden of Joseph of Arimathea.

In Eden, Adam and Eve forfeited the garden:

by hiding from God, they did not pray;
by eating the forbidden fruit, they did not fast;
by mutual accusation, they did not give alms.

 But in the gardens of Jesus’ Passion, the New Creation began.

In Gethsemane,

He offered the High Priestly Prayer—
fasting from the option to flee,
and asking the Father to bestow the alms of unity and peace.

At the Cross, near Joseph's garden,

the seed of the New Eden was planted:
praying, He gave voice to Psalm 22;
fasting, He rejected Pilate’s amnesty;
almsgiving, He relinquished vengeance and gave us mercy.

On the sixth day of Creation, God formed human nature;
on that first Good Friday—another sixth day—God refashioned it.

Just as Eve came forth from Adam’s side in the old garden,
so now the Church is born from Christ’s pierced side in the new:
by the water and the blood,
by the indwelling Spirit and the Eucharist celebrated,
we are translated into the Eden of the New Creation.

Tonight, on the Seventh Day, we will rest.

And tomorrow night, on the new First Day,
we will hear again: “Let there be Light.”

And we shall rise—

co-gardeners with the Divine Gardener,
tending the soil of the world He loved unto death.

Where Have Your Feet Been?

Eucharistic Homily
at the
Evening Mass of the Lord's Supper

Before we celebrate the Rite of Footwashing, I want to ask you something.  A question that goes deeper than it seems:  Where have your feet been?

In years past we have focused on the “Table-ness” of the Eucharist, the connection between Eucharist and charity, and on Jesus’ role as a servant.  Tonight, I would like us to look at the Footwashing from a different angle, in addition to charity and service, namely:  Healing.

Where have your feet been?  I remember my first day in Rome in 2011, in a liturgical procession on the cobblestone streets of that ancient city. by the time I got back to my room, my feet were so sore I had to walk on their sides—muscles aching that I’d never used before.  When Jesus washed the feet of His disciples, He not only cleaned them, but used the strength of His hands to knead, massage, and rub tired feet that walked up and down the rugged terrain between the Galiliean countryside and the paved streets of Jerusalem.  Some feet were in the water, fishing, when Jesus offered the initial invitation to His first disciples.  Some were sitting, collecting taxes; others were hiding in the shadows, ready to strike a Roman officer.  And what about the feet whose paths we’ve forgotten?  The quiet ones.  The shame-filled ones. The unrecorded steps—Jesus washed those too.  These feet walked through the “joys and the hopes, the griefs and the anxieties” that come with the pilgrimage of discipleship.

Eventually these feet would forsake Jesus, stand before Him Risen, and then travel to the ends of the world to tell forth the Good News.

But first, these feet had to be tended by the hands of the “Lover of Humankind,” kneading, massaging, rubbing their feet as a sign of the healing wholeness that Jesus came to give us.

But you—where have your feet been?  Some of you, fleeing the Soviet occupation of Hungary in 1956, and eventually finding your way here.  Others, in the Deaf boarding schools, separated from your parents and often mistreated by your teachers.  Some may have run away from home at a young age.  Still others, your feet—and your presence—were rejected by Church leaders who wanted to ignore your gifts and dismiss your service.  Many of you, I am sure, have walked in loneliness.  Think also of the gruelling migration of the Magyars to the Carpathian Basin, that we carry in our DNA., or the protracted migration of sign language from Spain to France to the Americas.  Whoever you are, your feet carry buried wounds and soreness that tells the story of your pilgrimage.

The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob instructed that the Passover shall be “eaten like those who are in flight,” as we heard in the First Reading.  The Gospel tells us that Jesus’ own Passover was to mark His “pass[age] from this world to the Father.”  The Eucharist and our feet on the ground in pilgrimage go hand-in-hand.  This is why we hear in one of the Eucharistic hymns of St Thomas Aquinas:  “Behold the Bread of Angels, made the food of wayfarers.”  St Thomas goes on to say:  “this sacrament does not [only] admit us to glory, but bestows on us the power of coming unto glory.  And therefore it is called Viaticum.”

The Rite of Footwashing, then, interprets for us the meaning of the Eucharist:  It is healing for the journey; everywhere in life we may be inclined to put our “best foot forward”; here, we are invited to put our “worst foot forward” for Jesus to heal and strengthen so we can go on.  This we must do.  Why--?  “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with Me.”

As your feet are being washed, think about where they have been, and think about where they are going.  Present them to Jesus—not the polished, presentable parts, but the wounded, weary places—so He can heal them, strengthen them, and guide them onward.

Let Him be both your traveling companion—and your final destination.