Easter Sunday, Year B. Basilica of the Sacred Heart.
If you’re into setting
records, those of you gathered here in the basilica this morning should know
that we’ve collectively come in precisely second in one particular competition.
That’s the competition to see how few people you can have at an Easter Sunday
Mass in this basilica. Now, as the basilica hosts more and more Masses over the
course of today, those Masses will equal our numbers and share our silver
medals, but there has been no previous Easter Sunday Mass here that has come
close to our number. Prior to 2020, of course, every single Easter Sunday Mass
here has been full to the rafters (at least, since the basilica has been a
basilica). Last year, though, the only people present were Holy Cross priests
and brothers who lived on campus, and select campus ministry staff who were
exercising some kind of liturgical ministry. Our celebration here is so much
bigger than 2020 while still being so much smaller than all that came before,
and (we hope and can with some confidence expect) than all that will come from
2022 on.
A lot of people have said to me that this Lent
either has gone quickly for them, or even hasn’t felt all that Lenten, and
that’s certainly been my experience too. I think a lot of that has to do with
the contrast from last year. Last year, whether we gave up chocolate or soda
was really irrelevant, when we all also gave up seeing friends and relatives,
going to work or school, traveling, even leaving the house. Lent of 2020 felt
so Lenten that this one seemed a little pale in comparison. I remember back in
mid to late March last year, there was a sense among some people that if we
just hunkered down for a few weeks, we could get back to normal by Easter. In
Spring Break of last year, Notre Dame expressed a hope to get students back on
campus by Easter Monday. Of course, that didn’t happen. What we thought might
be an intense sprint of restrictions, of fear and isolation, became a marathon.
But now, through this Lent, we’ve started to see more and more signs of hope,
even as we’ve become increasingly aware that we can’t start acting like we’re
out of the woods just because we can see a clearing in this distance. And I
think these signs of hope have also been part of what has made this Lent seem
somewhat less Lenten. A lot of people have told me that receiving their vaccine
was a surprisingly emotional experience, and it was for me too.
If Lent felt a little less Lenten, I wonder how
Eastery this Easter feels. For all the signs of hope around us, we’re still at
far reduced numbers compared with usual, and, the same is true of far too many family dinner tables. So many carry grief
with them to this Mass today. While job numbers are up, that’s little
consolation to those who are still un- or under-employed. There isn’t going to
be a moment when we suddenly snap back and say, “OK, pandemic’s over now.”
Recovery is going to be gradual; a lot of things will still seem small, and
distant.
I think that’s actually really appropriate for
Easter. In St. Peter’s sermon, that we heard part of as our first reading, he
tells the people that when Jesus rose from the dead, he didn’t appear to the
whole world, but made himself present to a small group, those who had been with
him during his ministry, those who would then be commissioned to bear witness.
I’m not sure if that’s how I’d approach it if I had all the power in the
universe and had just risen from the dead. I think I’d want something like the
Rose Bowl parade, full of fireworks. But, thanks be to God, I’m not God. And
God chose something rather different. God chose to have Easter be something
small.
We can see that symbolically too in the fact that
the women in the gospel go to the tomb at dawn. There’s a practical purpose for
this; if you’re going to anoint a body outdoors, you’ll want to do that before
the heat of the midday sun comes. But deeper, providentially, there’s a
symbolism. A new light has arisen with Our Lord’s victory over sin and
death, but it’s light like the light of dawn. Still somewhat furtive. Not yet
as brilliant as it will be. As the Constitutions of the Congregation of Holy
Cross put it, “We see by dawn’s first light, and we long for the fullness of
day.” For God has conquered sin and death, but we still sin, and we
still suffer from others’ sin, and we still die, and we still mourn the deaths
of others. Especially today we remember Jude Alshufi, a doctoral student here
at Notre Dame whose death was announced to the campus community on Good Friday.
Dawn has a fragility to it, a slightness, a
dimness even. The light of dawn is something small, just as the first Easter,
just as our Easter this year, feels somewhat small. But dawns grow and
strengthen and become brilliant days. A little yeast can leaven the whole
dough. Because while that first Easter seemed small, something really big had
happened. Death and sin were conquered. Christ rose from the dead to show us
the fullness of God’s love, that God loves us so much that not even death,
death at our hands, could keep Him from being with us.
And the ways in which He’s with us now seem
small. He’s with us in the poor served, He’s with us when two or three gather,
He’s with us in the Spirit, who dwells in our hearts and prays in small sighs.
And we long for more. More intimacy. Something bigger. And that will come. And
on the Day of the Lord, for which we still wait, God will wipe every tear from
every eye, and there will be no more sorrow or sadness or pain, for the
victorious Lamb who was slain will be our light, and it will be glorious and
brilliant and big. But for now it’s small, and what we see will be gradual and
furtive. And that’s Easter. Therefore, let us keep the feast!
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