The "Why" of Easter

A Protestant pastor says my homily this morning is probably going to flop.

I don’t take it personally. He thinks almost every Easter homily, Protestant and Catholic, is likely to fail.

Carey Nieuwhof says our sermons won’t connect with the people we want to reach the most —the folks who aren’t regularly in church. The seekers. The curious. The former members.

Where’s the problem and why isn’t there any easy fix?

Nieuwhof says that I and most other preachers, Catholic and Protestant alike, can't help talking today about what happened at Easter. We’re going to proclaim and exclaim the marvelous news that Jesus has risen from the dead.

The only problem is that you already know that. From the most devout soul in church to the most disillusioned, everyone knows that Easter is about the resurrection of the Lord. Even those who don’t believe that know what Easter is about.

So, the homily is “like knowing how a movie ends before you begin watching it; the suspense is gone.”

Year after year I preach about the “what” of Easter. Like countless others, I talk about what you already know. We don’t get from what to why.

Yet if we can’t figure out the “why” of Easter, we’ll never be changed by what we’re celebrating today.

In his blog post about Easter sermons, Carey Nieuwhof challenges his fellow pastors to preach the why; but he doesn’t tell us how to do it.

I came up with five answers to the question “why should Easter matter to me?”

One. Easter matters because it’s the foundation of faith. St. Peter says that there were people—trustworthy people, real people—who ate and drank with Jesus after he was crucified.

The Bible is full of appearances of the risen Lord, in different places, at different times, to different people. Once you believe that there really were eyewitnesses and that their testimony is reliable, you are getting pretty close to faith.

It’s not easy to deny the historic truth of Easter unless you think an awful lot of ancient history is also made up, because some of it rests on weaker documentation than the Resurrection.

And let’s not get too stuck on the “show me” argument—“I have to see him for myself.” St. John “saw and believed” when he went into the empty tomb, not when Jesus later appeared to him.

Two. Easter matters because it’s the start of something more. Much more. Jesus tells Mary Magdalene “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” Easter is the supreme moment, but it’s part of a continuous act of redemption that includes the Ascension and the sending of the Holy Spirit.

We’re not celebrating today a one-day wonder, but the high point in a drama with more acts to follow, and which continues to unfold—and to enfold us.

Three. Why Easter matters has much to do with us, with each of us. It may sound brash, but Easter is not only about Christ. It also about us. St. Paul says in our second reading “you have died, and your life is hidden in God.” When are we going to start to unpack that, if not today?

Each of us is a part of the Easter mystery, because when Christ is revealed, we “also will be revealed with him in glory.”

Is it any wonder that the second reading tells us to set our minds on things above? Do we think that truths as deep as these will sort themselves out without any effort on our part? Easter is an annual challenge to “seek the things that are above, where Christ is.”

You can sail sentimentally through Christmas, but you can’t really engage Easter without some work.

A fourth “why.” Easter arms and equips us against the greatest sorrows of life. If we’re suffering right now, this feast offers some relief. If we’re not, it gets us ready for when the time comes, as it does for everyone.

If, as I’ve said, Easter is not only about Christ but us as well, then his victory over suffering and death is our victory as well. It’s not a vague promise of redemption but a here-and-now triumph that we can claim as our own in times of trouble.

Finally, a fifth reason why Easter can make a difference in our lives: it puts everything else in perspective.

The opening prayer at Mass today says that the Son of God “unlocked for us the path to eternity.” Think about that. When Christ rose from the dead in a human body, he inserted humanity into eternity. Mortality, the most final thing about being human, is overcome at Easter.

I’ve been reading a book about what a rush we are all in. It talks about the stress of trying to get everything done or wanting to do everything. We suffer from what the author calls “existential overwhelm.”

But the book says “premodern people weren’t much troubled by such thoughts, partly because they believed in an afterlife: there was no particular pressure to ‘get the most out of’ their limited time, because as far as they were concerned, it wasn’t limited, and in any case, earthly life was but a relatively insignificant prelude to the most important part.”

Easter is not the end of a story but the beginning. We can make that story our own.

Preachers will never stop proclaiming the what of Easter. There’s a good reason we all know what we are celebrating. But today let’s remember why Christ rose from the dead: to make all the difference, for all of us.

Our Exodus: Freedom from Slavery to Sin and Fear

 

We’ve all seen romantic comedies—or even romantic tragedies—where a poor bride is left at the altar, standing in the middle of a beautifully decorated church full of people.

I was afraid that this year’s Easter Vigil would look something like that. We had no one to baptize, and although the Vigil has many other wonderful aspects, baptism is an important one.

But I saw one rom-com where there was a man ready to step into the groom’s shoes and marry the bride, whom he’d loved all along.

Tonight, Joseph Newfield is playing that role. After attending Alpha and just several weeks into our RCIA program, he asked to be baptized.

I had resigned myself to the disappointment of a Vigil without a baptism, so I didn’t get too excited until Joseph and I had a serious conversation about his faith journey and knowledge of Christ and his Church.

And then I got excited. It was clear that the Lord had been leading him well before Alpha and RCIA.

Joseph, we thank God that he has led you here. And not just because you're playing a role at our Easter Vigil! 

We also pray that God will continue to lead you in the days ahead. It has been many centuries since the Christian faith has been this difficult in what were formerly Christian societies.

Joseph, while preparing for tonight, you learned that the Easter Vigil has seven readings from the Old Testament. The Church only insists on three. But whatever a parish chooses to do, one of the seven is never omitted.

That reading is from the fourteenth chapter of Exodus, where the chosen people are led through the waters of the sea, escaping from Pharaoh and his army.

There’s a good reason why we always read this passage at the Vigil: the Israelites are saved by water, clearly prefiguring the sacrament of Baptism.

The Israelites are led through the darkness by a divine light, just as our church and our hearts were illuminated by the light of Christ as we began this liturgy tonight.

God saved his chosen people from slavery to Pharaoh by leading them to freedom.  Now Christ has saved his chosen ones from slavery to sin by leading them to freedom in baptism.

Joseph, you were in Victoria a few Sundays ago when I preached about the Jefferson Bible—the bible that President Thomas Jefferson produced by cutting out all the miracles, including the Resurrection.

Since that Sunday, I’ve come across another edited version of the scriptures called “the Slave Bible,” currently on display in Washington, D.C.

The miracles are there all right, and the Resurrection too.  What the Slave Bible omits is the story of the Passover and the Exodus that is so important tonight. As the name suggests, this was a bible produced for slaves. Its editors didn’t want slaves in the Caribbean being inspired by Moses. It didn’t want to encourage the hope for freedom from oppression.

We roll our eyes at the Jefferson Bible, and we lament the attitudes that gave rise to the Slave Bible. No one is likely to publish a bible nowadays that has no miracles or no Exodus.

But, Joseph, that doesn’t mean you won’t have to confront the errors that these books contained. The world will try very hard to convince you that the miracles of Jesus are, at best, theatre and that his Resurrection is mainly an excuse to eat too much chocolate.

Even more seriously, the world today tempts us to ignore the call to freedom that resounds in the scriptures. The world calls us daily to slavery—in small ways, by promoting selfishness and sin, and in big ways by addicting us to comfort, lust, and success.

Joseph, you will receive many blessings and graces on this night of your baptism. Among them is freedom. As St. Paul says, “you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God.”

Paul adds in the next chapter “For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and not submit again to a yoke of slavery.” Accept with gratitude and hope the gift of freedom promised to his disciples.

Let me conclude with words of St. Peter. God has “called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”  

That’s as good a summary of this night as any. So now let us step into the light as we celebrate the sacraments of baptism and confirmation.

Holy Thursday: A Family Affair

If you don’t mind, I think I’ll pull up a chair. After all, tonight’s liturgy is a family affair.

At Easter we hope to have many visitors—folks who’ve never been to Mass before or who only come once or twice a year like to join us on Easter morning. We’re happy to have them.

But tonight, it’s “just us.” A few welcome visitors, but mostly the faithful flock—those who turn up regularly for our celebrations, big and small.

The crowd at Easter is like a big wedding reception. Holy Thursday’s more like Sunday dinner.

Which isn’t to say the Church doesn’t take you all seriously! After all, the priest is instructed to give a homily “in which light is shed on the principal mysteries that are commemorated at the Mass, namely the institution of the Holy Eucharist and of the priestly Order, and the commandment of the Lord concerning fraternal charity.”

The institution of the Eucharist and the priesthood, and the Lord’s command to love one another.

That’s a lot of light to shed!

But I am not lighting up these things for a bunch of people sitting in the dark. You, faithful members of the parish family, already know what Jesus did at the Last Supper. You’ve heard his words “This is my Body” hundreds if not thousands of times.

You’ve lived the moment when He broke the bread over and over again, celebrating Sunday after Sunday “as a festival to the Lord”  as the Lord commanded the Chosen People to do at Passover.

 Your support for me and the many other priests who have served at Christ the Redeemer has been founded on a great love for Christ’s priesthood. You express your trust in the priesthood every time you come to us in Confession, a trust that even decades of scandal have not been able to extinguish.

As for “the commandment of the Lord concerning fraternal charity” … well, you are the ones who have been helping to feed the poor, shelter the refugees, support prisoners, educate the young, and visit the elderly and ill. Do I need to connect these works of generosity and service to the Mass?

Our parish is centered on the Mass; it revolves around the Mass; all its charitable outreach flows from the altar, where we begin by thanking God for his gifts to us.

If there is one thing that I might say to you, the insiders of our parish, it is simply thank you. You know well that you carry much more than your fair share of the load when it comes to serving your brothers and sisters.

Pope Francis highlighted the service we give to one another in his homily for Holy Thursday this year.  He said that we wash each other’s feet, we serve one another. One serves the other, without self-interest.

Christ’s action on Holy Thursday has been interpreted over the centuries as washing the feet of the poor, and that’s important symbolism for sure. The Pope himself washes the feet of prisoners each year.

But we have to start by washing feet of our fellow parishioners. If we imitate the example of Jesus, then we will have the kind of strong community that reaches out beyond itself.

As I said, we’re deeply grateful to the twenty percent who do eighty percent of the serving, donating, reading, and volunteering that makes our parish able to fulfill the Lord’s commands “do as I have done to you” and “do this in remembrance of me.”

Most of the twenty percent are here tonight. But if you’re someone who hasn’t found your place in parish ministry and service, I invite you to think about that this evening, and pray in the words of our Psalm: “How can I repay the Lord for his goodness to me.”

It’s not a so-called rhetorical question. God asks a small return on the investment he has made in us, the sacrifice of his own Son. What can we do to serve?

I won’t list the many needs of the parish in these difficult days. They are many. Just ask God what you can do, and then let us know you are willing. We’ll help you find a way to repay his goodness without strain or stress.

To the twenty percenters: you know as well as I do where your strength and commitment comes from. It comes from your participation in the Eucharist and your membership in this Eucharistic community.

But precisely because you love the Eucharist and the family of faith, you are also the ones most sad when family members and friends stop attending Mass. You understand completely that the Sunday celebration is “a perpetual ordinance”—a command Jesus has given every generation in every age.

How can so many of the young—and the not-so-young—turn away from this “thanksgiving sacrifice”?

I’m not sure of all the reasons—there are many—but I know it’s time we did something about it.

As I thought about it, I realized that getting people back to Mass or getting people to Mass is not the first step on our journey. For those we want to invite to explore Christian faith, the Sunday Mass can be confusing.

Nothing makes you feel like an outsider so fast as attending an event where you feel you’re the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on.

And if you’re a Catholic who stopped attending Mass a while back, you might be worrying that people are thinking “where has he been?” or might even ask you the question!

This Lent I was convinced that although the Eucharist must be the centre of our efforts at inviting people into or back to the Church, inviting them to or back to Mass isn’t likely to be effective.

That might sound contradictory. So let me explain what happened to me Saturday nights this past Lent. I sat in the church during a one-hour adoration event we called “Water in the Desert.”

Unlike Mass, nothing was expected of me or anyone else. The Lord looked at us from the altar and we looked at Him. I didn’t have to sing, which was good because I didn’t know the songs anyway. The music was like prayerful oil poured out from the loft.

A highlight of each evening was a parishioner’s personal story of faith. Each was unique but they were all powerful and moving.

Two things happened for me at this oasis. My otherwise dry and dreary Lent was renewed, at least for a time. Second, and most important, I became convinced that we need times of quiet reflection before the Blessed Sacrament to restore our weariness and prepare us to share fully in the Sunday Mass.

And there was something more. I felt the Holy Spirit saying that we need something like those Saturday nights to which we can invite the unchurched, uncertain, or unhappy. We need peaceful places that can introduce people to the Eucharistic mystery without making them feel it’s mysterious.

Some of the generous leaders of “Water in the Desert” seemed to have felt the same way, because they volunteered on the final night to keep it going monthly.

We’ll be telling you, faithful friends more about this in the weeks ahead. But on this holy night as we celebrate Christ’s gift of Himself, let us pray that we have fresh opportunities to share that gift with others.

If you are one of those already living the Eucharistic life, pray now that the Lord will show you whom you should bring with you when we announce our next peaceful time of adoration, song, and witness.

Giving others a chance to share what we celebrate is a more perfect act of charity than washing their feet.

And if you yourself are longing to get more out of Sunday Mass, pray now to find the commitment to join the first night of adoration when the date is announced.

As we offer tonight “a thanksgiving sacrifice” and “call on the name of the Lord,” we can be confident the Lord will hear our prayers.

Palm Sunday: More than Words

I'm not much for recycling my homilies... but since my homily in 2010 recycled one from St. Gregory Nazianzen from the fourth century, I think it has stood the test of time, especially since I am only preaching once this Palm Sunday, at a sparsely attended Saturday afternoon Mass. Tomorrow I fly to Toronto to accompany my brother Stephen and his wife during his surgery on Monday.

There’s a famous scene in Shakespeare where Polonius asks Hamlet what he is reading. Hamlet replies “Words, words, words.”

What have we just heard? Certainly there were words and words in the long account of our Lord’s passion. But was there more than words? How is our reading of the passion—or of any Gospel—different from reading a history book, or a newspaper?

To answer this question, we need to start with the prologue of St. John’s Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Obviously, for Christians, “word” has more than one meaning. But these meanings are not unrelated.

Jesus is the Word of God; the Word of God is God. The Bible is the Word of God. And the written Word of God is made up of, obviously, words.

To discuss any one of these uses of the word “word” would take us longer than today's Gospel. I only want to point out that the solemn reading of the Passion is not only about the words on the page; it is not only about the Word of God, the Scriptures. It is an encounter with the Word of God, God himself.

As we listened to the words of St. Luke, we were invited to enter into what we heard—not through the time travel of modern movies, but by the timeless travel of the heart and spirit.

Contemplating the Word himself as we hear the account of his passion, we can answer the question posed by the old spiritual “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”

In an ancient sermon, St. Gregory Nazianzen invites us to “take our part in the Passover...not in a literal way, but according to the teaching of the Gospel; not in an imperfect way, but perfectly; not only for a time, but eternally.”

He calls us to “sacrifice ourselves to God, each day and in everything we do, accepting all that happens to us for the sake of the Word, imitating his passion by our sufferings, and honouring his blood by shedding our own. We must be ready to be crucified.”

He says that each of us has a role in this timeless Passion Play. “If you are a Simon of Cyrene,” St. Gregory says, “take up your cross and follow Christ. If you are crucified beside him like one of the thieves, now, like the good thief, acknowledge your God.”

“If you are a Joseph of Arimathea, go to the one who ordered his crucifixion, and ask for Christ’s body. ... If you are a Nicodemus, like the man who worshipped God by night, bring spices and prepare Christ’s body for burial.”

“If you are one of the Marys, or Salome, or Joanna, weep in the early morning. Be the first to see the stone rolled back, and even the angels perhaps, and Jesus himself.”

So, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”

We answer yes. We were there, and we are there. The passion is not “then,” it is now.

We walk the way of the Cross with the Lord, and we share even now in his suffering and death. And we shall therefore share too in his Resurrection.