Easter Vigil March 30, 2024

Easter Vigil

March 30, 2024

We began the Lenten Season with fire, and we ended Holy Week with fire. 50 days ago, we burnt the palm from last year’s Palm Sunday liturgy and today we lit the Easter fire.  Fire is the sign of the spirit. (Isn’t it interesting that we see so many visitors when we deal with palm.  They come for ashes and palms.) The spirit lead Jesus and us into the desert. We walked in the darkness of our sin, and we thirsted for the water of baptism to renew us in our journey in the desert.

The fire of palms and Easter is a fire that overcomes the darkness of our lives. Darkness is more about the inability to discern objects often the ability to see is about seeing beyond the concrete world into the other world.  In the gospels it is the blind who see most clearly. The blind cry out “Son of David”, they see beyond the outside of Jesus into his messianic person, born in the line of David.  Those who are blind find that their other senses become clearer. 

This year I had number 5 and 6 surgeries on my eyes.  My vision is something I have come to take for granted.  I am glad doctors and surgeons can accomplish so much these days.

When I had my first large tear, surgery number 3, I was scheduled to travel to Rome for the canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha. I could not fly to Rome because of the gas bubble placed in my eye to hold the tear in place.  I recalled that our local saint had vision problems due to smallpox as a girl. Tekakwitha means to feel around.  I prayed and asked the pilgrims to pray, and my doctor told me I was fortunate to have any vision in my right eye. A year later I developed a tear in my left eye, a giant tear. Once again, our local saint came through.  2 years later I was sent to be vicar in the Mohawk Valley just down the road from the Kateri shrine.

Kateri was one of those people who could see with the eyes of faith, she had difficulty seeing the light and objects around her, but when she heard the words of the Jesuit missionaries she came to believe in Christ and his promises.  

This year I met another girl who could see clearly with her eyes of faith. Marie-Laure LeBlanc in the book and series  All the Light we cannot see  sees clearly what is most important in life.  This is what Elizebeth Hamilton has to say about the series “ …this is a miniseries about how sight can be deceptive. What looks one way, might be another.  The invisible may be what matters most.  The one who is blind may be able to see best.

Marie-Laure is quoted as saying  “The most important light of all is the light we cannot see.”

The story takes place in the contest of Nazi occupied France.  Marie-Laure as a child listened to radio broadcasts from the “Professor” when she is evacuated to friends of her father, she discovers the Professor is her host.  She uses his radio to make her own broadcasts, some are used to transmit coded messages to the underground.  He father has taken a gem from the museum and a Nazi wishes to find it because there is a legend it gives eternal life to the bearer. 

There are many references to light in the story, Like the stories of the gospel healings, often Mari-Laure sees more clearly than many around her.

Another fan of the professor’s broadcasts is a German boy.  He is tasked to seek and destroy the woman who is broadcasting readings from Jules Verne that in code give messages to the underground.  Werner discovers affection for the broadcaster and seeks to protect her.  She sees something good in him, even though he has conspired with the Nazis.

Hamilton again:  viewers might go so far as to see a vision of the kingdom of God in this story, an upside down, hidden world that nonetheless exists, and is in face even more important and meaningful that what we can see with just our two eyes.” …. 

Love is stronger. Love cannot be touched by pain. Love, ultimately, is the most important light we cannot see-and idea that once again recalls passages from the gospel where Jesus, who so often sees goodness where others see nothing, associates himself, his love his life with light. As their dear professor puts it, ‘Darkness last not even for one second when you turn on the light.”

All of us in our Lenten journey have been seeking for the light. Our fasting, our prayer, our alms are to provide us with a new light to see ourselves and the world in a new way.

I came to appreciate the gift of light that helped to illuminate the missal pages as I prayed the prayers at mass.  Thank God for word-processes that allowed the words to be enlarged. I was told by members of the congregation that the words were visible from the pews. Isn’t it wonderful that God has provided men and woman who know how to heal broken eyes and bodies.  Not too many years ago, I would have been blind forever.  Thank God I didn’t have to shop for a white cane.  I am thankful for a car that has safety features that keep me safe as I drive.

I stopped taking things for granted. I discovered we live in a world designed for the young and healthy.   The labels on my eye drop bottles are so small I need a magnifying glass to read them.  Thank God the caps are color coded.  Why do all my appliances have black letters on  a black background?

I pray that what I cannot see with my eyes I see with   my eyes of faith.  With the eyes of faith, one sees medical breakthroughs as a miracle. One sees the power of intercessory prayer as real.   The words of scriptures and the psalms are words of the truth of God’s presence in our world.

Our 40 days in the desert were not wasted they served to sharpen our sight, as they did for Jesus.  Back to the story  All the light we cannot see.

Another fan of the professor’s broadcasts is a German boy.  He is tasked to seek and destroy the woman who is broadcasting readings from Jules Verne that in code give messages to the underground.  Werner discovers affection for the broadcaster and seeks to protect her.  She sees something good in him, even though he has conspired with the Nazis.

Hamilton again:  viewers might go so far as to see a vision of the kingdom of God in this story, an upside down, hidden world that nonetheless exists, and is in face even more important and meaningful that what we can see with just our two eyes.” …. 

Love is stronger. Love cannot be touched by pain. Love, ultimately, is the most important light we cannot see-and idea that once again recalls passages from the gospel where Jesus, who so often sees goodness where others see nothing, associates himself, his love his life with light. As their dear professor puts it, ‘ Darkness last not even for one second when you turn on the light.”

Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy), Year A

By Fr. Christopher Welch • April 12, 2026
It is said that when Oliver Cromwell had his official portrait painted, he asked that it be a true portrait with “warts and all”. You may say that the resurrected Christ appeared with “wounds and all”. Here is the resurrected Christ in his glorified body, who could pass through locked doors, appearing with the wounds of his crucifixion. He is resurrected, not simply resuscitated, in his glorified body still bearing the marks of his passion and death. Why, if he is in his perfect resurrected body, does Jesus still bear the marks of his passion and death? It is an interesting paradox that the woundedness of our lives can be what makes us who we are. There is a story told about a man in therapy: When he first met the counselor, he was asked to draw a picture of himself; he drew a picture of a vase with a crack in its side. After many years of therapy, the counselor showed the man the picture he had drawn. The man asked for use of the crayons. He took a yellow crayon and drew yellow strips just above the crack in the vase. When asked why he did that he told the counselor, “The crack is where the light can get in.” Leonard Cohen summed it up well in his song “Anthem”: There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. By showing the apostles his wounds, Jesus is reminding them that the wounds, the pain is not the end of the story. Many of us bear wounds from our past; they are what make us who we are. Part of the journey is the struggle. When we reach our destination, we can look back and see how the struggles made us who we are. Elbert Hubbard, the founder of the Roycrofters, once said, “God will not look you over for medals but for scars.” I am sure the disciples looked over the past three years and saw how the struggles made a difference; their time with Jesus made them new people.

The Great Easter Vigil, Year A

By Deacon Paul Cerosaletti • April 4, 2026
Growing up on the family dairy farm, there were many difficult things we experienced. Certainly, there was much hard, physical labor. But among the hardest things we experienced was caring for sick animals, and in particular, caring for cows that had been injured or lost muscle strength and were unable to get themselves up to a standing position. This typically would happen around the time of calving and might be due to a nerve injury during birth or mineral and metabolic imbalances that affected muscle strength. We called them “down cows”. What was so hard about dealing with down cows was really two things: one, the size of the animals — often 1000 lbs. or more — made it difficult, if not impossible, for us to help them physically if they had little or no muscle strength of their own. Secondly, and more profound, was the emotional burden that weighed upon us as their caregivers. We wanted them to get better and be back on their feet. We loved our animals, as all farmers do, and we wanted the best for them. Although we could help them with support therapies and medicine with help from our veterinarian and made sure they had feed and water at all times, it felt like there was only so much in our control. And the longer a cow was down, the less likely it would be that she would ever rise again. Some never did. That outcome happened frequently enough that it was a real possibility. And there is nothing that was more discouraging for us as farmers than a cow we could not help to get better. It cast a pall over our days and robbed us of hope and joy — really, robbing us of life — replacing them instead with weary discouragement. Late one Lent going into Holy Week, we had one of these down cows. It was a year not unlike this one, with the signs of spring beginning to emerge in early April. My father used to say the best thing we could do for a down cow was to get her out of the barn and out onto the earth in the fields or pasture, where there was no concrete and better footing. So we did, and we were able to get this cow out of the barn and into the hayfield behind the barn. There, day after day, we would take her food and water, administer medicine to her, and roll her over from side to side, to make sure she did not lose circulation in one hindquarter or another. If she seemed like she wanted to get up, we would try to get enough people to see if we could help her get up. Although she ate and drank, she did not get up, and as Holy Week wore on, it felt like she wasn’t going to. That discouragement set in as a constant droning undertone to everything we did throughout the day, seemingly getting louder with each passing day. Whether we were thinking about that down cow consciously or not, it seemed to affect our outlook and demeanor in everything we did. Late one night that week, my father, brother and I were finishing evening milking. It was after dark; we were at the far end of the barn, near the door going out to the hayfield. As I came out from between two cows holding the milking machine, I turned towards the open barn door and was shocked when I found myself face to face with the previously down cow, standing there, head poked in the barn door, chewing her cud! I shouted to my father, “Dad, she’s up!” We all ran over to the barn door, peering into the darkness of that night to see this risen cow. I will never forget what my father said next, turning to us and smiling: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.” In that instant our demeanor changed. The discouragement was gone and we were filled with joy and hope. There was a lightness in our step as we finished chores that night and the following days. We knew the end of the story, and this illness was not to end in death. Everything was going to be OK! I have to imagine our Passion and Easter experience on the farm those many years ago was something of what the disciples experienced when they encountered the empty tomb, the message of the angels, and ultimately the Risen Christ. I have to imagine that joy and hope that we felt that night was some small measure of the joy and hope that filled and animated them when they encountered the Risen Christ, whom they deeply loved and who deeply loved them. They finally knew the end of the story, and came to know that it did not end with death. Brothers and sisters, we too have the benefit of knowing the end of the story. We too know that it does not end in death, but in Christ triumphing over death, not only for himself, but also for us! It is this rising to new life that we celebrate in every Mass, in every Eucharist, in every Sacrament, and especially tonight, as we celebrate with our Elect their rising to new life with Christ in the waters of Baptism. So let us be filled with Easter joy and hope, as we should be, for we know the end of the story: He has Risen, He has Truly Risen, and we with Him!

Good Friday, Year A

By Deacon Paul Cerosaletti • April 3, 2026
A parent of a young child recently shared with me that their child asked a simple, yet profound question: “Why do we call it Good Friday?” A good question to consider, indeed. Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is betrayed by one of his disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is handed over to authorities and arrested and treated as a criminal? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is abandoned by His disciples? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is denied by a disciple? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is scourged, brutally and bloodily tortured? Why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is painfully crowned, mocked and beaten? And why do we call it Good Friday when our Lord is rejected by those he came to save, and put to death by crucifixion? In all of these sinful human acts, in what is done and what is failed to be done, there is nothing good. But there is a fundamental Good on this day in the sacrificial giving of God and the obedience of Christ, who despite the betrayal, abandonment and abuse, rejection, and torture to death, remains faithful to the Father and steadfast to us. God the Father gives, without holding back, his only begotten Son for our sake, providing the Sacrificial Lamb, once and for all. God, who in effect says to us, “I love you so much; see how much I love you, that I give the life of my only begotten Son that you might be healed, restored, redeemed, and brought to Eternal Life with us!” And Christ, God the Son, willingly and obediently accepts the rejection and suffering and sacrifice of His life: all of which is His Passion, all of which is the eternal sacrifice of the Father. He does not turn away but remains steadfast in his commitment to our salvation. It is Christ who, in effect, says to us, “I love you so much. Even though rejected and wounded, I do not turn away from you. I will never turn away from you, and I will not abandon you. Ever. I give you my body -- my flesh, my blood -- that you might have life, and have it more abundantly. I want you to live, truly live!” In the actions of God the Father and Jesus Christ is nothing more, and nothing less than this: so great a Love for us that they would go to these lengths, give so deeply, endure this suffering, make this final sacrifice once and for all of time, in the face of rejection, sin, and death. To triumph over rejection, sin and death. Two thousand years ago and here, today, for our sake, that we might be restored, redeemed, made whole, one with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and with each other. And that is why it is called Good Friday.