Last May, on a 30 kilometer day of walking, we started it out with a visit to a 12th-century Cistercian monastery, Sauvelade. Tucked into a corner at the bottom of a valley, while looking out to fields, the abbey church welcomes pilgrims with its simplicity. (There are also running water, a hostel, café and other creature comforts for the pilgrim.) We had planned on spending only five minutes there, but in the course of my wandering around the dimly-lit church, I discovered a manuscript of Gregorian chant (in the old form of musical notations, numes) on a bookstand behind the altar. For ten minutes, I lost myself, forgetting my aching and painful feet, as I first sang through the creed and then the Gloria. Time and space melted away, it was just the music and me, and in a short amount of time I was transported to another place, that place of being lost in ‘wonder, love and praise.’ It was worth forfeiting our planned coffee-break to reach into a larger space and time.
At the time, I didn’t make the connection with the singing of the Exsultet but as I reflected on tonight, I realised the events were similar. In both cases, a lone voice sings ancient words. These words travel across the centuries, through time, place and culture but they remain unifying. At the monastery, I was the only one in the church. Here, tonight, we are gathered together, but we listen to those ancient words while focused on the one light of the Pascal candle. How can one not be lost in wonder, love and praise? How can one not be lost to God?
This night is our most holy night. This night is the night when Christ rose victorious from the grave. This night is in a word, awesome.
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This past Tuesday, Curtis Almquist, the Superior of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, located in Cambridge, MA, came to our cathedral to provide meditations for a quiet morning at the end of which, the clergy renewed their ordination vows, and the bishop blessed the oils that we use for baptism and unction of the sick.
Brother Curtis spoke of the Exsultet:
‘This past Easter morning at 4:00 a.m. we were celebrating the Easter Vigil in the monastery where I live. At one moment early on in the liturgy I was stunned, quite unexpectedly. I had a kind of epiphany, something which has very much stayed with me during these past months. The monastery chapel was still in darkness, illuminated only by lighted tapers held by the monks and a large number of people worshipping with us and the great Paschal Candle. In this darkened space tears rolled off my chin. The tears started in the course of the deacon’s singing the Exsultet, this ancient hymn proclaiming the Easter light of Christ. One phrase in the Exsultet stunned me, made me tremble a bit, and then came the tears. The phrase was this: “How holy is this night, when wickedness is put to flight, and sin is washed way. It restores innocence to the fallen….” Innocence. Christ’s offering us not just forgiveness, not just redemption of what is wasted or lost, but innocence. If Jesus, knowing you even better than you know yourself, were to say to you, “You are innocent,” could you take it in? “You are innocent.” Could you begin to imagine being innocent? “You are innocent.” This is not about being “declared innocent,” like a verdict rendered in a court of law. This is not the adjudication of innocence but rather the restoration of innocence. That’s the context in which we hear these words sung in the Exsultet. Our being made innocent again by Christ.’
What Brother Curtis is speaking of is what happens in the Incarnation, the sum of which we celebrate tonight: Christ’s resurrection and the restoration of humanity to its God-given state.
He continues: ‘In the Incarnation we experience God’s coming to us in Jesus, stooping low to meet us on our own plane. What we have come to know, in the fullness of time, God has known all along, and known all along about us. In the fullness of time, God is sharing that knowledge with us, the knowledge about our own selves with us. The French theologian Paul Riccoeur writes about a “second naiveté.” I think this begins with our own selves, as we come to know – know life, know ourselves – as God has known all along. Let the nature of that knowledge dawn on you. Jesus says, “I have come to make all things new,” including for you a new heart, and new eyes, and a new mind to apprehend your own self… you, whom God has known since you were knit together in your mother’s womb.’ (1)
On this most holy night, our holiest night of the year, what do you need to know about yourself that God already knows? What mysteries still lie deep within you that need to be set free, either as release to be let go of once and for all or to be nurtured so that they might flourish in the light of knowledge? What innocence might there be that God desires for you to rediscover this night? How can you rediscover the wonder, love and praise which initially brought you into this place and continues to draw you back again and again?
On this most holy night, let the grace of the resurrection, and the message of God’s extravagant love permeate every fibre of your body and soul. Give yourself time and space to welcome them. And, then, let yourself rejoice, for the kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you and God’s love has been there for you since the beginning of time.
Christ is risen, alleluia, alleluia!
The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia, alleluia!
END NOTE
(1) From a meditation, “The Restoration of Innocence,” given to the clergy of the Diocese of Vermont on Holy Tuesday, 3 April 2007, by Brother Curtis Almquist, SSJE.
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