Afterwards, in keeping the mournful spirit, I went to the
cemetery. What better place to spend the day when Christ lay in the tomb? I
felt very much in solidarity with Mary and the other women who would have been
mourning Jesus’ death after his burial. But I realized that I couldn’t quite
replicate the sorrow and despair that must have been felt by those women,
because I knew about Easter. Easter changed Holy Saturday forever, from a day
of utter hopelessness to a day of quiet, hidden hope. Similarly, the
Resurrection changed death forever. I went around to all the graves of my
relatives and told them to take courage, because Christ who rose on the third
day would also raise them on the last day. (It sounds better in German: Habt Mut! Denn Christus, der am dritten Tage
auferstanden ist, wird auch euch am letzten Tage auferstehen lassen!) Anyway, nature was cooperating
beautifully with my meditations. The sky was gray and a very silent snow was
falling, covering all the graves like a stifling white blanket. But in the
trees, the birds were singing like crazy, all ready for spring. This
juxtaposition of silence and sound—of visible death and life that I couldn’t
see, only hear—reflected very well the idea of hope hidden under the outward
signs of death and desolation.
***
As I said above, Easter Vigil was at five in the morning.
Actually four, because we turned the clocks forward. Theoretically, this is
very cool—it always felt a little weird that we celebrated Jesus’ death on
Friday and only a little over 24 hours later, his resurrection. Celebrating
Sunday morning would actually make it the third day. In practice, however, my
body was not used being in church so early. Exciting though it always is for to
me be up before the sun, I quickly realized that 5 (4) a.m. was really quite
early to be sitting in a cold, dark church, especially without caffeine
beforehand. I found myself annoyed by every little thing, like that you had to
buy the candles, or
that it was just impossible to heat such a huge old church. The gorgeous words
of the prayers that make Easter Vigil possibly my favorite Mass of the year
just seemed like far-off words, and the readings somehow managed to bring to mind nearly
every major political or philosophical dispute I’d had since I got here. I was
on my way to being very tired and grumpy, all alone in the darkness with only
my negative political thoughts and my guilty feelings about things from the
past to keep me company.
Suddenly, however, it was time for the Gloria. The lights
came on, the church bells rung, the organ played. I nearly cried upon being
able to see the faces of the people around me (at such hours I’m predisposed to
being emotional). At that moment it hit me that there were other people there—that
I wasn’t nearly as alone as I’d felt, even though I knew almost nobody. It
crossed my mind that Christ is the Light of the World, the Morning Star as the
Exultet proclaims, and that his light is able to free us from the prison of
ourselves and our same old thoughts and guilty feelings. His light wakes us up
to the fact that other people exist, helps us open our eyes to the world around
us. His light helps us go outside ourselves (something I need to work on
constantly). By the end of Mass, the sun had risen outside. Above the altar
there is a huge golden-yellow stained glass window, which I assume depicts the
sun, through which light was just pouring.
On my way home, though still tired and looking forward to
some hot coffee, I stopped by the cemetery one more time, to announce to all
those resting there that Christ was risen (though I’m sure they knew). I caught
myself humming the Taizé song “Surrexit Christus”. At first I was worried about
bothering the other people who had come to pray, but then I figured, if there
was ever a day to sing in a cemetery, it was Easter Sunday! And then I hurried
home to share my Easter joy (and chocolate) with my grandmother. :)
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