Preached at St Paul's Cathedral, Buffalo
In the name of
the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit. Amen.
Before a
complete understanding of astronomy, the ability to predict and understand
solar eclipses was scant. Since they were unpredictable, the frightening
prospect that the sun would darken then be completely overshadowed, throwing
the earth into darkness for 15 minutes was terrifying. It may be hard for
us, with our modern understanding, to fully grasp the horror that our ancestors
felt when the sun was entirely blotted out. That horror likely centered
on what would happen if the sun did not return. The first glimpse of
light peeking out from the edge must have led to a huge sigh of collective
relief as the eclipse began to end.
So, too, we
can be accustomed to knowing that Easter follows Good Friday. It is still
uncomfortable and unnerving to be in the darkness between, but we feel fairly
sure that the Church will proclaim the Easter message and continue its
sacramental life.
But today, we
are in the middle of the eclipse. Today, there is no sacramental
life. What would it feel like if that became our future? Not just
for today, but for the rest of the Church’s life? What if the eclipse
were not to end?
No more
funerals, no baptisms and confirmations, no more anointing of the sick, no
weddings, no ordinations, no consecration of bishops, no blessing of
animals. If we stayed amidst the eclipse, never again would we meet Our
Lord in the Eucharist.
That’s what
the world faced on Holy Saturday: its Messiah had come to inaugurate the
kingdom of God and to begin a new chapter of grace being extended to all by God
living and coming among them. But Good Friday was our response to that
invitation.
On Holy
Saturday, Peter continued to weep bitter tears, not just because of his part in
the betrayal, but because of the darkness that enshrouded the world.
But there were
others, others who lived in that darkness, but hoped that the light would break
through again, others whose faith strengthened them and reminded them that Our
Lord had talked of his body as a temple, and promised that he would rebuild
that temple in three days. Some of those in the darkness remembered and
hoped.
First among
those who hoped was the Blessed Virgin; she was the first to have received the
grace of Christ in her life when she accepted the invitation of the archangel
to become the Savior’s mother, and Scripture repeatedly reminds us that she
pondered in her heart the mysteries of her son’s life. ON Saturday, Mary
hoped.
It is a medieval tradition that Saturdays are a day in which the
Church remembers Mary in a special way, specifically because of her faith in
God’s promises even in the midst of doubt: first at the Annunciation and today,
on Holy Saturday, as she pondered in her heart her son’s words that he would
rise again. She stood, faithful at the cross, as her son was taken from
her, and today, though morning, she set her face to Sunday. She knew that
today was the Sabbath, the day on which the Lord rested in Genesis. She
remembered and pondered the promises God had made to her and to the world, and
knew that after the Sabbath rest, on the first day of the week, her Son would
begin again the work of creation in the world. With Mary, we wait with
hope, with eyes and hearts set for the eclipse to fade.
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