Easter Vigil

I was in the darkness of the tomb last night. The Catholics know how to do it. For almost three hours we stood, sat, kneeled, much of it in a dark cathedral with only one light—the Christ candle—to illumine the tomb in which we came to sing and pray and listen. And wait for light.

Adults, children, infants, teenagers—all were patient, silent, attentive. After the lights went on, the baptismal water splashed on three converts, dripping, running down their noses and cheeks and shirts and sandals. It was sprinkled on us who stood, waiting. The incense made me cough. The music at times made me wince. The liturgy made me profoundly glad that the Catholic church still is here.

I gave thanks that I knew most of the liturgy by heart, as it was too dark to read, and I didn’t want to be taken for an outsider. This was, after all, the family of God, of which I am a member—a kind of distant cousin from the Calvinist side of the family.

The darkness of the tomb is not a bad place to be. It is a place of waiting, a place of doubt tinged with hope, and of hope tinged with doubt. It is a place where the smallest flicker of light catches the eye and holds it. Standing in the darkness with all those people, I was glad we were all holding vigil together.

So it has been, and so it will likely continue to be. Throughout the crises of my life, others have stood with me in the darkness, waiting for light to return. The creed says that, after dying, Jesus was placed in the tomb and descended into hell. So he too has been with me in the hell of my dark, tomb-like waiting times. I was glad to have held vigil in his tomb last night, along with others who revere his name and who owe him their lives.