All Saints’, Dorval
April 8, 2023
Brian as Jesus washing a child’s feet, April 1
A week ago, a cluster of small children waited at the bottom of the stairs by the back door. They had just been the story of Jesus’ betrayal and death (at an age-appropriate level, of course) and then they had descended one by one into the dark stairwell, underneath a strip of butcher paper decorated with black marker to look like a tomb. As they stood in the dark, wondering what would happen next, they were surprisingly quiet and attentive for a group whose average age was probably 5.
As we waited, eyes wide, in the dark, from the other end of the hallway came Brian, our baptismal candidate, draped in a dark red bedsheet to play the part of Jesus. Upstairs, he had shared bread and wine with the children around the altar, and then washed their feet. Now, he held a lit candle, and as I played a recording of “The trumpet shall sound,” from Handel’s Messiah, he passed through the crowd of kids, led us back up the stairs (tearing through the brown paper “tomb” on the way!) and out the back door into the April sunshine (which was a small miracle in itself, as it had been raining an hour previously).
I’m not ashamed to say that I was sobbing behind my mask as the tiny point of light drew closer and the music swelled.
This moment, of course, was intentionally designed (by my mother, from whom I get all my best ideas) to mirror the moment at the beginning of tonight’s service: when we kindle the New Fire, light the Paschal candle, and bear the light into the dark chapel, the flame representing the soul of Christ coming into Sheol, the dark and silent place of the dead, in order to set those dead free.
Then we lit our own candles from that holy flame, and by their light we heard all the best and oldest stories, of God creating the world and delivering the people and raising the dry bones.
And we baptized Brian, leading him through the tomb, the deep waters of death that are also the waters of birth, and having washed and anointed him, we lit another candle from that light and gave it to him, saying, “Receive the light of Christ.”
The light belongs to all of us. It is the light of resurrection, spreading through the world from the darkness of the tomb into the sunshine of the Easter day, lit in each one of us upon our baptism. It is the light of hope, hope that the shadowy hallway at the bottom of the stairs is not the end of the story, that someone is coming to rescue us and lead us forth into new life. And it is the light of our individual gifts and ministries, the vocations to which Jesus calls each of us in our baptism, the light that we are called to share with the world.
(As I typed this on the morning of Maundy Thursday in the middle of a citywide power outage, I couldn’t help reflecting on how essential light is, and how so much of the light we rely on to get through the day is so vulnerable to weather and other crises. Thank goodness the light of Christ is a candle flame and not reliant on Quebec Hydro – and thank goodness, also, that our power did rise from the grave this morning!)
Between Palm Saturday and tonight, we also lit a candle to keep watch through the night – in a dark church without power – beside the bread and wine that represented the Saviour as he traveled the path of betrayal and death; and after we had consumed all that bread and wine at the Good Friday service (still in the cold and dark) we blew out the candle to symbolize the death of God on the cross.
When have you, in your life, been in darkness and waiting, longing, for the light to come and set you free?
Which of the old, old stories, which of the baptismal promises, sparked a particular light in your soul today, refreshing your faith and renewing your commitment?
What light is God lighting within you, which you can bear out into the world to bring hope and healing to those who are yearning for new life?
Tonight, we kindled the light of Christ in Brian, passing it on as it has been passed on without a break since Jesus first harrowed Hell, two thousand years ago. He is the newest one of us to bear that light forth into the world. May that light burn brightly in each of us, this Easter and always.
Amen.
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