Light in Darkness

Today we remember that our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters celebrate Easter, and we unite ourselves with them in their Pascha.

On this Easter day, I wonder what my words could add to the eloquence of our liturgy, rich not only in exclamations of joy, but in embracing the complexity of human experience.  Alleluia comes in as many colors as there are shades of meaning.  We do not have to cross our fingers when we sing alleluia, even knowing that there are too many in our world today who now dwell in the shadow of death, in terror, in suffering, in want.  The Easter proclamation is a message that is never out of place.  This is what I felt as we sang the beautiful polyphony of the angels’ words at the empty tomb:
Do not be afraid.  He is not here.  He is risen.   Alleluia.

Our Easter joy is not conditional on the elimination of all present suffering, but on the final victory over the power of sin and death to destroy us.  For Christ has been there, in the depths, in hell, and has come forth from the tomb, alive.  He walks into locked rooms where frightened people are hiding.  He speaks of peace to a people without peace.  He shows them his hands and his side, still marked by the wounds of a violent death.  He says:
“Do not be afraid.
I am the first and the last, the one who lives.
Once I was dead, but now I am alive forever and ever.
I hold the keys to death and the netherworld.” (Rv 1:17-18)

I cannot think of a more eloquent testament to the Easter proclamation than that of Franz Jagerstatter, conscientious objector to fighting for the Nazis, whose story is told in the film “A Hidden Life.”  Again and again Franz was told by friends and neighbors, by clergymen, by his lawyer and his fellow captives as well as and his tormentors: Your stance will help no-one.  What you are doing and suffering will never be known and will have no effect on the ways of the world.  It is your selfish pride that makes your family and your countrymen suffer on your behalf.  Somehow, with much soul-searching, questioning and in the face of almost total opposition, Franz was able to stand by his conviction, the still small voice within which told him that he could not serve evil.  The life and death of this man in complete obscurity tells us that everything matters, that even small people far from centers of power can make a choice for goodness and truth and hope and life in the midst of a world that seems to embrace the contrary.  In the strength of Christ, Franz was able to walk to his death.  In the strength of Christ, his wife Fani was able to walk with him, support him when no-one else did, and then live on without him in faith that his sacrifice mattered.

People such as Franz and Fani are like Paschal Candles burning in the night.  The darkness cannot overcome their light.  Jesus tells us: Remain in me, and you will burn with the light of Christ that will never, never be extinguished.