A few years ago, I wrote an article for Anglican Life entitled “I Need Easter.” At that time, as a world, we were coming out of the COVID-19 pandemic, and for myself, it was the first time that I could celebrate Easter the way I enjoy celebrating it since 2018. This was due to a personal injury in 2019, and then in the death of my sister that same year. Then, in 2020 and 2021, due to the pandemic, there were restrictions on how and where we could worship during our observances of Easter.
This year, once again, I need Easter. Truth be told, I think everyone who believes that Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again is in need of Easter. Yet this year, I need Easter due to the fact that, back in January, my mom left this world and entered into everlasting life. With that in mind, I express thanks to all those who have reached out to me and my family in the days and weeks after her passing. Your thoughts and prayers have been an immense source of comfort and solace.
As a priest, I stand at the altar week after week, celebrating with people the sacred mysteries of our faith. They are just that—they are mysteries. I often say to people, especially when dealing with them in their times of grief and loss, that when they ask me the question of why, I tell them that the mysteries of God are meant to be pondered; they are not meant to be solved. As I stand, week after week, celebrating the sacred mysteries, I feel a stronger connection to the prayer of the Church, especially when we say: “And with those who have served you in every age, we lift our voices to proclaim the glory of your name.”
Celtic spirituality believes that there are places where heaven and earth meet, and they call them thin spaces—all that prevents us from seeing people on the other side of this thing that we call death is our sight. Standing at the altar and receiving the Eucharist has always been just such a thin place for me. Now, it is more so than ever before. In the immediate weeks following my mother’s death and burial, the most comfort, the most happiness, and the most contentment I had was—and still is—when I stand at the altar to celebrate the sacred mysteries. It is then, at that moment, that we do indeed join with those who have served God in every age, and not only join with them but become one with them. Such a great cloud of witnesses—and with such a cloud, there is great comfort.
This year, Easter will be different. But it will be wonderful at the same time, knowing that as we stand and behold the one who has wounded hands, wounded feet and wounded side, from those wounds we are given healing of not only physical but also spiritual and emotional wounds, which we ourselves have.
This year, as we all celebrate Easter, may we know that it is not only those whom we can see and do see that we celebrate with, but also those whom we cannot see. All that prevents us from seeing them is our sight, but we know that just as we are here, they are there.
