It’s evening. The pastor reads
the prayers from a Roman missal balanced precariously on the hands of an altar
server, the wind rifling the corners of the pages, “Christ yesterday and today,
the beginning and the end…all time belongs to him and all the ages.” As the incense pierces the beeswax of the
Easter candles, these words probe the wounds of my disbelief.
Make no mistake, I believe in
Christ, Eternal God from Eternal God, risen from the dead, coming in glory. My
problem lies here: time is God’s. Too
often time seems to be a demonic presence harrying me from one end of my day to
the other. Or it is a raging torrent that batters my heart, dragging me along
when I would instead cling to the babe in my arms, or hold tight to the
teenaged boys clowning in my kitchen. Even as I follow the candle into the dark
church, I struggle to accept such forces could cut channels of grace. To chant in gratitude, "Thanks be to God."
Yet here it is again, in the
first reading. The Spirit swept over the darkling waters, and the Word set the
universe aflame. Time was cupped for a
moment in God’s hand, then poured forth. There was morning and evening. And all
the days since. It dawns on me that time is not a flaw in creation. It points
me toward a God who let go what was clenched in his hands, chose to throw himself
into the torrents of time with us, and promised never to leave. To this, I say
amen. Alleluia.
A version of this reflection appeared Give Us This Day for the Easter Vigil
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