Baptized into Christ's Death
Reflections on this holy night.
A few years ago I wrote a reflection on the Easter Vigil for The Just Word. This liturgy, which we will enter this evening as the sun goes down, has always led me closer to the heart of Jesus. Here I write of life and love, of grief and joy, and of what it means to be baptized into death. Please allow my reflection here guide you deeper into your own prayer. Wishing all a blessed evening!
“Do you not know that when we were baptized into Christ Jesus, we were baptized into Christ’s death?” (Epistle: Romans 6:3) This seemingly rhetorical question from Paul’s letter must be taken seriously for us today. Do we, as Catholics, know that we were baptized into life and death?
The entire triduum, which culminates in this night, the Easter vigil, is a time when the Church Calendar slows itself down to move in real time with the life of Jesus Christ. It allows us to align ourselves wholly with Christ’s passion in his final days on earth. The profundity of moving with Christ in these final days as a church cannot be understated.
My ‘home’ church, in Grafton, Wisconsin is called St. Joseph Parish. In this place my understanding of who God is was shaped. I particularly remember the special nature of the Easter vigil Mass; how we began in darkness and together brought the light, how the full choir would sing with a handful of soloists, and how each year there was a baptism. We are also each called to remember our own baptism, as the priest comes around sprinkling us with holy water.
“In the beginning, YHWH created the heavens and the earth.” From the start of this celebration we recognize its grandeur as we call back to the story of the beginning of time. At St. Joseph’s, the creation narrative from Genesis was intermixed with singing, as after the narrative of each day we would all sing together “and God saw that it was good, and there was evening, and morning.”
The very first thing God creates is light, and I’m struck by the simplicity of the inclusive translation simply stating “Then YHWH said, “Light: Be!” and light was.” All God had to say was “Light: Be!”
This creation, this birth of light indicates the partial death of darkness. God had to separate the light from the darkness, and here we see how new creation, that is good, can also indicate death. Obviously darkness did not die completely, maybe it would be better to say that it went away at certain times, or had to share space in a new way, or changed its way of being in the world. Is death not more expansive than our typical view?
Again Paul asks: “Do you not know that when we were baptized into Christ Jesus, we were baptized into Christ’s death?”
The Easter Vigil mass itself can not begin until the sun has set, until we are in darkness. This marks the significance of our light, the kindling of a new fire, and the spreading of this fire with our candles. It is as if God is saying through us “Light: Be!” as we are called to continue to summon the Light that God created.
The natural world can help us attune ourselves to the mysterious, paradoxical relationship between life and death. Each day the sun sets, the moon rises. Each season we are greeted with new blossoms and old leaves dying. The cyclical rhythm of nature seems to praise God by its very being, by its living and dying.
At the end of the vigil Mass at St. Joseph’s, we would always sing the hymn “We are marching in the light of God” as if to carry life forward from the church. This hymn always brought me back to a time in my life when I was confronted with death.
I lost my mother, Nancy, when I was in high school, to ALS, and at her funeral we sang this same hymn, We are Marching. While I take solace in embracing a broader view of death, losing a loved one is certainly more messy than Jesus’s death and resurrection through the Triduum.
Of course Christ’s death, at the hand of the Roman empire, does not have the final say, but in the depths of grief it feels like my mom’s death was the end of her life. The non-linear nature of grief returns and returns at different points. Grief can feel like a burden, but it can also feel like a joy and source of connection to mom. Some moments it feels like she is right here next to me, encouraging and witnessing me in my journey.
Is this not the same grief we carry for Christ? Certainly His own mother did carry this. For Jesus’s mother, and Mary of Magdala, were the first to witness His empty tomb in our gospel. At this particular moment I wonder how they felt. When both Marys came to inspect the tomb they were greeted with a “severe earthquake, and an angel of God descended from heaven.” They must have been filled with shock, confusion, and sadness as they were no doubt in a state of grief.
While our own grief from losing a loved one is not lightened through their bodily resurrection, I wonder how we can take consolation in knowing that grief is a part of our ongoing witness to the life of those who have died. Our grief, just as the grief of the Mary’s, can allow us to re-live not only within God incarnate, but also to allow those who have passed to live within us.
Again Paul asks: “Do you not know that when we were baptized into Christ Jesus, we were baptized into Christ’s death?”
For my own mom, I continue to allow her death to live in me. I continue to live my life in response to all the love that she poured into me. She has become one in the cloud of witness of whose light I march in, the very light that God created.
Can we sing together?
We are living in the death of Christ.
We are dying in the life of Christ.
Continue reading the full reflection via Future Church.