by Paulist Fr. Rich Andre
April 13, 2020

Paulist Fr. Rich Andre preached this homily at the Easter Vigil on April 11, 2020, at St. Austin Parish in Austin, TX. This homily is based on the readings of the Mass: Genesis 1:1 – 2:2; Genesis 22:1-18; Exodus 14:15 – 15:1; Isaiah 54:5-14; Isaiah 55:1-11; Baruch 3:9-15, 32 – 4:4; Ezekiel 36:16-17a, 18-28; Romans 6:3-11; and Matthew 28:1-10. Because public Masses were cancelled due to coronavirus concerns, the Mass was video recorded.

An online worship aide can be found here.

At a concert in 1956 in Shreveport, Louisiana, Elvis Presley was just one of several performers. When Presley finished his act, the audience stood and hooted and hollered, imploring him to come out and play one more encore. But Presley didn’t hear them. Concert promoter Horace Logan explained on the loudspeaker: “Elvis has left the building.” It got quiet. People returned to their seats. 

In this time of pandemic, some people feel as if God has left the building… or left the United States… or left the whole world. We’re stuck at home, feeling helpless as we watch the crisis unfold. Hundreds of millions of people around the world are struggling to keep food on the table, and tens of millions will eventually grieve the deaths of hundreds of thousands. These numbers are incomprehensible.

Intellectually, we know that other crises have occurred in history, some worse than this. No matter how widely the coronavirus outbreak rages or how long it continues, the death toll is unlikely to approach anything close to the destruction caused by the Black Death of the 14^th century. It’s too early to determine if the world economy will be as devastated as during the Great Depression. But this crisis… is our crisis. Emphasizing that “it could be worse” insults those who are grieving the loss of life and the loss of financial security. It also trivializes the real grief each and every one of us feel for the other losses and inconveniences that fall short of the categories of life and death. Tonight, Brendan, Caroline, Justin, Michael, Patricia, Richard, Tre, and Vincent grieve that they will not be received into the Church at this Easter Vigil and will not receive the sacraments of confirmation and first Eucharist. Amanda, Carly, and Revell will not be baptized tonight. They join the growing list of families at St. Austin’s and around the world who have had to postpone baptisms, first communions, weddings, and – most tragically – funerals. 

In the year 2020, when our world is filled with fear, uncertainty, and death, let us take consolation in all that God revealed to our Jewish ancestors more than two millennia ago. Even though our readings tonight are about joy and promise, most were written to communities experiencing times of isolation, persecution, captivity, and not being able to gather for worship. Let’s take a few minutes to explore our seven Old Testament readings.

The second Genesis reading is probably the most challenging. We’re told that God put Abraham to the test by asking him to sacrifice his son. It doesn’t make sense. If Abraham kills his son, he will have no descendants to become a great nation, or to grow as numerous as the stars. Jews, Christians, and Muslims – half of the world’s population – revere this event as the beginning of our religious experience. Why? Because God, in fact, did not demand sacrifice. God allowed Abraham’s son to live, to flourish, and to continue the fulfillment of God’s promise.

Five of our readings tonight were written during or about the Babylonian captivity in the 6^th century B.C. At that time, King Nebuchadnezzar captured the kingdom of Judah, destroyed the city of Jerusalem, and exiled all the Jewish religious and political leaders. It is from this experience that we pray for God to “ransom captive Israel.” Even though there was no Temple at this time in which God could dwell, the Biblical authors speak of hope. And they spoke of hope for good reason: within the lifetime of some of those held captive, God’s promises were once again fulfilled, and our Jewish ancestors were allowed to return to Jerusalem. 

Out of chaos and darkness, God brought order and light. God has done it before, and God will do it again. Through the words of Isaiah speaking to those with insufficient money or food, God invites the people to come to the water, and receive all that they need. Baruch conveys God’s assurances to our ancestors that they would be rescued if they kept the faith. We who hear Baruch’s prophecy know that God has already fulfilled it and will continue to do so in every generation.

God speaks to Ezekiel not primarily about the plight of the nation, but about the challenges to each individual: “I will give you a new heart and place a new spirit within you.” The other Isaiah reading also conveys consolation, especially to anyone who has ever convinced themselves that they are unlovable or not doing their best in difficult times. “Though the mountains leave their place and the hills be shaken,” says the LORD, “my love shall never leave you.”

We Christians often forget that the story of Passover is not just about a single night. As the proclamation I sang at the beginning of the liturgy reminds us, the Passover was a centuries-long drama when God delivered the Israelites from enslavement. That drama reaches its apex at the parting of the waters of the Red Sea as recounted in the Exodus reading and the accompanying canticle. In fact, one of the deepest realities of our Christian baptism is that we, too, are rescued by God from slavery and led into freedom.

I would summarize what we heard in the darkness tonight in three sentences. God challenges our perceptions about scarcity and pointless sacrifice, and transfigures them into the reality of abundance. God brings our world out of chaos into order. God rescues us from the slavery of sin, selfishness, and self-rejection and delivers us into the freedom of holiness, compassion, and knowing that we are beloved. 

So, if God promised all of this more than two millennia ago, what changed with the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ? According to Matthew, something literally ground-shaking happened on both the afternoon of Good Friday and the early dawn of Easter Sunday. Paul spells it out more clearly in Romans: just as Jesus now lives for God, so we too “must think of [ourselves] as… living for God in Christ Jesus.” 

From Christ’s vulnerable birth into our world through his gruesome death, he became like us. In Christ’s resurrection, we become like him. Nothing can separate us from Christ. Not anguish. Not distress. Not persecution. Not famine, nor nakedness, nor peril, nor the sword. Christ’s rising from the dead “washes guilt away, restores lost innocence, brings mourners joy; it casts out hatred, brings us peace, and humbles earthly pride” [Exsultet, previous translation].

Ever since that night in Shreveport, the phrase “Elvis has left the building” has been used in the opposite way from how it was originally intended. Instead of meaning “sit down, shut up, and wait for what happens next,” it means “get out of here, stay excited, and do something!” (And where I was born, it usually means that the Pittsburgh Penguins have won a home hockey game.)

Friends, in these incredibly awkward 25 days of attending Mass via livestream and video recording, it’s become abundantly clear that nothing can separate us from Christ. Even as you grieve that you cannot take the physical presence of Christ in the Eucharist into your bodies, a lot of us on both ends of these videos have gained a deeper sense that home confinement cannot separate any of us from being the Body of Christ. I assure you – and the other ministers who have been here for these livestreams can assure you, too – that we feel your presence in this place. A remarkable number of you have reached out to tell us that you can sense our presence with you. Just as Christ cannot be confined to the tomb, the Church cannot be confined to a building. 

Christ may have left the tomb, but he has not left us. Right now, it might feel as if there’s little we can do to be Christ for one another and for all the people suffering throughout the world. But even in our homes, we are making a difference. It’s the phone calls and video chats we’re sharing with one another. (Why in the world did it take a pandemic for so many of us to finally get around to doing this?) It’s the self-forgiveness that comes from realizing that time and distance aren’t the only things holding us back from getting organized. It’s the people tending to the sick, keeping essential services open, sewing masks, delivering groceries, and caring for the lonely. It’s some people recognizing they already possess God’s abundance, opening their hearts and wallets to those who are experiencing scarcity. (Next weekend, we will provide resources on more ways to extend the love of Christ to the most needy. Stay tuned!) It’s the willingness to see and enter the suffering of those we see on our television screens in our neighborhood, in our state, and around the world. It’s the willingness to cry or sob, to let uncertainty teach us about the immeasurable value of each life which is more than any graph or model. In these 25 days, I’ve been impressed with how many parishioners have engaged in reconciling with friends and family over hurts caused long, long ago. 

Tonight, when Deacon Billy sings the extra-fancy dismissal which includes the words “go in peace,” let’s think of stating it another way: the CHURCH has left the building. The Mass is never ended, but at the end of this particular liturgy: our actions must move out from here, and our excitement must move mountains. The Church is us, together, much more than buildings or a set of doctrines. We are the Church when we gather physically, but we are also the Church when we are spread throughout the world, united in Christ’s love. Let us pray to discover a role in God’s mission that is worthy of our lives, to enkindle a spirituality of adventure, and to find companions for the journey.¹

We who have been baptized into Christ’s Body must now be the agents of God’s covenantal love throughout the world. As Christ’s Body and as empowered by the Holy Spirit, we will bring order to the chaos. We will reject sin, self-rejection, and selfishness. We will provide God’s abundance. We will set captives free. And even in the face of death, the Spirit will move through us to renew the face of the earth.

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Notes