A SERMON FOR THE SUNDAY WITHIN THE OCTAVE OF ASCENSION
I’m not sure exactly when the
earth was created. I don’t think anyone
is really, although some might claim to know.
There is the famous Protestant bishop, for example, James Ussher, who
supposedly calculated that God created the earth in the year 4004 BC, on
October 23, at twelve o’clock in the afternoon.
It might be interesting to know, I suppose, but one thing is certain in
the greater schemes of things concerning our eternal salvation, and that is,
that it doesn’t really matter.
The division of time, you see,
into centuries and years, is really nothing more than a useful tool for
historians and farmers. That the Battle
of Hastings took place in 1066 might be important to me if I’m a contestant on
Jeopardy, but otherwise I’d be no better or worse off if it happened a hundred
years earlier or later. There are some
events in our history, however, that are so important for our salvation that we
mark them on our calendars every year.
We make a point of celebrating such anniversaries with solemnity and
festiveness, reminding ourselves that this indeed is a day in history that must
never be forgotten.
Often these events are
commemorated by some special ceremony.
On Armistice Day in Europe, for example, it is still common practice to
mark the end of hostilities in World War I by two minutes’ silence. And if our deliverance from the hands of the
Germans is something to be remembered, with what solemnity should we commemorate
our deliverance from sin and death by the life of Our Lord Jesus Christ?
In the whole span of human
history the lifetime of Christ takes up a mere 33 years. Thirty of these years took place in relative
obscurity, from the moment of the Incarnation, to Christ’s birth in the stable,
and then to the beginning of his public ministry. Another three years and the time came for the
Passion, Death and Resurrection. And
after that a mere forty days before he would leave this earth, ascending into
heaven.
And what great ceremony takes
place on Ascension Day to mark this extraordinary anniversary of the departure
of the physical presence of God from his people? It’s actually a very brief and simple
ceremony. You might easily miss it if
you’re not paying attention. It happens
at only one of the Masses held in a church on this holyday of obligation, at
the principal Mass held that day. It’s
not a big, lavish ceremony--immediately after the Gospel, one of the altar boys
extinguishes the Paschal Candle. That’s
it. No pomp, no solemn drumroll, no
fireworks. Just the simple snuffing out of
a candle.
But think for a moment of the
deep significance of that little action.
It represents the difference between light and darkness. In the beginning, when God created the heaven
and the earth, the earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the
face of the deep. Darkness. But then unto us a child was born, unto us a
son was given. This was the light of
men, “and the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.” And because his own received him not, because
from the beginning mankind had preferred to live sinfully according to their
own pleasures rather than by doing the will of the their Creator, this light of
men, whom they received not, whom they comprehended not, had to suffer death on
the Cross. He was nailed to that cross
at midday, and the world was plunged again into darkness. A darkness it had now known since its very
beginning. And “from the sixth hour,”
according to the Gospel of St. Matthew, “there was darkness over all the land
until the ninth hour.” And in the church
on Maundy Thursday, we extinguish all the candles and lights, stripping the
altar, and leaving the house of God derelict and dark.
And then the Resurrection. We light fire at the Easter vigil and bring
that light into the church, with the announcement that it is the Lumen Christi, the light of Christ. With great pomp and ceremony, the Paschal
Candle is then lit, and one of the most solemn of the Church’s prayers, the Exsultet, is sung by the deacon to
announce the significance of our vigil watch. For the next forty days, the Paschal Candle is
lit at Mass and solemn Vespers, and we rejoice throughout our Eastertide, in a
world illuminated once again by the presence of our Lord and Saviour.
But on Ascension Thursday,
something changes. Christ departs this
earth and returns to his heavenly Father.
It is not an unhappy occasion. On
the contrary. But Ascension Day marks
that moment in all of history, when Christ ceased to walk among us, no longer teaching,
healing, forgiving, and redeeming. His
legacy we still have in the form of the Church, the Holy Scriptures, the
Sacraments, and so forth—all the sacred truths and traditions of Holy Mother
Church. But even these, wonderful and
priceless as they are, are can never make us feel the same as being in the
physical presence of Christ in his visible human form. We are like soldiers on the battlefield. Now and again we may be comforted by a
“letter from home”. But that’s a far cry
from being there, with those you
love.
And thus, our Paschal Candle
burns no more. No longer does its bright
flame shine forth its light, the “light of Christ” among us. We must be content for a while with those
“letters from home”, those reflections of the glory everlasting. But the day will come, if we remain true and
loyal to our faith and the love it teaches us, when our Father in heaven will
allow us to follow his Son beyond the clouds into his kingdom. There he will illuminate us with the light of
glory, enabling us to behold him face to face, for ever.
