It's Easter. A time to begin again. On Saturday night I went to the Easter Vigil at a tiny monastery, ironically smack dab in the middle of 1950's ramblers in a Minneapolis suburb. Living only on donations, the 8 or 10 Poor Clare sisters spend every day behind the 8-foot brick walls praying. They pray for peace, for our leaders, for our troops, for our souls, for the sick, the poor, the dying, and for the hundreds of personal intentions that people send them or call in every week. They have prayed for me.
The Easter Vigil is a long service, the highest holy day of the year, it combines Passover and the resurrection of Jesus. Penitents gather together in darkness, waiting for the first fire of the year to spring forth and for the pascal candle to be lit. We make our way from the great void in Genesis, through the history of the people of Israel before we even get to the traditional mass. And the sisters, no strangers to mediation or prayer, made this the longest vigil I've ever attended.
The seven Old Testament readings were accompanied by chant, prayer and five full minutes of silence after each one. I fidgeted, scratched and fought off sleep through the first four cycles, finally getting into a prayer groove for the last three. I sat with the handful of believers in the cinder block "hospitality" room of this spare monastery and was touched by God's delight with creation in Genesis. You know the story, seven days of grueling work creating the light, the earth, the sky, the waters, the animals and birds (and every creeping thing--damn those snakes), and finally man and woman, he created them. He saw that it was good six times, and on the seventh day, with immense satisfaction God pronounced it all, "very good." God seems to be a man of action, very few words.
Even more inspiring than Genesis was the sung call to prayer at the beginning of the service. The prologue to the long night, it greets the people and advertises the benefits of belief. Wrapped in the golden light from the fire, a small taper illuminating her serious face, Sister Helen intoned the ancient greeting. Her small, reedy voice hung in the smokey air above our heads and the sing song chant made its way to my heart. "The power of this night..." she sang, will wash the sins from the guilty and restore their innocence."
I breathed in, hardly daring to believe this could be possible. Restore my innocence? Wash away the bitter taste of betrayal? Repair the tears and scars on the surface of my heart left by grief, anger and loss. Erase the shame of bad choices and hurtful words? See the world with the innocent heart of a young girl, believing in the power of truth and love to make all things new?
And so there, in that simple, fire-lit room, I stepped into the power of the night.
The Easter Vigil is a long service, the highest holy day of the year, it combines Passover and the resurrection of Jesus. Penitents gather together in darkness, waiting for the first fire of the year to spring forth and for the pascal candle to be lit. We make our way from the great void in Genesis, through the history of the people of Israel before we even get to the traditional mass. And the sisters, no strangers to mediation or prayer, made this the longest vigil I've ever attended.
The seven Old Testament readings were accompanied by chant, prayer and five full minutes of silence after each one. I fidgeted, scratched and fought off sleep through the first four cycles, finally getting into a prayer groove for the last three. I sat with the handful of believers in the cinder block "hospitality" room of this spare monastery and was touched by God's delight with creation in Genesis. You know the story, seven days of grueling work creating the light, the earth, the sky, the waters, the animals and birds (and every creeping thing--damn those snakes), and finally man and woman, he created them. He saw that it was good six times, and on the seventh day, with immense satisfaction God pronounced it all, "very good." God seems to be a man of action, very few words.
Even more inspiring than Genesis was the sung call to prayer at the beginning of the service. The prologue to the long night, it greets the people and advertises the benefits of belief. Wrapped in the golden light from the fire, a small taper illuminating her serious face, Sister Helen intoned the ancient greeting. Her small, reedy voice hung in the smokey air above our heads and the sing song chant made its way to my heart. "The power of this night..." she sang, will wash the sins from the guilty and restore their innocence."
I breathed in, hardly daring to believe this could be possible. Restore my innocence? Wash away the bitter taste of betrayal? Repair the tears and scars on the surface of my heart left by grief, anger and loss. Erase the shame of bad choices and hurtful words? See the world with the innocent heart of a young girl, believing in the power of truth and love to make all things new?
And so there, in that simple, fire-lit room, I stepped into the power of the night.
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