#easter triduum

Rev. Paul K. Rourke, S.J.

Vice President for Mission and Ministry

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me…

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

-John Donne

I find comfort in these defiantly hopeful words from one of Donne’s “Holy Sonnets,” which I first read as a high school freshman. Since last Easter, death has been a persistent and menacing addition to my year. Unexpectedly, I lost my brother, John, last June. Over the last few months, I have lost a friend to a violent carjacking and two Jesuit brothers dear to me and the whole Fairfield University and Prep community: Frs. Charlie Allen, S.J., and Jim Bowler, S.J.  I loved and looked up to all these men, and miss them terribly. Death has robbed and humbled me, but I no longer feel in the mood to be deferential.  With Donne I feel defiant, and following his example, I say, “Death, I’ve had enough of you!” Surely, Easter is a time for all of us to join in defying death. For our Jewish brothers and sisters, too, the Passover commemorates the Lord’s deliverance of his people from death. The Angel of Death did not claim the first-born of the Chosen People or defeat the Lord’s covenant, but freed the People of Israel from bondage.

The Paschal Mystery the Church celebrates in the Easter Triduum defies death in a singular way: instead of sanitizing or ignoring it, death is confronted head-on and elevated just as it is consigned to oblivion: gory, ignominious death becomes forever the sacrament of our salvation, a reality utterly transformed and transforming. The Risen Jesus is a Wounded Jesus, but his wounds no longer define his destiny: they led to his death, but the Son of God has given them their ultimate meaning: marks of death’s ultimate powerlessness and proof that he will never abandon his humanity. 

Whether or not we have tasted much death in our lives, we, too, are wounded in a world simultaneously infatuated with, and in denial of, death. If the news out of Ukraine or Israel and Gaza have not wounded us with grief, then death has wounded us even more grievously: with stony hearts. However we are wounded, Easter tells us to embrace the fullness of our humanity as Jesus did (his own and ours). The voice of Death tells us to fear our weakness and hide our wounds in shame, but Jesus reminds us that God wants to raise, transform, and glorify every part of us, not just the parts we are proud of. He wants to do the same for all of us, and we are commanded to embrace the wounded brothers and sisters all around us with sacrificial love. When we hide from their pain, or ignore their dignity, we keep our tomb closed with the stone of indifference.

When we defy death and embrace the fullness of life God offers (in ourselves and each other), Easter becomes more than another day on the calendar: it becomes the center and meaning of every day.  When that happens, we can say in the same joyful confidence of Donne’s poem, “Death, thou shalt die.”

“I consider that the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us.” Romans 8:18

The last time I set foot in a church was nearly a month ago. I was there early to pray in silence before the mass began and something became so clear to me as I gazed at the crucifix above the altar.

It occurred to me that it was the second greatest paradox on earth, next to the crucifixion. But our Lord certainly works in paradox.

The soldiers crowned Jesus Christ with the most painful crown of all, literally and figuratively. To ascend to his throne, he was subject to horrid tortures.

The physical crown they placed on his head here on earth was a joke, a point of mockery for them. Jesus was the self-professed King of the Jews and they saw fit to punish him for those words.

Yet, the deeper they drove the barbs into his tender temples and into his scalp, the more they drove home the truth. He was king.

Each drop of blood from his body was another ounce of his glory. Every moment of pain he endured, as they beat that crown further down onto his head, equated to unimaginable joy in Heaven, such is the way of our God.

The crown he bore was excruciating. Not just the one that marred his Holy Face, but the crown he now wears in Heaven. Each one of us is responsible for the pain Christ endured; we have all sinned.

I think I was meant to meditate on this for the remainder of Lent. I did not know public masses would be suspended until mass began that day nearly a month ago. The Crowning of Thorns is but a part of Christ’s passion, but keeping it at the front of one’s mind is enough to elevate one’s faith in a profound way.

St. Therese told Celine to look into the Face of Jesus, for “there you will see how much He loves us”

- Letter