Alleluia: The Last Enemy

Introduction

The liturgical now

Way back on Ash Wednesday we exited Ordinary Time and entered into the Extraordinary Time of Lent for a forty-day journey to Easter. Today we’ve arrived. Today we exchange the purple of penance for the white and gold of celebration. Last night in the Easter Vigil the deacon prepared the Paschal candle to be lighted in the Sunday assembly for the next fifty days—a reminder of the fifty days Jesus appeared to his disciples after his resurrection.

Christmas & Easter

In Advent (which flies by so fast in preparation for Christmas) we wait for a birth. We wait for the birth of a baby boy in Bethlehem, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger as shepherds gaze and heavenly multitudes sing, “Glory to God in the highest.” That’s joyful stuff, and it easily turns on little children and big ones too.

In Lent (which plods along slowly for forty long winter days) we wait for a death. We wait for the death of Jesus as triumphantly overcome, and as a sign and promise that our death and the death of all we love will also be overcome. That’s heavy stuff, and it doesn’t easily turn us on.

Easter’s more profound dimension

In this northern hemisphere Easter breaking the back of winter turns us on. Easter calling us out of the darkness of winter and lengthening the light of day turns us on. Easter kissing our cold bones and warming our Mother Earth turns us on. Easter breaking through dying snowdrifts with crocuses and daffodils turns us on. Easter sounding with brooks babbling and lakes lapping turns us on.

But Easter’s more profound dimension, whether in northern or southern climes, is the death of Jesus as triumphantly overcome and as a sign and promise made to us. That’s heavy stuff, and it doesn’t easily turn us on, especially when we are young and haven’t had much experience with death, or don’t ever give it a second thought, or think we’re going to live forever, or don’t have any indication in our bodies that we are going down hill.

With time Easter’s profound proclamation that death doesn’t have the last word becomes more important to us as we lose a partner of forty or fifty years, or as we lose a partner of only five or ten years. It becomes more important to us as we lose a loved one in some horrendous tragedy like 9/11, or as we become one of those 2000 plus families who have lost a son or daughter, a brother or sister, a husband or wife in Iraq. With time Easter’s proclamation that death doesn’t have the final word becomes more important to us especially when we suddenly find ourselves under a medical sentence of death.

With time Christmas (which is all about birth) loses its greater importance, and Easter (which is all about death) becomes more urgent. With time the joyful carols of Christmas become more muted before the one only good word that’s left us—the Easter word: Alleluia.

The last enemy: death

On the 2nd of April of last year, the Saturday after Easter, Pope John Paul II died after a long debilitating illness. That vivid display of mortal humanity by no one less than a pope, top teacher and preacher in the Universal Church, at the end of the day proved to be the best homily he ever delivered. He didn’t write and read it. He lived it out before us unabashedly with drooling lips and shaky hands.

The recent first anniversary of his death and funeral refreshed our memories of the great event. His body lay in state under the awesome cupola of St. Peter’s Basilica from Monday until Friday, April 8^th, when the funeral Mass took place in St. Peter’s Square. There on a beautiful breezy spring day in Rome, Bernini’s colonnades, like outstretched arms, embraced a sea of mortal humanity.

In the midst of an august congress of kings and queens and presidents and prime ministers and cardinals and bishops and Moslems and Jews and every brand of Christians, there lay one solitary central magnetic object. It always kept drawing our attention away from the colorful pageantry and awesome splendor of a papal funeral. There on the stone pavement in front of the basilica lay a cypress coffin skillfully crafted with a tongue-in-groove cut. On top lay the book of the gospels flapping in the wind. To that sea of mortal humanity the wooden coffin spoke silently but eloquently St. Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “The last enemy to be overcome is death” (I Cor 15:25). Easter is about our last enemy.

Overcome the enemy of poverty and need in your life, and the battle is not yet over. Overcome the enemy of Islamist terrorism and restore the peace of the good old days before 9/11, and the battle is not yet over. Overcome the enemy of cancer or AIDS or any other threatening sickness, and the battle is not yet over. For Paul writes to the Corinthians, “The last enemy to be overcome is death.” Easter is about our last enemy.

Morris West’s last enemy

In his eightieth year, novelist Morris West writes about that last enemy he has to overcome. In his book A View from the Ridge he says he feels like a climber who, after a long and arduous ascent, has reached a height and then pauses to catch his breath to screw up enough courage for the last lap of his journey. As he catches his breath he says,

Before me the land falls steeply into a dark valley, beyond which I see (or I think I see) the lights of the city which is the goal of my pilgrimage. By any measure of time, I am not far away from it, but I wonder, as I have often wondered before, whether the city is an illusion and whether its lights are only jack-o-lanterns. However, I have always known that one day I would have to go down alone into the dark valley and make my own discovery of what lies on the other side.

In the same little volume West, who describes himself as an optimist, writes, “We are conceived without our consent and come whimpering into a mad universe with our death sentence already written on the palms of our helpless hands: a cancer will eat our guts, a fanatic with a sword will cut off our heads, a drunken fool will mow us down with an automobile. There might be deferment of the death sentence to a ripe old age of 80 but there is no amnesty from it.” West writes about the last enemy he has to overcome: death.

All creation’s last enemy

Death is the last enemy to be overcome not only for us humans but also for all creation. In Romans we read, “All of creation, even the things of nature, like animals and plants, which suffer sickness and death, await this great event” when the last enemy will be overcome (Rom 8:21-22, Living Bible ).

That’s great consolation for Nicholas Berdyaev, theologian of the Orthodox Church, who wrote this about the death of his dog Muri.

At the very time of the liberation of Paris we lost our beloved Muri who died after a painful illness. His sufferings before death were to me the sufferings and travails of the whole of creation: through him I was united to all of creation and awaited its redemption.

It was extremely moving to watch Muri, on the eve of his death make his way with difficulty to Lydia’s room (where she was herself already seriously ill). Muri jumped on her bed. He had come to say good-bye. This may sound strange or comic or trivial: I very rarely weep, but when Muri died I wept bitterly. People speculate about the “immortality of the soul,” but there I was demanding from the depths of my heart nothing less than immortal, eternal life for Muri… (Dream and Reality).

Berdyaev will settle for nothing less than that even his dog Muri will in some way overcome the last enemy and be part of the new heaven and new earth (Rev 22:1). Romans chapter, 8 verse 22, promises him nothing less. Like Berdyaev I, too, don’t want to go to heaven if my dog, Simeon, isn’t going to be there.

Conclusion

Alleluia

Every year spring comes to break the back of winter, to lengthen the light of day, to warm our mother the earth, to call forth the bloom from the tomb, and to set the brooks babbling and the lakes lapping. The poet calls these intimations of immortality—hints and hunches that death, the last enemy, will be overcome. Trust the hints and hunches of spring.

Every year we celebrate the Easter Vigil with the deacon standing before the Paschal candle, singing in the darkness that “This is the night when Jesus Christ broke the chains of death.” This is the night when Christ has overcome our last enemy. Trust the yearly celebration of Easter.

Trust the demand from the depths of our hearts that the last enemy of all the people and pets we love will be overcome. Trust it’s not a trick our hearts are playing on us. Trust it’s our hearts knowing something our heads don’t know.

Trust it all and sing Alleluia—our Easter word. It’s really not a word at all but just a kind of babble about something only our hearts know. Sing it over and over again as a kind of soothing mantra consoling us that somehow and somewhere he, who opened the tomb of Jesus, will open also the graves of all the people and pets we love and will lead them into the land of the living where we will one day catch up with them.