Repost: The Beginning Tomb

This is a repost of my 2022 reflections on the Easter Triduum.

In the readings during the Easter Triduum, I was struck by a theme that, at least in my mind, became a recurring motif through the the three days. This was the theme of new beginnings, which I have written about in 2021 under the banner of “the Event”.

For some reason, this theme of beginnings became especially resonant with me as we got through the readings of Good Friday and the Easter Vigil, but with a twist that, at least at first, disturbed me, but struck me as we enter into this season of Easter.

The first instance where I was struck by the readings came in a line in John’s Passion narrative, which in past years I have ignored but for some reason really stood out this year. Following the crucifixion, John 19 inserted this subtle line:

Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been laid (Jn 19:41).

The reason this stuck me was twofold. In the first instance, it reinforced a theme that I have written about elsewhere, that Christ is the New Adam. His Passion was a rebooting of the Adamic period written about at the beginning of Genesis, the centre of which is a garden. The culmination of Christ’s Passion is the key which unlocks the seemingly impenetrable gate that locked everyone out of that garden. Rather than Christ moving away from us and entering the garden, the crucifixion seemingly pulled the garden to us.

While that idea in itself was not new to me, what was new to me was the second clause: that the garden had a new tomb. This motif of the tomb in the garden, a place of death in a place of new beginning, was the twist that I found striking, and one that was repeated at least two other times during the Easter Vigil.

In the first reading of the Easter Vigil, we are told about God’s acts of creation, which one of the servers at the vigil read to great effect. The even cadence of the reader brought home to me that God’s act of creation, bringing new beginnings to life, was unstoppable. I was reminded how God fitted into the void, the vault of heaven, the moon and sun, the plants and animals, and nothing stood in His way. But even there, the combined motif of death and new beginnings came again, this time in another often overlooked phrase that was a refrain of the first Genesis account: evening came, and morning came.

When I heard this, I remembered Alexander Schmemann’s striking reflection in his For the Life of the World, on this seemingly insignificant literary move, what would become a liturgical reversal of the order of the day, such that the day would begin at the time when it ends, and ends at the beginning. Schmemann’s words bring home the significance of this motif much more than I can:

Through contrast with the beauty and wonder of creation…the darkness and failure of the world is discovered…in this world every day faces night; the world itself is facing night…Yet the Church is affirming that an evening is not only an end, but also a beginning, just as any evening is also the beginning of another day. In Christ and through Christ it may become the beginning of a new life, of the day that has no evening (61-63).
In other words, God’s beginning work begins at exactly the moment where, by human reckoning, all works have been exhausted, reached their end, and seemingly die.

In the second reading, which was Exodus’ coverage of the crossing of the Red Sea, my mind’s eye was drawn specifically to God’s command to enter the Red Sea, a place where, as the newly liberated Hebrew nation complained, was the place of death. There again, the convergence of death as well as new beginnings was striking. This convergence did not remain an interesting but nonetheless abstract concept to me, but became a concrete exhortation thanks to the homily of Bishop Mark Edwards. Addressing those who would receive baptism and confirmation (though he could have just as easily been addressing me), Bishop Mark called for a bold stepping out into the Red Seas of our lives. In my head, I heard the call to boldly go into that convergence point between the closing of human horizons, and their divine extension by the creative act of God.

In this Easter season and its rightful atmosphere of festivity, it can be easy for us to forget the Lenten sacrifices we have made. This Easter, I am reminded of the end to which all those sacrifices point, and it is as encouraging as it is terrifying, that I am meant to step into this event and enter the tombs of human ambition, planning and desires, in order to come face to face with that divine act from which the fullness of life is generated. It is a call that I must answer with fear and trembling, for I (and I guess many others) will face tombs that seem never to be emptied. Yet I must remind myself that it is a call that I should answer with eager anticipation, as I await the emptying of the tomb, the filling of the void, and the pushing back of the sea, in other words, nothing short of God’s pure beginning.

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