The Easter Vigil at Grace Cathedral is a nighttime service that begins with the cathedral in total darkness and silence. Some faint color can be found up in the stained glass windows, but otherwise the world turns grey in the shadows. There are three loud knocks at the door and the congregation stands. A procession walks in, quietly. Someone lights the ceremonial fire and there's a faint glow and the gentle crackle of the flames. From this fire, the Paschal candle is lit, and the light spreads as everyone lights their own small candles from this one. In such darkness, even just one candle can feel luminous.
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Around 1489, Hieronymus Bosch painted "St. John on Patmos", a fairly standard portrait of St. John the Evangelist with some of Bosch's characteristic freakish creations ambling around the margins. It's fun if you like Bosch, but otherwise it's nothing too noteworthy. The reverse side of the painting is another matter entirely.
On the back of this portrait, Bosch painted a strange grisaille composition titled "Scenes from the Passion of Christ and the Pelican with Her Young". It's composed of a circle within a circle and is almost completely black and white except for some spots of red. The outer edge of the painting is black, with strange figures briefly shimmering into view before dipping back into the darkness. The central circle shows scenes from the Passion of Christ, or the events leading to his crucifixion and later resurrection. The central circle is the lightest in color, though still grey, and shows a pelican stabbing her breast to feed her young.
The painting is somber and quiet. The drama of Christ's last moments doesn't feel theatrical; it's contemplative, melancholic. The figures in the dark outskirts are vaguely terrifying, precisely because it's hard to make them out. But there's little comfort to be found in the light at the center either, only a symbol of self-sacrifice. Perhaps this is the only comfort any of us can ever know.
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In Karl Rahner's "Foundations of Christian Faith", he wrote: "For a Christian, his Christian existence is ultimately the totality of his existence. This totality opens out into the dark abysses of the wilderness which we call God. When one undertakes something like this, he stands before the great thinkers, the saints, and finally Jesus Christ. The abyss of existence opens up in front of him. He knows that he has not thought enough, has not loved enough, and has not suffered enough."
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During the Easter Vigil this past weekend, a member of the congregation read a passage from the book of Ezekiel, where God describes the purpose of baptism: "I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your uncleanness, and from all your idols I will cleanse you. A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh."
The baptism ceremony that followed was beautiful. Baptizands started by facing away from the congregation, towards the outer darkness, then slowly turned towards the light. They affirmed their faith and water was poured over them and the bishop anointed their foreheads with the warm, fragrant chrism oil. Some cried tears of joy. Once it was all over, the bishop could finally proclaim "Alleluia. Christ is risen.", tapping his feet with excitement as the congregation cheered and laughed, and the darkness came to an end.
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And at least one baptizand wondered, if Bosch's pelican had had a heart of stone, she would've known no pain, but would she have been able to feed her young?
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Of course, baptism is not required to have a heart of flesh and to commit acts of self-sacrifice/love. My friend Arshia recently wrote about what Ramadan means to her, about how it is a way to disconnect, reflect, and celebrate. It's a reminder of what's important and what we owe to others. The tenets of her faith are really no different than mine; during the Vigil we all proclaimed that we will strive for justice and peace among all people. Or, to quote my friend Mohammad, "People who don’t support evil are pretty much all of the same faith I think."
It feels trite to point out that there is an immense amount of darkness in our world right now, and that people have always sought the comfort of religion during these moments. Even the tech obsession with AI takes on a certain zealotry, though talk about a golden calf. This darkness is constantly on my mind. Though this newsletter/blog started off being an exploration of the American West, I haven't wanted to write about that very much lately. Or I do, but the darkness still creeps in: how can I talk blissfully about the public lands I visit when the current administration is doing everything it can to destroy them? Even in the light of Grace Cathedral, I can't escape it; Sitting in the cathedral's AIDS Memorial Chapel, I think about how HIV/AIDS research funding has been cut, and how many people will die. And, always, I think of Gaza, and how much we have failed it.
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When we rehearsed the baptism, the priest pointed out that we begin by facing the darkness because we have to go back out into it. We can't stay in the light of the church; that's not where life is lived. It's out there, in that dark abyss of wilderness.
Perhaps this is why it felt so necessary to go through with it. To make a commitment to moving in a Christ-like way (or to move like Moses, the Prophet, Buddha, whoever you turn to for wisdom). To replace my heart of stone with a heart of flesh, even -- or especially -- when it would hurt the most. Otherwise, I'd have nothing to give.