In the Exsultet, the exuberant prayer of praise and blessing that begins the Easter Vigil, there is the petition that God would give us "peace in this time of our paschal rejoicing." In my sermon on the Fourth Sunday of Easter I reflected on that prayer in the aftermath of the tragic school shootings in Littleton, Colorado, recalling as well the anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing and the ongoing war in Yugoslavia. I reminded my hearers that the peace and joy of the Resurrection is not an external ordering of things, a new system of government, a lower crime rate, or better security measures; it is rather the living person of Jesus Christ who is the embodiment of the Kingdom of God He proclaimed. In the midst of the persistent tragedies and crises of this world we find the paschal peace and joy only by returning again and again to the Risen Lord Jesus as "the Shepherd and Guardian of our souls" (1 Pet 2:25).

I did not know on that Sunday just how personally I would have to apply those words to myself. The middle of that week I received the painful news that my younger brother had died suddenly from an undiagnosed aneurysm. How unbefitting to hear this news in the midst of the Church's great season of paschal rejoicing! But on deeper reflection how salutary. The proclamation of Christ's resurrection grows out of but does not leave behind His suffering and death. The message of Easter is not just a happy ending; it is a confirmation of Christ's obedience to his Father even to death on a cross and His glorification in and through that suffering and death. If I must henceforth associate my brother's death with the Easter Season, let it remind me that the joy of the Resurrection is strong enough to embrace this and all the other sorrows of earth.

I must confess to being somewhat of a novice to the "grieving process", as it is called. In my nearly 52 years of life I have never experienced the shock of losing someone this close to me whose life I had fully expected to parallel my own. I know that many others have suffered far greater losses and often much earlier in life than I. That does put my own situation in perspective, although, honestly, it does not offer much personal comfort. One can, however, pray that this seed of sorrow, sown with so many tears, may eventually bear the beautiful fruit of a more authentic compassion for others.

Early on I was surprised to discern that part of the overwhelming emotion was an intense, forceful, even aching sense of gratitude. The grief of this moment pointed to the reality of love of which grief is really just another form. Even experienced as heartache love is still a gift. The suddenness of my brother's death was a shocking reminder of life's fragility, but a sign as well that of all created things life flows most directly from His hand as an ever renewed gift. The question "why?" focused at first narrowly on the immediate tragedy gave way to a greater, more mysterious "why?" that touches on the origin of life and all things in God-a dizzying abyss of love, mystery, and wonder.

Since my brother and I shared a modest interest in science fiction, he might have appreciated a metaphor I have used for God. In physics a black hole is that which swallows up matter and from which nothing, not even light, can ever escape. God is the exact opposite, a white hole from which everything radiates and in which nothing can be lost or diminished. He is the shining center, source, origin, and ground of all existence. We live in a white hole in which God is present at every moment as Creator, as Giver.
The words of Job are often quoted in times of bereavement: "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord" (Job 1:21). These words place the contradictory experiences of life all under the sovereign authority of God. But must we not qualify the second half of this description of God's actions? It would contradict God's very nature and the depth of His love revealed in the Redemption to understand His giving and His taking away as opposite but equal actions so that his "taking away" undoes, reverses or neutralizes what He has given. "The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable" (Rom 11:29).

Nor is this generosity of God merely a calculation of the "bottom line." It is not simply a matter of the pluses outweighing the minuses, so that even though the Lord takes away we still come out ahead in the deal. Rather in faith we must begin to grasp that God's goodness and love is such that even when he "takes away" He is still giving to us in some mysterious way. The glory of Christ's Resurrection reveals to us that His crucifixion was already a hidden way in which He was being "lifted up." In the times when we feel bereaved we too must trust that the Father of Jesus does not deal with us in a contradictory way but has ordered all things within a definite plan of consistent love. "If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! . . . Even the darkness is not dark to you" (Ps. 139:8, 12).

It cannot be in this life that we will have no perplexing questions. Nevertheless we can come to the realization that we are least confused in those moments when we are humbled by a deep sense of gratitude. It is only a short step from saying, "life is so full of confusion" to saying "life is so full of wonder." The very first words of the Creed, "I believe" invite us to have the courage to take that step, to choose ultimate trust in God, in His goodness, and in the enduring goodness of human life.
Do we seem to God to be hard of heart that we are so slow to lift up our hearts to a contemplation of His love so perfectly gratuitous, and that we often remember only in the extremities of life? Perhaps. But perhaps it is also God Himself in part who veils this from us lest we become, in the words of St. Paul, "too elated by the abundance of revelations" (2 Cor 12:7). Such full awareness must for now remain a part of that "what no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man conceived" (1 Cor 2:9).

In the nearer presence of God, in that life more fully "hid with Christ" (Col 3:3) and so all the more dependent on the Spirit, the Lord and giver of life , my brother must have a clearer, more secure grasp of all this. And from neither of us has the love first awakened in the home of our parents been taken away.

Sincerely,
Fr. Richard G. Herbel