Atlanta, GA
April 1, 2018
Spring is in the air.
The days are lengthening, the azaleas are blooming, the pollen is falling, the temperature is rising.
The baseball season opened last week, the college basketball season closes this week, and the Masters will be played next week.
Yesterday was the second full moon this month, the last blue moon till 2020, and the first full moon after that indispensable rite of Spring, the vernal equinox.
Being the first Sunday since, today must be Easter…which reminds us of a schoolhouse scene many years ago.
“Good morning, children. Who can tell the class what Easter is?”
Little Michael, the class know-it all, quickly raised his hand.
“Easter is when we all decorate trees, hang stockings, exchange presents…”
“No, I am sorry,” the teacher interrupts, “that is not it. Can anyone help Michael?”
“Oh, I can!”, exclaims Sally, smug and self-righteous. “Easter is when we go to a big parade, cook barbecue, wave American flags, watch fireworks…”
“I am afraid that is not it either”, she interjects, unable to mute her sigh or mask her eye-roll.
“Does anyone know what Easter is? Timmy, how about you?”
Timmy always sat in the back, reserved and shy.
“Well”, he began nervously…
“…after Jesus was crucified, he was taken from the cross, wrapped in cloth, and laid in a tomb. A large rock was rolled in front of the tomb, and after three days, Jesus rises from the dead…”
“This is wonderful, Timmy!”, exclaimed the relieved teacher. “You other children gather round and listen closely. Timmy, please go on.”
“… and if he sees his shadow, we will have six more weeks of winter.”
This Easter has particular significance, for at the Vigil Mass last night Alexander completed the sacrament of Confirmation, sealing the grace conferred at Baptism.
Part of an entrance procession carrying lighted candles into the darkened nave of Holy Spirit Catholic Church, Alexander walked slowly down the center aisle, under the gaze of the congregation, and settled into his reserved pew toward the right front of the church.
Approaching the altar and taking the name of Francis (after the inspiring saint of Assisi, not the bewildering pope from Buenos Aires), Alexander received the chrism from Monsignor Dillon and joined a 2,000 year tradition by entering the Church at the Easter Vigil.
His Confirmation sponsor, our dear friend Annie Anton, unfortunately took sick, but we were blessed by a delightful designated proxy, a lifetime San Franciscan (appropriately enough) named Cathy Brosnan.
Just prior to being confirmed, he and we basked as our marvelous cantor, Paula Garner, sang her annual Litany of the Saints and, later, a tear-inducing rendition of Mozart’s Laudate Dominum to accompany and exult Holy Communion.
We have for almost 13-years been parishioners at Holy Spirit Church, among the few constructed since the Second Vatican Council that is neither an architectural monstrosity nor an affront to aesthetic sense.
The footprint of the Tuscan-brick Romanesque edifice is that of the traditional Latin cross, with saints, scenes, and symbols adorning the stain glass within the high walls of transept, aisles, and apse.
Gorgeous rose windows anchor either end of the structure, one over the organ to honor Mary Queen of Heaven, and three over the altar to glorify the Last Supper, Crucifixion, and Holy Trinity.
The gold tabernacle was designed from that in the Basilica of St Francis in Assisi, a nice homage to Alexander’s patron.
The Church features a plethora of Italian-made artifacts, including the crucifix over the altar and stations of the cross along the aisles.
Palestrina and Gregorian chant make regular appearances at Sunday Masses, and interspersed Latin redeems what it can of the Novus Ordo rite. The absence of a high altar is the glaring defect in this, as in most, post-Vatican II churches.
Whatever…these days when I go to Mass, I am pleased merely to feel more like I am entering a Roman Catholic Church than a post office or Moose Lodge.
Betraying the origin of our pastor, the church is replete with Celtic emblems reminiscent of the Emerald Isle.
As conditions warrant, Monsignor Dillon can manage this affluent Buckhead parish with the subtlety of a Donald Trump tweet or the gentle force of dew upon the earth.
He retains the charm and brogue of the old sod, as well the proclivity of its natives for Bushmill and cigars (though his health frowns upon, and now precludes, the latter).
His scholarship, knowledge, and erudition are second to none, effortlessly calling upon Chesterton or Aquinas to make his ever-salient points.
The Faithful might cringe (and skeptics smile) that Lent this year was bound by Ash Wednesday on Valentines Day and Easter on April Fools Day.
That’s OK…Christ never promised that following him would be easy or that those who did so would not be scoffed (or worse, as in His own case).
That Alexander should choose to do so and to be confirmed by such a man as Monsignor Dillon, on such a night as this, in such a place as Holy Spirit, and with such a sponsor as Annie Anton, is a true source of Easter Joy.
Here’s wishing the same to each of you.
JD
