Where does Easter begin? I remember a video I once saw on Facebook of an Easter Vigil Mass. There was this impressive setup— there was a cave in the sanctuary, and at the climactic moment during the Gloria, the cardboard stone split open. The Risen Christ emerged, surrounded by flashing, fireworks, smoke, and roaring applause. It was joyful, creative, dramatic. But I found myself wondering: Is that really how Easter begins?
If we pay close attention to tonight’s liturgy, we’re invited to experience something very different. We started in stillness and shadow. No lights. Then a small flame. And from that flame, light moved—quietly, steadily—until this space was filled with light. This is not just a ritual. It tells us something essential—not only about Easter, but about how God usually works. God begins in the dark.
Luke tells us the women went to the tomb “at early dawn.” John’s version is even more specific: “While it was still dark…” They weren’t going in hope—they were going in grief. They were not expecting resurrection; they were expecting to tend to death. And yet, in that darkness, something new had already begun. The creation account in Genesis starts with, “In the beginning, when God created…darkness covered the abyss.”
Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “New life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb, it starts in the dark.” This is not just poetic—it’s a promise. God’s work often begins when nothing seems to be happening. As we heard in tonight’s retelling of the salvation history, time and
again God moves at first in hidden ways – during the slavery in Egypt, during the dark days of exile in Babylon. We need to be reminded because it is very easy to forget.
We know what that is like to be in the dark. Maybe we are in it now. We may be waiting for answers slow in coming, holding quiet grief, worn down by unappreciated work, wondering if our hopes and prayers matter. We look at the world—its violence, injustice, noise—and feel numb or overwhelmed. So much of life feels unresolved, like we’re eternally stuck between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.
And in that in-between, we might think God is absent, because nothing feels dramatic or clear. But again, Barbara Brown Taylor reminds us: “While I am looking for something large, bright, and unmistakably holy, God slips something small, dark, and apparently negligible in my pocket How many other treasures have I walked right by because they did not meet my standards? At least one of the day’s lessons is about learning to let go of my bright ideas about God so that my eyes are open to the God who is.”
Dear friends, this is the invitation of this night: To look again. To look more closely. To peer into the dark. To trust that the darkness is not empty. To believe resurrection is already underway. God doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. He doesn’t need spectacle. He starts in the silence. In the soil. In the tomb. In the quiet decision to keep going. In the gentle strength of people who love, forgive, and serve without limelight, or fireworks, or applause.
So when we ask: Where does Easter begin? It begins here. In this way. When we least expect or see it coming. Goodness is already at work. New life is already forming. Because God always begins in the dark. And He never leaves us there.
Homily delivered by Fr. Jordan Orbe, SJ
Easter Vigil (19 April 2025)
Cenacle Retreat House