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Uncanny as the Empty Tomb

Uncanny as the Empty Tomb

Last updated on: April 21, 2025 at 6:48 pm by Mary Pezzulo

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Uncanny as the Empty Tomb 2025-04-21T18:48:15-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

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candles burning in the darkness

image via pixabay

I went into Triduum, anxious.

I was brought up to think that the Church was the perfect, spotless mother, and now I know better. The events that have unfolded since I came to Steubenville shook me to my core. I can’t ever back away from the shock of that disillusionment. I’ll never be the person I thought I was. There are no simple or happy answers for that. But again and again I realize that I think that Christ is real, and that Christ has been present to me in Catholic sacraments. So I come back, when I can, when the panic doesn’t overwhelm me.

The parish I’ve found is friendly. The pastor seems like a nice man. The music is beautiful. Still, it’s unsettling to go in a Catholic church. It feels ominous, like a horror film where you just know the villain is going to pop out at any moment.

I sat in the back, in the little alcove by the bathroom, because it hurt too much to sit with the congregation. Sometimes, when it got too much for me to handle, I would go stim up and down the sidewalk outside.

The statue of the Virgin Mary by the door was covered in an odd purple shroud, making her look like a ghost. Someone had stuffed silk flowers in the empty planters in front of her. The real flowers, in the other planters on the ground, were nodding in a light April breeze– daffodils a bit ragged and past their peak, hyacinth just beginning to pop. The scene was so ordinary and, at the same time, so surreal. Uncanny. Uncanny as a friend you loved selling you to your enemy to be crucified. Uncanny as a dark and sinful world where the Son of God pitches his dwelling.

In and out of the church I went– dipping in to pray along with the music, ducking out to catch my breath with the shrouded statue. Feeling as if Jesus hated me and then feeling as if he didn’t.

Ubi caritas et amor, deus ibi est! Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

On the night before he suffered– that is, tonight– he took bread in his sacred hands. He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said: Take this all of you, and eat it: this is my body which will be given up for you.

Pange, lingua, gloriosi, corporis mysterium, sanguinisque pretiosi, quem in mundi pretium, fructus ventris generosi rex effudit gentium.

On Good Friday, I felt as if I couldn’t duck in and out of a church any more. I made a pilgrimage out to Pennsylvania, to the state park and the Wildflower Reserve.

Up above, the sun was so strong you’d think it was June, but the ephemerals knew that it was April. I hiked for two miles, through the meadow and by the crick near the beaver dam. White and purple violets dotted the sides of the trail. Spring beauty, periwinkle and trout lily luxuriated under the trees. The first of the bluebells and the trilliums were opening. Skunk cabbage, which has such an ugly name, but which looks so lush and beautiful when it opens up, laid out a carpet in every little vernal pool between the shale hills.

I was next to one of those warm green hollows when I realized it was three o’clock, and got on my knees.

Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?

It is consummated.

Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.

And He gave up the ghost.

The Holy Ghost rustled the dead leaves on the ground. She played across the surface of the vernal pool. The songbirds called to one another in Her praises. The Son of God exhaled the Spirit into the hands of the Father Who is everywhere present, and therefore into all the earth.

Again, that uncanny feeling: the ordinary, normal, commonplace world, cruel and dark and bright and beautiful, impregnated with sanctifying grace. No refuge at all from danger. No hiding place in all of creation. No easy answer for the terrible mystery. Only the earth, with God present in it, suffering with us. Uncanny, like a fountain filled with blood.

On the way home, I stopped at the lake beach. I took off my shoes and stood in the water. Water holds its temperature much longer than air, so it’s still winter under the surface of the lake when the sun thinks it’s summer. I was hot and sweating as I stepped across the sand, but when the water lapped over my feet, there was a shock of cold like a thunderclap.

And behold, the veil of the sanctuary was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth quaked, rocks were split, tombs were opened, and the bodies of many saints who had fallen asleep were raised.

Saturday night, I took Michael and Adrienne to the Easter vigil.

We got there a little late just as they had managed to get the fire blazing, and were blessing the paschal candle. It’s a good thing we didn’t arrive any earlier, because I saw the Franciscan sisters grouped together in the congregation, and if the priest hadn’t already been talking I’d have run away. The sight of a gray cassock and a three-knot belt still makes me panic. I don’t know if I’ll ever be cured of that anxiety.

“Christ yesterday, today, and tomorrow,” said the priest. And suddenly the fire was being passed around the congregation.

I hadn’t had time to pick up one of the little candles, but another worshipper handed me hers. I carried it into the church.

I found myself sitting in the congregation and not the foyer, for the first time in a year.

O happy fault that earned so great, so glorious a Redeemer! O truly blessed night, worthy alone to know the time and hour when Christ rose from the underworld!

No easy answers. No cheap consolations. No certainty that I’ve got it right. Only a candle flickering in the darkness, next to another candle, next to another, and among us, Jesus.

And then the lights went on, and the bells rang out, and our voices rang with them, and somewhere the angels were singing.

Glória in excélsis Deo et in terra pax homínibus bonæ voluntátis! Laudámus te! Benedícimus te! Adorámus te! Glorificámus te! Grátias ágimus tibi propter magnam glóriam tuam,Dómine Deus, Rex cæléstis, Deus Pater omnípotens!

Just for a minute, I felt the joy: not joy in place of the fear, but joy shining out in fear, and the fear not overcoming the joy.

Uncanny as a flash of light, and an empty tomb.

Uncanny as the white-robed angel who asks why you seek the living among the dead.

Just for a moment, I understood.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

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