An ancient Jewish legend from the apocryphal book
“The life of Adam and Eve” recounts that, in his final illness, Adam sent his son
Seth together with Eve into the region of Paradise to fetch the oil of mercy, so that
he could be anointed with it and healed. The two of them went in search of the tree
of life, and after much praying and weeping on their part, the Archangel Michael appeared
to them, and told them they would not obtain the oil of the tree of mercy and that
Adam would have to die. Subsequently, Christian readers added a word of consolation
to the Archangel’s message, to the effect that after 5,500 years the loving King,
Christ, would come, the Son of God who would anoint all those who believe in him with
the oil of his mercy. “The oil of mercy from eternity to eternity will be given to
those who are reborn of water and the Holy Spirit. Then the Son of God, Christ, abounding
in love, will descend into the depths of the earth and will lead your father into
Paradise, to the tree of mercy.” This legend lays bare the whole of humanity’s anguish
at the destiny of illness, pain and death that has been imposed upon us. Man’s resistance
to death becomes evident: somewhere – people have constantly thought – there must
be some cure for death. Sooner or later it should be possible to find the remedy
not only for this or that illness, but for our ultimate destiny – for death itself.
Surely the medicine of immortality must exist. Today too, the search for a source
of healing continues. Modern medical science strives, if not exactly to exclude death,
at least to eliminate as many as possible of its causes, to postpone it further and
further, to prolong life more and more. But let us reflect for a moment: what would
it really be like if we were to succeed, perhaps not in excluding death totally, but
in postponing it indefinitely, in reaching an age of several hundred years? Would
that be a good thing? Humanity would become extraordinarily old, there would be no
more room for youth. Capacity for innovation would die, and endless life would be
no paradise, if anything a condemnation. The true cure for death must be different.
It cannot lead simply to an indefinite prolongation of this current life. It would
have to transform our lives from within. It would need to create a new life within
us, truly fit for eternity: it would need to transform us in such a way as not to
come to an end with death, but only then to begin in fullness. What is new and exciting
in the Christian message, in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, was and is that we are told:
yes indeed, this cure for death, this true medicine of immortality, does exist. It
has been found. It is within our reach. In baptism, this medicine is given to us.
A new life begins in us, a life that matures in faith and is not extinguished by the
death of the old life, but is only then fully revealed.
To this some, perhaps
many, will respond: I certainly hear the message, but I lack faith. And even those
who want to believe will ask: but is it really so? How are we to picture it to ourselves?
How does this transformation of the old life come about, so as to give birth to the
new life that knows no death? Once again, an ancient Jewish text can help us form
an idea of the mysterious process that begins in us at baptism. There it is recounted
how the patriarch Enoch was taken up to the throne of God. But he was filled with
fear in the presence of the glorious angelic powers, and in his human weakness he
could not contemplate the face of God. “Then God said to Michael,” to quote from
the book of Enoch, “‘Take Enoch and remove his earthly clothing. Anoint him with
sweet oil and vest him in the robes of glory!’ And Michael took off my garments,
anointed me with sweet oil, and this oil was more than a radiant light … its splendour
was like the rays of the sun. When I looked at myself, I saw that I was like one
of the glorious beings” (Ph. Rech, Inbild des Kosmos, II 524).
Precisely this
– being reclothed in the new garment of God – is what happens in baptism, so the Christian
faith tells us. To be sure, this changing of garments is something that continues
for the whole of life. What happens in baptism is the beginning of a process that
embraces the whole of our life – it makes us fit for eternity, in such a way that,
robed in the garment of light of Jesus Christ, we can appear before the face of God
and live with him for ever.
In the rite of baptism there are two elements
in which this event is expressed and made visible in a way that demands commitment
for the rest of our lives. There is first of all the rite of renunciation and the
promises. In the early Church, the one to be baptized turned towards the west, the
symbol of darkness, sunset, death and hence the dominion of sin. The one to be baptized
turned in that direction and pronounced a threefold “no”: to the devil, to his pomp
and to sin. The strange word “pomp”, that is to say the devil’s glamour, referred
to the splendour of the ancient cult of the gods and of the ancient theatre, in which
it was considered entertaining to watch people being torn limb from limb by wild beasts.
What was being renounced was a type of culture that ensnared man in the adoration
of power, in the world of greed, in lies, in cruelty. It was an act of liberation
from the imposition of a form of life that was presented as pleasure and yet hastened
the destruction of all that was best in man. This renunciation – albeit in less dramatic
form – remains an essential part of baptism today. We remove the “old garments”,
which we cannot wear in God’s presence. Or better put: we begin to remove them.
This renunciation is actually a promise in which we hold out our hand to Christ, so
that he may guide us and reclothe us. What these “garments” are that we take off,
what the promise is that we make, becomes clear when we see in the fifth chapter of
the Letter to the Galatians what Paul calls “works of the flesh” – a term that refers
precisely to the old garments that we remove. Paul designates them thus: “fornication,
impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness,
dissension, party spirit, envy, drunkenness, carousing and the like” (Gal 5:19ff.).
These are the garments that we remove: the garments of death.
Then, in the
practice of the early Church, the one to be baptized turned towards the east – the
symbol of light, the symbol of the newly rising sun of history, the symbol of Christ.
The candidate for baptism determines the new direction of his life: faith in the Trinitarian
God to whom he entrusts himself. Thus it is God who clothes us in the garment of
light, the garment of life. Paul calls these new “garments” “fruits of the spirit”,
and he describes them as follows: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness,
faithfulness, gentleness, self-control” (Gal 5:22).
In the early Church, the
candidate for baptism was then truly stripped of his garments. He descended into
the baptismal font and was immersed three times – a symbol of death that expresses
all the radicality of this removal and change of garments. His former death-bound
life the candidate consigns to death with Christ, and he lets himself be drawn up
by and with Christ into the new life that transforms him for eternity. Then, emerging
from the waters of baptism the neophytes were clothed in the white garment, the garment
of God’s light, and they received the lighted candle as a sign of the new life in
the light that God himself had lit within them. They knew that they had received
the medicine of immortality, which was fully realized at the moment of receiving holy
communion. In this sacrament we receive the body of the risen Lord and we ourselves
are drawn into this body, firmly held by the One who has conquered death and who carries
us through death.
In the course of the centuries, the symbols were simplified,
but the essential content of baptism has remained the same. It is no mere cleansing,
still less is it a somewhat complicated initiation into a new association. It is
death and resurrection, rebirth to new life.
Indeed, the cure for death does
exist. Christ is the tree of life, once more within our reach. If we remain close
to him, then we have life. Hence, during this night of resurrection, with all our
hearts we shall sing the alleluia, the song of joy that has no need of words. Hence,
Paul can say to the Philippians: “Rejoice in the Lord always, again I will say, rejoice!”
(Phil 4:4). Joy cannot be commanded. It can only be given. The risen Lord gives
us joy: true life. We are already held for ever in the love of the One to whom all
power in heaven and on earth has been given (cf. Mt 28:18). In this way, confident
of being heard, we make our own the Church’s Prayer over the Gifts from the liturgy
of this night: Accept the prayers and offerings of your people. With your help may
this Easter mystery of our redemption bring to perfection the saving work you have
begun in us. Amen.