The Exsultet (the Easter Proclamation or Praeconium Paschale) is heralded as the liturgy's best poetry and acclaimed as the Mother of all Chants; it's also considered long, tedious, challenging, and daunting even for the most seasoned professional. The hymn soars to liturgical heights but clearly is not for the faint of heart.

That's from the proclaimer's point of view. From the prayer's point of view, it's all good . . . if the proclamation is done well. So we're back where we started. The Exsultet must be sung well to be prayed well. And praying it is why we proclaim it. Before and besides everything else, the Exsultet is a prayer of the Church—exuberant, ecstatic, pastoral—radiating from the mind and heart of true believers, expressing joy and gratitude.

We begin the Vigil with this prayer that sets the tone for the grand liturgy that follows. Sung during the Service of Light, it fixes our eyes on the light who overcame the darkness of the underworld and the darkness in human hearts; it sings not only of Christ our Savior, but of doorposts and blood, fire and prison bars, wax and bees. It conjures our greatest events, it uses our finest language, it blends the things of heaven with those of earth in unparalleled ways, and it calls us to understand and celebrate the sources of the joy that imbues the Easter celebration.

The Exsultet is proclaimed but once a year and, as we've noted, its efficacy hinges on its excellent proclamation by priest, deacon, or cantor. But just as the one who gives it voice must prepare to proclaim it, so we who will hear it (and sing its acclamations) must prepare to pray it within the liturgy. It's really too much to expect that we can enter the Vigil, in the midst of an engorged assembly, and so focus ourselves as to truly attend to a lengthy and unfamiliar proclamation, hoping the singer's best effort will become our fervent prayer.

The odds of praying the Exsultet authentically will be much greater if we have journeyed through the weeks of Lent with the Christ whose victory we celebrate and share; if we have fasted with him from the things that distract us and those that demean us; if we have abjured, like him, the smallness that so often claims us; if, with him, we have walked into a garden where our souls, pressed like olives, yield the fragrant oil of repentance. By feasting on his Word and savoring its nourishment, we will reach the Vigil ready, like him, to leave the domain of death and enter the halls of light that blaze with the "lightening of his glory."

A prayer as dense and rich as this should be pondered more than once a year. Our hearts should alight among its branches when we have time to sit and savor, space to reflect, and the urge to plumb the mysteries of this season. After all, the Exsultet presents the one who rose as the Lord of Glory who stared death in the face and bore the unimaginable weight of human sin upon his back. This "glorious redeemer" seeks disciples who understand the depth of God's love and yearn to live within its contours.

Lectio Divina, the ancient process of focusing on and uniting with God's Word, provides a method for claiming this prayer and integrating it into our observance of the Paschal feast. Lectio invites us to read and read again, so that the words we ponder will have a chance to etch themselves upon us. Unlike the reading we do for work, or school, or as we sip coffee and eye the clock before heading off to work, Lectio requires us to "take it slow" and realize that the journey is the destination. We don't read to acquire knowledge or be entertained, but simply to spend time with God. It's an uncomplicated goal. Like the family pet that settles at his master's feet or the lover who takes comfort in sitting beside her beloved, we let the words of the text provide an opportunity to rest in the Lord's presence. And as we do, we acquire the mind of God and begin to see things anew.

There's Just No Time
A thoughtful contemplation of the Exsultet takes us to a radically new understanding of time. Our normal categories of time are completely blurred within this prayer. The ancient authors of the Exsultet had intuitions that today's most cutting-edge scientists are affirming: time, as we know it, doesn't exist. Our liturgical theology has always expressed that conviction. When we proclaim scripture within the liturgy, we are not simply remembering a past event, nor are we re-creating it. Rather, we are experiencing the original moment; we are as present to the saving acts being recounted as were Moses and the Israelites, Jesus and the disciples, and the crowds who witnessed the marvelous deeds of God.

When the Exsultet states, "This is the night," it does not mean "that" was the night—that night long ago when Israel traversed the sea or when Jesus lay in the tomb. No, this night as we gather with neighbors around our font and in our pews, this very night is the night when waters part, and the pillar leads the way, when Christ shatters the "prison-bars of death" and rises triumphant from the realm of sin and darkness. In the liturgical economy in which we participate, time collapses and yields to greater realities—mysterious, divine realities we can only dimly perceive.

Not until Einstein did the tyranny of time become scientifically suspect. Newton had asserted that time was absolute and that it flowed independently of any external factors. But Einstein came along one hundred years ago and disproved the autonomy of time. His theory of relativity not only proposes that there is no clear, specific "present," but also that "all moments of time are equally real." In 1955 Einstein asserted that physicists like himself understood that "the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."1

What scientists have only recently understood, our ancestors in faith have long since intuited: past and present are one. Old and New Testaments are one. Our history and our destiny are one. They don't become one on this night while remaining distinct throughout the rest of the year. On this night they are more clearly revealed as one, for one is what they always are. This night we perceive and understand more clearly that the fullness of Christ's victory is already present, even in the incompleteness of our daily striving, that we live within what Christ and his precursors did for us, that we live within the struggle and the victory we misperceive as "past," and that we live within the glory and the light we misperceive as "future." This is the night that helps us understand that the "persistent illusion" won't always delude us and that, one day, we will grasp fully the eternal now that is the nature of God.

It's Your (Happy) Fault!
Another dramatic reversal embedded in the Exsultet relates to the perception of our primeval affliction as the stained children of Adam and Eve. The prayer doesn't try to overturn our ancient conviction that we have inherited an inclination to things that are not of God. It doesn't substitute original blessing for original sin. Instead, it unapologetically celebrates the primordial moment that necessitated the intervention of our merciful God. Rather than regretting the "Fall" and all that was lost, this astute prayer points to the wonder of God's becoming human. Incarnation and salvation are not two separate moments in time, but forever and irremediably one. The joy of this night that culminates millennia of God's perduring mercy would not glow with the wattage of lightening were it not for that "happy fault" that we were taught to mourn and have worn as a mark of shame.

Saint Paul proclaims unconditionally that God works all things for the good of those who love him. The Exsultet echoes that refrain and boldly claims that even sin brings blessing. Because we are not God, it takes darkness for us to fully appreciate light and our frail humanity can appreciate fulfillment only after waiting. So humanity has been no stranger to longing and darkness. But was God playing some cosmic game with us? Have we mourned the taint of sin for nothing? If our original parents' transgression was "truly necessary," why the guilt and why the consequences that have weighed so heavily upon us?

Rich poetry consists of layers of meaning and offers much on which to reflect. If its truth were readily apparent, it would be more prose than poetry. What distinguishes poetry from other writing is the effort the reader must put forth to understand. Poetry is our finest fare, and like gourmet food, it must be eaten slowly or its subtleties are lost. A year of reflection would not exhaust the mystery asserted in the stark and startling phrases: "O, happy fault . . . O truly necessary sin of Adam." Perhaps it would appear to be a divine diversion, even a perverse amusement, for God to construct a world in which Adam's sin is truly "necessary," were it not also true that the "death of Christ" destroyed that sin "completely."

The potent truth Saint Paul asserts in the eighth chapter of Romans is more elusive than it is apparent: Do all things truly work together for good? Our experience often testifies to the contrary. The Exsultet doesn't stop to debate the point. It simply stops us in our tracks and declares, without mitigation, that personal experience is not normative: we can be fooled, it tells us. We regularly misunderstand; we misconstrue with great consistency and, sadly, with an even greater conviction that we are right. The blessed and revolutionary alliance of "happy" and "fault," of "necessary" and "sin" catch us up short. Think again, these words challenge. Let God's logic overwhelm you and accept the grace of contradiction. After all, God's ways are not our ways, says the Lord.

Mind the Bees!
The revision of The Roman Missal reintroduces to the Exsultet the mention of bees and enthusiastic praise of their productive work. The more ancient texts of the prayer went to greater lengths to extol the contributions of these industrious insects. Left out of the English translation of the 1970 Missal, the bees are back, thanks to the greater attention to literal translation. But the return of the bees is less about translation than it is about mysticism. The relationship of liturgy and theology is like the relationship between poetry and prose—they say similar things but in radically different ways. Liturgy chooses the language of mysticism, and the Exsultet is a happy example of a mystical approach to dogmas that seem more suited to the syllabi of theologians. In praying the Exsultet, we leave the stratosphere of theology and enter the warm regions of mysticism. We've already seen how the repetition of "This is the night . . ." speaks of the collapse of time. Now, we see how allusions to bees point indirectly to the mystery of our union in Christ and debunk the fallacy of autonomous living.

Long before John Donne expressed it in his poetry, the verses of the Exsultet were announcing that "no man is an island." The "work of bees" is communal work. The life of bees is also communal, revolving around the "queen" or "mother" bee. The colony's existence depends on numbers, sharing and cooperation, and on everyone doing their job. Ancients considered bees a model of the perfect society. It is the fruit of their joint labor that yields the precious candle this song-prayer was composed to extol.

In this candle, Old and New Covenants meet, for the pillar of wax is a type of pillar of fire that led Israel by night through the desert wilderness. As a burnt offering, the candle is also a type of Christ, marked as it is with five (usually red) grains of incense representing the five wounds of Jesus's Passion. This candle produces a fire that "is never dimmed by the sharing of its light." The same can be said of love and of the sharing of our faith. No matter how much we give away, we never have less.

This prayer we hear but once a year offers opportunity for much reflection if we are willing to sit awhile and listen. Other words or images might touch you more than the ones discussed here. What speaks to you this year might not be what moves you the next time you ponder this rich text. As Lent approaches, you might consider walking through the season mindful that it will end with this glorious prayer that presents us with glowing truths and profound challenges. Long before the Vigil, as you move through Lent's five weeks, you may want to ponder questions prompted by the Exsultet's grand imagery. Perhaps questions like the following may lead to fruitful contemplation:

How do I feel about the possibility that time as I know it does not really exist? Can I conceive of non-linear time? Do I find comfort in the notion of the eternal now, or am I more comfortable in a segmented universe where past is past and the future still to come? Can I believe, as I celebrate the Vigil, that what we call "past" and "future," are present in this one night? Do the mysteries of this night shift my perception of reality? How do I feel about this prayer's assertion that Adam's sin was "necessary," and that his "fault" and ours is, in some mysterious way, a "happy fault?" What does the melting pillar say to me about my life? Am I called to be a burnt-sacrifice? What does the life of industry, single-mindedness, and unshakable community that characterizes bees say to me about my commitments? Do I conceive of my life as radically intertwined and connected with the lives of all who share this planet? Do my relationships—to others and to God—define my life?

Thoughtful time spent in the garden of poetry and praise that is the Exsultet not only brings insight and opportunity for deep prayer but also readies us to join our faith community at the Vigil and sing with them and the "Angel ministers of God" the praises of the Easter candle ?and of the one whose light it only dimly represents.

Notes

1. “Newsflash: Time May Not Exist,” by Tim Folger, Discover Magazine, http://discovermagazine.com/2007/jun/in-no-time/article_view?b_start:int=1&-C=