by Lucia A. Silecchia
A number of springs ago, I went to the Easter Vigil Mass with the joyous anticipation of Easter, though a bit muted.
That year, my dad was journeying through what I knew — but did not want to believe — were the final months of his earthly life.
I came to Mass early that night for some quiet time alone.
The church was both bustling with preparation and peacefully tranquil at the same time.
As the Mass began, the Easter flame, the paschal candle, and, ultimately, all of our little candles were lit to banish the darkness. As usual, my first thought was to worry about all of this fire in a beloved wooden church, nearly a century old!
But as we settled in, I found myself deeply distracted by the paschal candle lit in all its Easter glory in the sanctuary of my hometown parish.
I had seen paschal candles my whole life, but never really paid much attention to them. They were simply a silent part of the familiar liturgical landscape. Yet, in that particularly somber spring, I began to contemplate that the very candle we lit on that night of profound joy would likely be lit again, all too soon, in that same church, for my Dad’s funeral. Indeed, merely two months later, it was.
Ever since then, I admit that a lump comes to my throat when I see a paschal candle blessed and lit on Easter Eve — or see it stand burning bright amidst an explosion of lilies at Mass on Easter morning.
The etching of the Greek letters “alpha” and “omega” on the candle reminds us that Christ is the beginning and the end. The “2026” carved into the candle reminds us that this year, like all years, belongs to God.
The five grains of incense embedded in the wax remind us that the wounds of Christ were not the end of the story.
The prayers we say speak of the glorious light of Christ whose resurrection dispels the darkness of all kinds — in our hearts and in our weary world.
There is a hopeful, irreplaceable joy that comes with that.
After my own season of loss, I find myself each Easter, praying for all who will pass from this life and be commended to God’s mercy in the light of the new paschal candle.
I also find myself praying for all those who will enter this life with their baptisms celebrated in the light of this same candle.
The beginnings and ends of our earthly lives, and the beginnings of our eternal lives, are marked in the hopeful glow of the paschal candle.
In the sacred celebrations of Easter, I do not know who among my sisters and brothers will experience these profound beginnings and ends, and for whom we will light this candle.
Indeed, I do not know, on any Easter Eve, whether that candle will be lit for me since, blessedly, so much is hidden from our view.
But every year, on a holy night when time stands still, on a holy night when life overcomes death, on a holy night when light dispels all darkness, a lowly candle is raised high in celebration.
It is a beautiful reminder that all that will come — all of the beginnings and all of the ends — are in the hands of the risen Christ.
Truly, paschal hope has come to fill our ordinary times.
Wishing you and yours the blessed, joyful hope of Easter!
Lucia A. Silecchia is professor of law at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law.