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It seemed strange on Easter morning to read the review of a book
whose author - a former Anglican priest - claims that Jesus never
existed.
Weeks ago I had promised to do the first reading at the 11 AM mass,
the only mass on Easter Sunday. Because I usually I attend the Easter
vigil, a long service which I love and which is not that well
attended because it is long and it ends very late, I don't usually go
to mass on Easter Sunday.
Twenty minutes before 11, the parking lot was full. Men transported
more and more chairs from the hall into the church while we, waiting
in the processional tried to occupy the least space possible.
For the reading, I looked over a vast congregation that extended way
back into the entryway. The communion went on and on and from my
front row seat I had a chance to see all the babies, toddlers,
children, teenagers, parents, grandparents, our growing community of
immigrants from Africa who have joined our francophone parish, the
choir who had worked hard for all the holy week services and all of a
sudden, I felt my heart burning within me, like that of the disciples
of Emmaus:
The Lord has Risen Indeed and He is With Us Here Today! Alleluia!
Cecily
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