It was on an Easter Sunday,
and all in the morning,
Our Savior arose,
and our heavenly King.
The sun and the moon,
they both did rise
with him,
And sweet Jesus
we’ll call him by name.
+ + +
An Easter Homily of Saint John Chrysostom
Is there anyone who is a devout lover of God? Let them enjoy this beautiful bright festival! Is there anyone who is a grateful servant? Let them rejoice and enter into the joy of their Lord!
Are there any weary with fasting? Let them now receive their wages! If any have toiled from the first hour, let them receive their due reward; If any have come after the third hour, let him with gratitude join in the Feast! And he that arrived after the sixth hour, let him not doubt; for he too shall sustain no loss. And if any delayed until the ninth hour, let him not hesitate; but let him come too. And he who arrived only at the eleventh hour, let him not be afraid by reason of his delay.
For the Lord is gracious and receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, as well as to him that toiled from the first. To this one He gives, and upon another He bestows. He accepts the works as He greets the endeavor. The deed He honors and the intention He commends.
Let us all enter into the joy of the Lord! First and last alike receive your reward; rich and poor, rejoice together! Sober and slothful, celebrate the day!
You that have kept the fast, and you that have not, rejoice today for the Table is richly laden! Feast royally on it, the calf is a fatted one. Let no one go away hungry. Partake, all, of the cup of faith. Enjoy all the riches of His goodness!
Let no one grieve at his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn that he has fallen again and again; for forgiveness has risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Death of our Savior has set us free. He has destroyed it by enduring it.
He destroyed Hades when He descended into it. He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh. Isaias foretold this when he said, "You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below."
Hell was in an uproar because it was done away with.
It was in an uproar because it is mocked.
It was in an uproar, for it is destroyed.
It is in an uproar, for it is annihilated.
It is in an uproar, for it is now made captive.
Hell took a body, and discovered God.
It took earth, and encountered Heaven.
It took what it saw, and was overcome by what it did not see.
O death, where is thy sting?
O Hades, where is thy victory?
Christ is Risen, and you, O death, are annihilated!
Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down!
Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice!
Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!
Christ is Risen, and the tomb is emptied of its dead; for Christ having risen from the dead, is become the first-fruits of those who have fallen asleep.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”). And so we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
+ + +
When we were kids growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of over a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it usually rains, as is expected this year), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
The legacy of “St Mary’s of the Steps” can be found at the parish website.
Our meditation for Good Friday is a photo montage with the imagery of the cross by Terri Rogers.
Finally, and for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
It was on a
maundy Thursday,
and all in the morning,
They planted
a crown of thorns
on our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing,
And sweet Jesus
we'll call him by name.
Today begins the Sacred Triduum.
For many years, before I retired, I would take this day and the next off from work. Sometimes I go to church to pray the Tenebrae of Holy Week. Some years I have served at the altar for the Mass of the Day, but nobody wants a seventy-plus-year-old altar boy, no matter how good he is, and no matter how many young men have looked up to him over the years as their role model.
Be that as it may, for a Catholic, as much as some try to deny it, the next three days are not business as usual. The whole of human history -- before, during, after -- turns on the events we remember this week. Our meditation is from a poem by Jalaludin Rumi. It is translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, with music by David Wilcox and Nance Pettit, and is produced by Bob Carlton.
It was on a Holy Wednesday,
and all in the morning
When Judas betrayed
our dear heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing,
And sweet Jesus,
we'll call him by name.
This day in Holy Week is known among Western Christians by the above title (or among Christians in the East, Μεγάλη Τετάρτη), as tradition commemorates this day for when Judas Iscariot conspired with the Sanhedrin to betray Our Lord, in exchange for thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:15).
Was that a lot of money in those days?
The term in the original language, "arguria," simply means "silver coins." Historians disagree as to what form of currency is described. They could have been either staters from Antioch, tetradrachms from Ptolemy, or shekels from Tyre. (Nothing about Greek drachmas, which were either bronze, copper, or iron. Just so we're clear on that.)
Closer to the present, it is also when we here at man with black hat (more or less) interrupt our usual blogcasting (such as it is) in order to focus on the Main Event for the several days that follow.
Today we remember Saint Patrick (387-493), the patron saint of Ireland. It is on the Emerald Isle that today is both a national and religious holiday. At one time, the bars would close and the churches would be full out of obligation. Only in recent years has the feast seen a more rebellious spirit, complete with parades and green beer (not to mention green hair). Naturally (if ironically), they have the Americans to thank for this.
And, since the feast usually takes place during Lent, there are times such as a couple of years ago, when some of us are permitted on a day of abstinence to indulge a wee bit more than others. But this year it's on a Tuesday, so it's all good craic.
+ + +
Growing up in a postwar Catholic environment, those of us who attended the parish schools in the United States, were taught that there were two kinds of people; those who were Irish, and those who wish they were. My own family appeared to fall into neither category. There were the Irish nuns who favored the Irish kids, including the unforgettable Sister Mary Mel (yes, her real name), who wasn't above calling some miscreant a "jackass" (including my kid brother, as evesdropping on a phone call with Mom gave away). But at least she was colorful. The rest of all things that were allegedly Irish were just so much blarney. I came to dismiss the whole notion of St Paddy's Day -- indeed, the whole notion of being Irish -- as a license for certain people to be more arrogant and obnoxious than they already were.
Eventually I went to college, where I discovered Irish music. I mean the real thing, not the over-romanticized "Christmas-in-Killarney-on-St-Patrick's-in-June" that passed itself off as genuine the whole time, and I couldn't get enough of it. I used to watch the Saint Patrick's Day parade in Cincinnati, which included the carrying of the statue of the Saint, which the local chapter of the Ancient Order of Hibernians would "steal" in the middle of night, from what was once the German parish in Mount Adams. (Long story.) There was also the local Irish dance school, with boys and girls who never imagined that, decades later, they could do it for fame and fortune in shows like "Riverdance."
Who knew?
By the end of the 1970s I spent Sunday evenings working at a coffeehouse, and I helped broker a deal that brought Clannad to Cincinnati on their first American tour. I even gave harpist/vocalist Máire Brennan (pronounced MOY-uh) a ride back to where she was staying. Otherwise shy and aloof, I got her to laugh at my jokes. That seemed to matter at the time.
I saw Máire again in 1987, in a music video on VH1, for a song entitled "Something to Believe In." She was also the haunting voice in the Volkswagen commercials. Naturally she's world-famous now, and probably wouldn't return my calls, although she did write me a long and possibly heartfelt note when she autographed my copy of their album. I say "possibly" because it was in Gaelic, so I'll never know for sure, especially since it was among my collection that was stolen from my apartment in Georgetown back in 1994. (Bob, if you're reading this, tell your rich white trash buddies that I'd really like to have it back. And before you get your boxers in a bunch, the neighbors all thought YOU did it!) Máire also came out with a book in 2001 entitled "The Other Side of the Rainbow." She continues to tour and so on, but I knew her when.
(Sigh ...) Anyway, back to the '70s. While the whole world (including my now-beloved Celia on the other side of it) was going bananas over disco, the feast became an annual ritual, of spending most of the accompanying weekend hanging out at Hap's Irish Pub in the Hyde Park section of Cincinnati, or at Arnold's Bar and Grill downtown. Even when I moved to Washington in 1980, I learned Irish dancing (if not quite what appears in the above video), Irish folk tales, and the like. But the upscale bars in the Nation's capital weren't as quaint as the neighborhood pubs in my old hometown. I was under no illusions that this heritage was one that I could claim for my own.
In 1982, that claim became even more elusive. I married a girl whose grandparents came over from Slovakia, and who grew up hearing Slovak around the house. This pretty much killed any enthusiasm for all things Irish around our house.
You see, I learned a piece of American Catholic history that the mostly Irish-American church historians back then didn't exactly wear on their sleeves.
By the time eastern Europeans came to America in the late 19th and early 20th century, the Irish were already the big fish in the little blue-collar pond, and didn't mind letting the "Hunkies" in the coal towns and factory neighborhoods know it. Going up the food chain, it got worse. Catholics of Eastern Rites -- with customs and liturgy similar to the Orthodox, but in communion with Rome -- had married priests. The mostly-Irish bishops assumed they were either schismatics, or worse. Their wives couldn't be treated in Catholic hospitals, and their children were barred from Catholic schools. Confused as these bishops were, they concluded that the faithful would be even more confused by the presence of married Catholic priests. Thus, by the 1920s, The (mostly Irish-)American bishops pressured Rome to bar the (legitimately) married priests from coming to America, let alone ministering.
It has been shown that most of the growth of Eastern Orthodoxy in North America can be attributed to the damned ignorance of the mitred Micks at the time. (Hey, guys, nice work!)
This latency towards all things Irish got a reprieve when the marriage tanked in 1992. Then one night -- it was about 1998, as I remember -- I was interviewed for a writing job by a priest who edited a major Catholic periodical. A native of Dublin, he reminded me of what really mattered:
“Patrick was not Irish, and on his Feast Day, we do not celebrate being Irish; we celebrate being Catholic.”
I knew that the Alexanders came from a small town near Verdun, in the Lorraine province of northeastern France. But in recent years we learned that, before the 18th century, the "Alexandre" line was expatriated from Scotland, the result of the rebellion when the Scottish nationalists who were followers of the French "Bonnie Prince Charles" were defeated. I was also to learn that the man known by the Roman name of Maganus Sucatus (Maewyn Succat in Gaelic) was of a Roman family, born in Kilpatrick, near Dumbarton, in that part of Great Britain that is now Scotland. Sooooo ... if not being Irish were not enough, Patricius (in modern English, Patrick) -- as he was known in later years, being of the Roman "patrician" class, and a "patriarch" to his spiritual charges -- might just as easily be claimed by the Scots as one of their own.
+ + +
For years, one highlight of the day was the Annual Irish Poetry Reading. That was when I'd call my folks in Ohio on this day every year, and with their speakerphone on, recite the following piece by Benjamin Hapgood Burt in my very bad Irish brogue:
One evening in October, when I was one-third sober,
An' taking home a "load" with manly pride;
My poor feet began to stutter, so I lay down in the gutter,
And a pig came up an' lay down by my side;
Then we sang "It's all fair weather when good fellows get together,"
Till a lady passing by was heard to say:
"You can tell a man who 'boozes' by the company he chooses"
And the pig got up and slowly walked away.
Since then, both have entered into eternity with better things to do.
+ + +
Today, those who are Irish, who wish they were, or who don't give a rat's arse either way, will dine on Irish lamb stew. When I can ever find it amidst my stuff, I use this occasion to wear a button with the words of William Butler Yeats: “I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.” (Yes, that's the poem above.) Usually, I listen to Celtic music the entire day, and at an opportune time and place, I dine on corned beef and cabbage, an admittedly an American innovation for the Irish, as poor immigrants from the "auld sod" found corned beef (a substitute used by their Jewish neighbors in place of bacon) to be much cheaper than lamb.
Then about ten years ago, I got lucky, because right down the street from me, they opened an Irish pub. It seems that three Thai restaurants within a half mile of each other was one too many, and the one closest to me was replaced with the watering hole of my dreams. The Celtic House is situated on the corner of Columbia Pike and South Barton Street, right at the end of the latter street, which would be my street, a mere ten-minute walk away.
Earlier today, my beloved and I dined there amidst the usual record crowd, as if my fond memories of discovering real Irish culture have come full circle. True, it's not as small and crowded as Hap's in Hyde Park, not nearly as weather-beaten as Arnold's downtown, and they won't be selling raffle tickets for NORAID under the table, but I can ignore that long enough to enjoy a lamb stew, or a rueben sandwich with sauerkraut, if I'm in the mood.
I'll also probably watch Mel Gibson in Braveheart later tonight, while enjoying a Guinness float (which is like a root beer float, with the obvious exception). Who cares if William Wallace was Scottish? No one cares if Patrick isn't Irish, do they? After all, "The Apostle of Ireland" is properly claimed by Catholics everywhere, whether a bunch of Micks care to admit it or not.
On the thirteenth of November last year, a retired successful and wealthy businessman and entrepreneur, by the name of Michael Lampkin, passed away at his home in El Dorado Hills, California, after a long bout with leukemia. He was eighty-seven years old, surrounded by his five children, and the sounds of Neil Diamond's greatest hits.
+ + +
The first time I met Uncle Mick, he wasn't my uncle yet. My Aunt Shirley brought him to our house on Christmas Eve in 1960. I was only in kindergarten, but Mick sat down with me, and together we speculated how long it would take for Santa Claus to deliver his goods. According to the math (in some detail for a five-year-old), the United States alone would take the entire year.
Mick married my Aunt Shirley the following year, and Mick became Uncle Mick.
He always called me "Rocky." I had no idea why. He was different from all the other uncles. He was educated, sophisticated without the attitude, and didn't treat me like a little kid. Most people did, because that's what I was. And it was small wonder. I was also a bit of a nuisance. Today, they would have said I was “on the spectrum” and put me on Ritalin for life. But to him, I was more. One time I went with him to a baseball game, and he explained the players, the strategy, everything, in detail. That was unusual in the world of an obnoxious little boy. Obnoxious little boys could only be taken in small doses.
He owned a Volkswagen "Beetle." No one I knew owned anything but an American car. But he wasn't like anyone else I knew. It was small, it was cramped in the back seat, but none of that mattered. Everything looked different; the knobs, the buttons, the arrangement, all so ... European. Imagine something that exotic, that unique, in a world of plain vanilla and white bread.
Eventually, he took his wife and five children from their home in Cincinnati, to the city of Winchester, in Virginia. He left a promising career at Procter and Gamble, for an even more promising career at Rubbermaid.
This was 1968. Virginia was in the South, and the South in those days was still very much ... well, the South. Interracial marriage ceased to be illegal in Virginia and other southern states only in the previous year, but other things took longer. It seemed that there were "no public schools" in that part of the country, only private non-sectarian schools. Only years later did I learn that racial integration was still several years away, not because of the law, but because of hearts and minds. Uncle Mick never explained why there were "no public schools" there, but on the front window by the door was a sticker that said "Open Housing Is Morally Right."
Maybe some things never needed explaining.
One night while we were staying at the house, I woke him up in the middle of the night, and asked him what he did for a living. I had little in the way of social cues back then. But instead of yelling at me to go to sleep, he stayed awake and explained to me what he did for a living. I understood little of it, but what mattered was that I mattered enought that he would stay awake long enough to explain.
Virginia was a great place to visit. I learned to play tennis that summer from the kid across the street. I listend to the radio at night, but WINC-AM, and listend to reports of riots in Chicago, and the Russians invading Prague. I couldn't imagine living in Virginia. Not yet anyway.
After a few years, Virginia wasn't enough for Uncle Mick either. He took his family and moved once again to ... Seattle, Washington! Clear across the country, to take ownership of an office supply company named Ruggles, Inc. Seattle was even farhter away. I knew nothing would be the same; not us, not him, not his family.
I was crushed.
The years went by, as they usually do. The next time I saw him was in 1986, when he and the Lampkins came by the house. I was with my first wife then, and Paul was just a baby. We sat in the living room. Well, most of us did. He was upstairs on the phone. Something was up, and there was no rest for the weary, the indispensible man. Eventually he came down and apologized for it. He was different somehow; too busy, too ... let's just settle for "different." It was a difference that affected their marriage, and after twenty-two years, Uncle Mick and Aunt Shirley divorced. Eventually the marriage was declared null and void by the Church, which left them both free to marry again.
I stayed in touch with Aunt Shirley for many years, especially during my divorce in the early 1990s. She understood me and what I endured. It was only in recent years that I renewed my contact with Uncle Mick.
As far as I was concerned, he was still my uncle. He remarried and was living in northern California. He continued to work into his seventies, possibly because he had to, but definitely because he loved his work. Not every man can say the latter, but he could, and so could I. In nearly half a century of my career, I wouldn't have settled for less.
But this love of his work was tempered in later years by regret. He wished he hadn't been quite as driven, that he spent more time with his family. His final years were not only a time of healing between himself and the children from his first marriage, but an admission that, even the breakup of a marriage declared null and void was "the biggest mistake I ever made."
+ + +
My uncle Mick taught me that I did not have to settle for less. "1) Decide what you want in life. 2) Decide what you're willing to give up for it. 3) Go for it." It was a three-step plan that made for my best and brightest moments. It was how I became an Eagle Scout even after my father was unfairly kicked out of the troop. It was how I completed my internship in spite of gross mismanagement by the "career counselors." It was how I left the complacency of Cincinnati for a steady job in Washington. Finally, it was how I was practically alone in a room with men and women apointed by the President, and being taken seriously, of earning their respect. There were always my parents behind all this, of course, but there was still room on that short list for Uncle Mick.
As this is published, there is a "celebration of life" happening in Seattle. I was supposed to be there, until I was (shall we say?) taken over by events. But wherever he is now, he knows I was there in spirit.
He was then, and will always be, my Crackin' Rosie, my Song Sung Blue, my Sweet ... uh, you get the idea.
The next day, John saw Jesus coming to him, and he saith: Behold the Lamb of God, behold Him Who taketh away the sin of the world. This is He, of whom I said: After me there cometh a man, who is preferred before me: because He was before me. And I knew Him not, but that He may be made manifest in Israel, therefore am I come baptizing with water.
And John gave testimony, saying: I saw the Spirit coming down, as a dove from heaven, and He remained upon him. And I knew Him not; but He Who sent me to baptize with water, said to me: He upon Whom thou shalt see the Spirit descending, and remaining upon Him, He it is that baptizeth with the Holy Ghost. And I saw, and I gave testimony, that this is the Son of God. (John 1:29-34)
Given the significance of this "twentieth day," it seemed only appropriate that there be a hymn devoted to John baptizing in the Jordan, one designed to highlight the occasion specifically in the context of Christmastide. Alas, none could be found.
So, using the familiar tune "St Flavian," I wrote one. (Somebody cue the organ in the video already.)
Lord, halfway through these forty days,
Unto the Jordan came.
There, John the Baptist saw His light,
And called Him out by name.
"This is the One, the Lamb of God,
Who takes our sins away."
And then did water pour on Him
To hear the Father say.
"Behold, hear my beloved Son,
In whom I am well pleased."
And Andrew when he heard of this,
Upon the moment seized.
"Oh Master, say where dost thou dwell,
That I may follow thee."
Our blessed Lord then did reply
To Andrew: "Come and see."
Praise to the Father and the Son
And to the Spirit be,
As all three Persons are as One,
Unto the Trinity.
Copyright 2024 by David Lawrence Alexander. All rights reserved.
VIDEO: A 1995 recording of "March of the Kings" ("Marche Des Rois") by Nowell Sing We Clear (Tony Barrand, Fred Breunig, Andy Davis and John Roberts) on Golden Hind Records.
+ + +
At the Mass for the Day (or at some prior occasion), the faithful are given chalk that has been blessed by the priest, as well as special holy water known as "Epiphany water." The blessing for it, which takes place only for this occasion, is to be found in the traditional Rituale Romanum, and includes a prayer of exorcism. The blessed chalk and the holy water are then taken home, to be used on the evening of the 6th.
+ + +
The Blessing of the Entrance to the House (“Chalking the Door”)
The one who is the Officiant begins with the Sign of the Cross, as the others respond ...
Pax + huic dómui. (Peace + be unto this house.)
Et ómnibus habitántibus in ea. (And to all who dwell therein.)
...and then continue with Psalm 71(72) "Deus, judicium":
Give the King your justice, O God,
and your righteousness to the King's son;
That he may rule your people righteously
and the poor with justice.
That the mountains may bring prosperity to the people,
and the little hills bring righteousness.
He shall defend the needy among the people;
he shall rescue the poor and crush the oppressor.
He shall live as long as the sun and moon endure,
from one generation to another.
He shall come down like rain upon the mown field,
like showers that water the earth.
In his time shall the righteous flourish;
there shall be abundance of peace
till the moon shall be no more.
He shall rule from sea to sea,
and from the River to the ends of the earth.
His foes shall bow down before him,
and his enemies lick the dust.
The kings of Tarshish and of the isles shall pay tribute,
and the kings of Arabia and Saba offer gifts.
All kings shall bow down before him,
and all the nations do him service.
For he shall deliver the poor who cries out in distress,
and the oppressed who has no helper.
He shall have pity on the lowly and poor;
he shall preserve the lives of the needy.
He shall redeem their lives from oppression and violence,
and dear shall their blood be in his sight.
Long may he live!
and may there be given to him gold from Arabia;
May prayer be made for him always,
and may they bless him all the day long.
May there be abundance of grain on the earth,
growing thick even on the hilltops;
May its fruit flourish like Lebanon,
and its grain like grass upon the earth.
May his Name remain for ever
and be established as long as the sun endures;
May all the nations bless themselves in him
and call him blessed.
Blessed be the Lord GOD, the God of Israel,
who alone does wondrous deeds!
And blessed be his glorious Name forever!
and may all the earth be filled with his glory.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son,
and to the Holy Spirit,
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,
world without end. Amen.
Then the Officiant says the following prayer:
Domine, exaudi orationem meam. (O Lord, hear my prayer.)
Et clamor meus ad te veniat. (And let my cry come unto you.)
Oremus ... (Let us pray ...)
Lord God of Heaven and Earth, who hast revealed thine only-begotten Son to every nation by the guidance of a star: Bless this house and all who inhabit it. Fill them with the light of Christ, that their love for others may truly reflect thy love. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.
The Officiant or another takes a piece of blessed chalk and, stepping up on a chair or ladder if necessary, writes over the entrance to the house.
“Christus ...” (“May Christ ...”)
C
“Mansionem ...” (“this dwelling ...”)
C M
“Benedicat.” (“... bless.”)
C M B
“On this night of the year ...”
20 C M B
“... for the coming year.”
20 C M B 26
“In the name of the Father ...”
20 + C M B 26
“and of the Son ...”
20 + C + M B 26
“... and of the Holy Spirit.”
20 + C + M + B 26
Everyone responds: “Amen.”
20 + C + M + B + 26
Benedicamus Domino! (Let us bless the Lord!)
Deo gratias! (Thanks be to God!)
The doorway is sprinkled with Holy Water blessed for the Epiphany. The inscription is to be removed on the Feast of Pentecost.
+ + +
For those who require "the short form," there is this one from the Church of Saint Mary in Clifton Heights, New York. On those nights when the weather is particularly inclement, one can simply read from the Gospel of John while inscribing over the door ...
In the beginning was the Word, (inscribe 2)
and the Word was with God, (inscribe 0)
and the Word was God. (inscribe +)
He was in the beginning with God. (inscribe C)
All things came to be through him, (inscribe +)
and without him nothing came to be. (inscribe M)
And the Word became flesh (inscribe +)
and made his dwelling among us, (inscribe B)
and we saw his glory, (inscribe +)
the glory as of the Father’s only Son, (inscribe 2)
full of grace and truth. (inscribe 6)
… then with the Holy Water, making the sign of the cross three times over the entrance, proclaiming “Christus ... Mansionem ... Benedicat” and calling it a night.
+ + +
This day is remembered throughout the world by various names. In many parts of Europe, Epiphany retains its distinction as "Little Christmas." Among the Greek Orthodox, the waters of the harbor are blessed by the local priest. In Spanish-speaking countries, it is known as “Dia de los Tres Reyes” (“Day of the Three Kings”). There are parades on the main street, such as this one in Madrid, Spain.
Although we know the "kings" were not actually royalty at all, but scholars in astronomy and other sciences who came from Persia, tradition has associated Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar -- their names as rendered in various apocryphal gospel accounts -- as representing the Orient, Europe, and Africa, the three great land masses of the known world in the first millennium.
As with the eve of Saint Nicholas Day in parts of western Europe, children in the Hispanic world are known to leave their shoes out and receive candy and other treats by the next morning. In Spain, children traditionally received presents on this day, rather than on Christmas, although recent years have seen both Christmas and Epiphany as a time for gift-giving.
I just love parades.
+ + +
This day is also the occasion for the solemn pronouncement of movable feasts for the coming year, using the chant from the Pontificale Romanum. Other resources for the occasion can be found at Fisheaters.
It was on an Easter Sunday, 
He destroyed Hades when He descended into it. He put it into an uproar even as it tasted of His flesh. Isaias foretold this when he said, "You, O Hell, have been troubled by encountering Him below."
![](“https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8lF6Qqw7e_rAYM7FN2lkRTKU6HJ8suxq-xG0GoF4YJU4GysJXnirk4O2agbMxEbvkOMrHLo306LzYm4FndBhXiPvYz_Ci7csEbko3c6SWXPttykG-njJ4RTC6o8oHpLJa4rGla5VwMSe6sxmebFsFYe79HwxXnfljcvkh-Ku5QXKC_FahGnH/s1600/dla-march2026-small.jpeg")
