"We climb up the mountain of time, bearing with us the instruments of our own death. At first the goal is far distant. We do not think of it; the present is enough: the morning on the mountain, the song of the birds, the sun's brightness. We feel we do not need to know about our destination, since the way itself is enough. But the longer it grows, the more unavoidable the question becomes: Where is it going? What does it all mean? We look with apprehension at the signs of death that, up to now, we had not noticed, and the fear rises within us that perhaps the whole of life is only a variation of death; that we have been deceived and that life is actually not a gift but an imposition.
Then the strange reply, “God will provide”, sounds more like an excuse than an explanation. Where this view predominates, where talk of “God” is no longer believable, humor dies. In such a case man has nothing to laugh about anymore; all that is left is cruel sarcasm or that rage against God and the world with which we are all acquainted. But the person who has seen the Lamb—Christ on the Cross—knows that God has provided...
All we can see is - like Isaac - the Lamb - the crucified Christ - is in fact our glimpse of Heaven, of what God has eternally provided for us. In this Lamb we actually do glimpse Heaven, and we see God's gentleness, which is neither indifference nor weakness but power of the highest order. It is in this way, and only thus, that we see the mysteries of creation and catch a little of the songs of the angels - indeed, we can try to join with them, somewhat, in singing the Alleluia of Easter Day. Because we see the Lamb, we can laugh and give thanks; from him we also realize what adoration is."
From a homily for Easter, published in "Images of Hope" by Ignatius Press
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