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Office Of Readings | Sunday, Lent Week 5 | From The Easter Letters Of Saint Athanasius | Jesus Is The Feast Of Easter | Jesus Is Both Priest And Sacrifice
‘We keep the Lord’s feast which is coming, not in words but in action.’
Christ As The Feast Itself
Saint Athanasius opens this Easter letter with a theological affirmation of Jesus Christ’s total and continuous presence among his people. Christ is not only the Redeemer and Teacher but becomes the very substance of the feast:
‘He has come among us as our feast and holy day as well.’
In this image, Athanasius collapses the categories of subject and object. Christ is not only the one who invites us to the feast; he is the feast. The sacrificial lamb, the priest who offers it, and the table at which it is shared—these are all fulfilled in the person of Jesus Christ. This theological density reflects Athanasius’ wider understanding of the Incarnation: that in Christ, God has assumed all dimensions of our reality to redeem them.
The Paschal Mystery And The Christian Life
The reference to Christ as the true Passover (cf. 1 Corinthians 5:7) anchors this reflection firmly in the Paschal Mystery. For Athanasius, the Christian feast is not a commemoration of a past event but a living participation in the death and resurrection of Christ. The liturgical celebration is thus inseparable from the moral and spiritual transformation of the believer. As he writes:
‘True joy, genuine festival, means the casting out of wickedness.’
Athanasius draws attention away from mere ritual observance and toward the ethical and contemplative demands of the feast. The one who would celebrate must first be purified—not merely ritually, but morally and spiritually.
This reflects the deep connection in the early Church between liturgy and ethics, a connection that is frequently obscured in modern practice. For Athanasius, you cannot keep the feast if you are not keeping the commandments.
Examples Of The Saints | Rejoicing Through Righteousness
To illustrate what such a celebration looks like, Athanasius invokes the figures of David, Moses, Samuel, and Elijah—those who, in the Old Testament, lived lives of worship and devotion. Their joy came not from external festivities but from lives dedicated to prayer, worship, and holiness. David rises seven times during the night to pray (cf. Psalm 119:164); Moses sings a hymn of deliverance at the Red Sea (Exodus 15); Elijah lives a life of radical fidelity to the covenant.
Athanasius positions these figures as precursors to Christian sanctity:
‘Because of their holy lives they gained freedom, and now keep festival in heaven.’
He presents them not only as historical examples but as models for Christian living in the present. Holiness is not decorative or optional—it is the prerequisite for celebration.
The Feast As Participation, Not Performance
As the letter continues, Athanasius deepens his exhortation. The celebration of the feast is not an external act but a movement of the whole self:
‘We keep his feast by deeds rather than by words.’
This aphorism crystallizes the pastoral thrust of the entire passage. Athanasius is not denigrating liturgical observance or doctrinal confession, but he is warning against their separation from the life of virtue. Keeping the feast ‘in truth’ means following Christ along the way of righteousness, humility, and charity.
He ties this to discipleship, quoting Christ’s words: ‘I am the way.’ The feast is not only something one enters into, but a way of life, marked by obedience and moral clarity. Lent, then, is the preparation not simply for liturgy but for transformation.
Purification Through The Word
In one of the more theologically rich moments of the letter, Athanasius draws a contrast between the ritual purification of the Old Testament and the spiritual cleansing offered by Christ:
‘In former times the blood of goats… purified only the body. Now… everyone is made abundantly clean.’
This evokes the argument of the Letter to the Hebrews (especially chapters 9–10), where Christ’s once-for-all sacrifice replaces the repeated sacrifices of the old covenant. Athanasius adds a specifically Alexandrian note: purification is not merely juridical or external—it is ontological. It changes the person from within. Christ, the Word of God, purifies through his grace and makes the soul fit for the contemplation of God.
Foretaste Of The Heavenly Jerusalem
Athanasius concludes with an eschatological vision:
‘If we follow Christ closely we shall be allowed, even on this earth, to stand as it were on the threshold of the heavenly Jerusalem.’
This echoes the already-but-not-yet dimension of Christian life. The heavenly liturgy, of which the Eucharist is a participation, is not only future but present. Insofar as the believer follows Christ through repentance, righteousness, and love, he or she already stands within the vestibule of eternal life.
From The Easter Letters Of Saint Athanasius
The Word who became all things for us is close to us, our Lord Jesus Christ who promises to remain with us always. He cries out, saying: ‘See, I am with you all the days of this age.’ He is himself the shepherd, the high priest, the way and the door, and has become all things at once for us. In the same way, he has come among us as our feast and holy day as well. The blessed Apostle says of him who was awaited: ‘Christ has been sacrificed as our Passover.’ It was Christ who shed his light on the psalmist as he prayed: ‘You are my joy, deliver me from those surrounding me.’ True joy, genuine festival, means the casting out of wickedness. To achieve this one must live a life of perfect goodness and, in the serenity of the fear of God, practise contemplation in one’s heart.
This was the way of the saints, who in their lifetime and at every stage of life rejoiced as at a feast. Blessed David, for example, not once but seven times rose at night to win God’s favour through prayer. The great Moses was full of joy as he sang God’s praises in hymns of victory for the defeat of Pharaoh and the oppressors of the Hebrew people. Others had hearts filled always with gladness as they performed their sacred duty of worship, like the great Samuel and the blessed Elijah. Because of their holy lives they gained freedom, and now keep festival in heaven. They rejoice after their pilgrimage in shadows, and now distinguish the reality from the promise.
When we celebrate the feast in our own day, what path are we to take? As we draw near to this feast, who is to be our guide? Beloved, it must be none other than the one whom you will address with me as our Lord Jesus Christ. He says: ‘I am the way.’ As blessed John tells us: it is Christ ‘who takes away the sin of the world.’ It is he who purifies our souls, as the prophet Jeremiah says: ‘Stand upon the ways; look and see which is the good path, and you will find in it the way of amendment for your souls.’
In former times the blood of goats and the ashes of a calf were sprinkled on those who were unclean, but they were able to purify only the body. Now through the grace of God’s Word everyone is made abundantly clean. If we follow Christ closely we shall be allowed, even on this earth, to stand as it were on the threshold of the heavenly Jerusalem, and enjoy the contemplation of that everlasting feast, like the blessed apostles, who in following the Saviour as their leader, showed, and still show, the way to obtain the same gift from God. They said: ‘See, we have left all things and followed you.’ We too follow the Lord, and we keep his feast by deeds rather than by words.
The text from Saint Irenaeus, read on Thursday of the third week of Eastertide in the Office of Readings, is a profound theological meditation on the relationship between the Eucharist and the resurrection of the body. It stands not merely as an apologetic against heresy, but as a luminous witness to the Church’s sacramental and eschatological faith—rooted in the Incarnation, expressed through liturgy, and fulfilled in the resurrection [ … ]
Psalm 42 expresses deep spiritual longing. The psalm compares the psalmist’s thirst for God to a deer panting for water brooks, conveying intensity of desire to be in God’s presence [ … ]
The Carrefour will be open, where I can buy nuts for the red squirrel, who lives in Campo Grande. The red squirrel is Valladolid’s best bit. Even as a child, I had never seen one before, apart from in picture books. It was last term’s discovery. The most beautiful encounter. I didn’t know it was there – in the park. A complete surprise. The tiny little thing bobbled and hopped, as it received in its little hands a nut from the man’s hands. Each surprising instant – it was childlike. I whispered: ‘Oh my wow.’ I walk toward the El Cortes Ingles. There is, for now, that settled feel of friends in bookshops. Though a null-affect, neutral day – it won’t glean, it is not to be scratched at. The queues are long in the Carrefour. Though, as it might be, on relatively modest incomes, many people live centrally. Their behaviours neither pinched nor stark. Yet the shop so busy while the street so empty… An error in the simulation, a glitch in the code. I potter about the aisles, which are pleasant enough, then at the tills I flinch at how expensive a little bag of up-sold nuts can be. Nonetheless, I queue for a packet of almonds. Two English men queue directly ahead of me. They are stocky, and have gay voices, their wheelie-bucket piled with soft drinks and party food, while they bitch to one another about the obviously terrible party they’re going to. The air heaves relief as I wander up the way to the broad plaza fringing Campo Grande. This is a place to see – a piece of Spain. There is a tourist information office, though unopened. At these fountains, three girls take selfies. Pompous-looking buildings, the military offices aside, line the park’s nearest vicinities. Hotel-bars have their patches. Liveried doormen idle time, for there are no paying customers, in and out the doorways’ shadows. A mixed group of kids play at the hoops on the pedestrian boulevard, and two boys practise on skateboards, working the thing out. I pass by them, touched by the thought, and happy that they are there. Wistful, I smile at the odds of the ball spilling over to me, and play in mind the agreeable scene of a fleeting connection. Then I am through the park gates. An air now – of humanity become self-selecting. Modestly understated. Understatedly modest. Campo Grande is nice but it isn’t grande… I walk slowly, and very soon hear for a second time English voices. Not them – it is an English family, just a little way ahead, a Dad and a Mum and a younger boy and an older girl, and theirs are Midlands accents. Dad seems to have been here and to know the place. He gestures panoramically. Mum wants her lunch. The girl at a difficult age. She carries a balloon-on-a-stick. Though she is sprouting – yet wears a loud dress. Then leggings, trainers. Her hair is nice… Maybe she is being okay about it. And not horrific. It’s okay once they get into it, but those months… Yet then, they mostly blossom, if they come from a good home, and become rounded personalities, entering into their womanhood. It was that… when yet they weren’t… I shudder to think of it. They walk toward the pond, and I trail, and would follow had I not been going that way. I wish I could say something so they might hear I am English too. (Fake a phone call?) How my voice might sound – there’d be all college hurling around in such matter I… a demented thing, ludicrous blurt – of Henry, Geoff, and all of them – not to mention the personal predicament. Maybe they’re a nice family. She is letting him explain what he needs to explain. And it would blow his fire, me being English. Mum and Dad. You’d probably see them all having their lunch in a little while. All sat round the table. With napkins and the menus out. Dad looks safe. I look into the pond. Terrapins live in there. But not today. I walk toward the join in the paths where the squirrel lives. There, I crumple the packet of almonds, making noise. I peer and I squat and crouch – chewing a mouthful. All the peacocks have perched right up in the trees’ branches. That never looks like something they should be doing. It’s disappointing that the squirrel isn’t here – but then the not-knowing-if is a part of it. Now, next, my visit to the National Sculpture Museum is an obligation. Canon Peter stood literally aghast when I hadn’t heard of it. Mortified, I made resolute promises. Though a few weeks have passed, it isn’t just any old something I could do on the hoof. A great commitment – it must command a known and prepared and anticipated not-just-any-old-time. But, rather, the sort you must wait for – and listen for. [ … ] Beyond Plaza Mayor, there would be a brief series of old-town alleyways. The National Sculpture Museum would be – just up there, this archway, this next…They are bleached and forgotten-looking walls, and the smoothed paving could be medieval. Not that it is making Tomàs anxious – I follow the map. A kind of place – uneasy credit-cards, and modern vaccinations, and a phone, might not help much. I fancy I feel the back-wall of a church, and that – fancifully – pressure-release drawn out of me. Only I am playing games in a nice way – making play-scared on the uncertainty – with only myself to see. The National Museum is there, modestly signed on stencilled plexiglass stuck to the stone wall. A uniformed lady sits just a little way inside the doorway. She reassures me there is no money required, and directs me over the courtyard into the planned route, showing me where I can pick up a free map. I get my […]
