Even though Mary’s Assumption into heaven is a dogma of the faith, and although it was only relatively recently defined as an integral part of what we believe as Catholics—being solemnly proclaimed by Pope Pius XII on 1 November 1950—this belief itself goes back to the earliest centuries of Christianity. While it is true that Scripture makes no direct reference to Mary’s Assumption, this should not trouble us, for the foundations of this profession of faith, which we celebrate in the Feast of the Assumption, are rooted in what the New Testament reveals about Christ and in the way Christian Tradition and theology have developed from the very beginning.

It is clear that this feast has been celebrated on this very date since at least the fifth century, first in Jerusalem and then throughout the East, before eventually being adopted by the Church of Rome in the West by the end of the eighth century. In one of his homilies for the feast, St John Damascene (AD 675–749) quotes an account preserved in the Historia Euthymiaca—a document most probably dating from the sixth century—which relates that, when Emperor Marcian and his wife Pulcheria sought to obtain the body of Mary in AD 451, St Juvenal, Patriarch of Jerusalem, made known to them that, although Mary had died in the presence of all the Apostles and had been buried in Gethsemane—where by his own time a church had already been built in her honour—when the tomb was opened at the request of the Apostle Thomas, it was found empty. From this the Apostles concluded that her body had been taken up into heaven (see Homilia II in Dormitionem B.V.M., §18, PG 96:747–750). Numerous other documents from the same period likewise bear witness to this belief, showing that it was not a doctrine that suddenly emerged in the middle of the last century, but one that had been cherished by Christians since the earliest centuries of the Church.

Yet beyond this historical evidence, there are deeper reasons, rooted in faith in Jesus Christ himself, which led to the development of this dogma over the centuries. This unique privilege granted to Mary is founded first and foremost upon the Church’s confession that Jesus Christ is true God and true man. As the eternal Son of God, he took flesh from a human mother in order to enter the world and accomplish the redemption of our poor human nature, wounded by sin. Because Mary is the Mother of God—not in the sense of the mother-goddesses of pagan religions, but because she is the mother of Jesus Christ, who is truly the Son of God—she was preserved from sin from the very first moment of her conception, so that she might become a fitting dwelling-place for him who is utterly opposed to sin and evil. Consequently, while all the redeemed shall receive in the resurrection the fullness of their reward as complete human beings, with both soul and body glorified after the likeness of the risen Christ, in Mary’s case this came to pass immediately: her body did not see corruption, and she already enjoys the fullness of her reward, in both body and soul, before the end of time (see Pius XII, Munificentissimus Deus, 1 November 1950, par. 3–4).

Thus, just as Easter is the pledge of our own resurrection, so too the Feast of the Assumption—l-Għid tal-Assunta in Maltese—is a sure sign of the promise that the same blessed destiny awaits us when our appointed time comes. As a member of the Church already sharing fully in that heavenly glory, Mary, with all humility, rejoices with us in Christ—who is her Saviour also—and continues to intercede for us, that the Mighty One may likewise do great things for us. May he grant that his name be hallowed in our lives, as we strive to live ever more free from sin. And, when we fall, may we never lose heart, but continue to praise him, becoming all the more eloquent signs of his mercy, which does not despise our lowliness but delights to fill us with good things, just as he did with Mary. For this is our faith, and this is the joy and hope that we celebrate in this feast: that what God accomplished in Mary he also desires to accomplish in us, provided that, like her, we freely to cooperate with divine grace, so that he may work in us and through us.

The silence of God in the Sacrament of the Eucharist amazes us because it does not seek to attract us to itself with sounds of trumpets. And so, the silence of God in the Sacrament of the Eucharist can make us uncomfortable in a world where those who shout the loudest and make the most noise are often considered the most powerful.

Nevertheless, it’s as if, in this silence, God offers us a seat in His living room—in His house in our midst, which is also our home—so that we may speak freely and pour out our weary souls. It is a silence that, at the same time, does not force us to speak. If we wish, we may say nothing at all and simply savour His gentle presence, allowing Him to show us that He delights in having us beside Him, even when our clothes are covered with the dust of life and our bodies stained by sin. His space is open to everyone, but it is also an invitation for everyone to become like Him. He loves us and embraces us as we are, yet, because He truly loves us, He desires that we too may be able to offer Him a pure sacrifice, springing from a pure conscience.

The rebuke contained in His silence is not a whip, but rather an invitation of love, like the one the Apostle Paul addresses to the Christians of Rome: “I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the mercy of God, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God” (Rom 12:1). In these words, Saint Peter Chrysologus—bishop and doctor of the Church who lived between the fourth and fifth centuries—imagines the Lord Himself speaking to us; indeed, “pleading” with us:

Listen to the Lord’s appeal: In me, I want you to see your own body, your members, your heart, your bones, your blood. You may fear what is divine, but why not love what is human? You may run away from me as the Lord, but why not run to me as your father? Perhaps you are filled with shame for causing my bitter passion. Do not be afraid. This cross inflicts a mortal injury, not on me, but on death. These nails no longer pain me, but only deepen your love for me. I do not cry out because of these wounds, but through them I draw you into my heart. My body was stretched on the cross as a symbol, not of how much I suffered, but of my all-embracing love. I count it no less to shed my blood: it is the price I have paid for your ransom. Come, then, return to me and learn to know me as your father, who repays good for evil, love for injury, and boundless charity for piercing wounds.

Saint Peter Chrysologus, Sermo 108, PL 52.499–500

What, then, will your response be to all these words of love which the Lord Jesus surely speaks in the silence our hearts whenever we stand before Him? Do not flee from silence; return to it. Adore in silence, without words, recognising your own nothingness, but also recognising the One who made Himself nothing for your sake. Acknowledge this, and do not be afraid. Then respond. Respond with silent praise, with thanksgiving, with tears of joy. Respond by allowing yourself to taste this sweetness of heaven and the gentle fragrance of Him who is the fairest of the sons of men (cf. Psalm 45:2).

Finally, we arrived at the fiftieth day of Easter—Għid il-Ħamsin in Maltese, which literally means ‘the feast of the fifty days. “But is it really fifty?” you might ask. For, if you count the days and weeks of Eastertide—seven times seven—you arrive at forty-nine. But, if you begin from Easter Sunday, today is the fiftieth day, as the Greek word Pentecost (Πεντηκοστή) itself means.

This is a feast also celebrated by the Jews fifty days after their Passover—known as שָׁבוּעוֹת (šāvūʿōṯ), meaning “weeks”—when they commemorate their arrival at Sinai, the mountain where God gave the Holy Law to Moses after freeing them from slavery in Egypt. It was also a thanksgiving celebration at the end of the spring harvest, one of the three pilgrim feasts for which Jews would go up to the Temple. Indeed, in the account of Pentecost in the Acts of the Apostles, we read that there were in Jerusalem “devout men from every nation under heaven” (Acts 2:5).

On this fiftieth day, the Church commemorates the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the Twelve and the disciples gathered together, awaiting the fulfilment of Jesus’ promise. Those in Jerusalem thought they were drunk—as if they had come from a village feast. But after hearing Peter, they too desired to be “intoxicated”: intoxicated with the joy of salvation accomplished through Jesus, a joy offered to all through the gift of the Holy Spirit.

The fifty days have passed, but the story does not end here. That day marked the beginning of a new chapter in the history of God’s people. And may it be so for you as well—that Pentecost is not an ending, but that you continue to write, and allow to be written through you, the story of God’s love for humanity.

On the fortieth day from Easter we celebrate the Ascension of the Lord because, as Saint Luke tells us, after his Resurrection Jesus appeared to the disciples for forty days before he was taken up into heaven (Acts 1:3). Yet we still continue to celebrate Easter until the fiftieth day, because the story does not end there: the Holy Spirit was yet to come. We rejoice with those same disciples who, “with great joy… returned to Jerusalem, and were continually in the temple blessing God” (Lk 24:52–53).

But where does the word Lapsi come from? The word comes from the Greek ἀνάληψις (análēpsis), which literally means “a taking up,” and thus expresses, in biblical language, the mystery of Jesus’ return to the Father.

But why rejoice at Jesus’ departure? We rejoice because, as Saint Leo the Great says, in the Lord’s Ascension, “we commemorate and duly venerate that day on which the Nature of our humility in Christ was raised above all the host of heaven, over all the ranks of angels, beyond the height of all powers, to sit with God the Father” (Sermon on the Ascension, 2–4).

Water plays an important role in the Easter Vigil. The solemn rite of its blessing takes place by lowering the Paschal candle once or three times into the font—the womb of Mother Church, given life by Christ so that new children may be born within her through Baptism.

Yet this water and its grace are not only for those baptised on that most holy night of the Church’s year. The water is sprinkled over the whole assembly after, with one voice, it renounces Satan and sin and renews its profession of faith in Christ. And, even for those who did not take part in the Vigil, or who may not even remember where the church door is … even for them there is water enough during these fifty days, as priests and deacons visit the homes and families of our parishes so that, through the sprinkling of water wherever they are welcomed, the peace of the Risen Christ and the freedom he brings may be shared.

During Eastertide our churches are clothed in white, and the priest wears white vestments at Mass. In the mystery of Easter, what the prophet Isaiah foretold comes to pass: even if our sins are like scarlet and crimson, they become white as snow and wool … the wool of lambs, the colour of the Paschal Lamb. Even when Jesus was transfigured before Peter, James and his brother John, to show them who he truly was—the beloved Son in whom the Father has always delighted—the Evangelists tell us that his garments became “white as light” (Mt 17:2), of a “dazzling whiteness” (Lk 9:29), so much so that “no fuller on earth could bleach them so white” (Mk 9:3)—for this whiteness was a foretaste of the radiance of heaven (see Dan 12:3).

Yes, white continues to be used throughout the fifty days because, even if for us Maltese Easter can seem like the outing after the feast (ix-xalata), following Lent and Holy Week, in truth Easter is the feast. That is why we call it the Great Feast—the feast of feasts. And this holds for the whole of Eastertide, and for our entire life, because although it is woven of moments marked by sorrow and others filled with joy, as we are taught to sing, we carry within all this the white garment we received at Baptism. As a sign of our dignity as children of God, we are called to keep it unstained until eternal life.

During the Easter Vigil, the contrast between darkness and light is very striking: the church lies almost entirely in darkness and, suddenly, at the proclamation of the coming of Christ’s light and the glory of his Resurrection, the light is kindled. Yet before that appearance of brightness and radiance, the silence and darkness of Holy Saturday begin to be broken by the small flame of the Paschal candle—that tall candle, symbol of the Risen Christ—followed by the priest and the people. It is lit from the newly blessed fire outside the church and, for the first time, the acclamation is sung: “The light of Christ,” and we all reply, “Thanks be to God,” until we too light our small candles from the Paschal candle, so as to share in this holy light and follow Christ, for, as he himself told us: “He who follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (Jn 8:12).

Therefore, if during these days you go to church to take part in Mass and see the Paschal candle lit, be assured that it is not by mistake, for it is Eastertide! Indeed, all the more so because, as Jesus himself promised us: “As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world” (Jn 9:5). And this so that, as the priest declares while lighting the Paschal candle: “May the light of Christ, who has risen in glory from the dead, dispel the darkness of our hearts and minds.”

Fifty! Because the Church does not begin preparing for the next Christmas and Holy Week on the day after Easter, but instead spends fifty days celebrating and delving ever more deeply into the mystery of our salvation, rejoicing in the new life we have gained in Christ through his resurrection from the dead.

But before the fifty comes the eight: the octave. Eight days, from Easter Sunday to the Second Sunday, because the celebration of Easter is so great and so important for us Christians that, for eight full days, the Church lives each day as though it were Easter Sunday. During the octave, each day we hear proclaimed one of the events found in the Gospels connected with the resurrection of Jesus, and at the same time we begin to be drawn into the spirit of how the first Christians started to live and celebrate this resurrection after the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.

The Octave of Easter—not because we are “otto,” as the Maltese adage goes, but because we are truly as God wills us to be: reunited with him through the death and resurrection of Christ!