Rising slowly from his bed, Doge Agostino Barbarigo was attended to more closely by equerries than he had been in months. But tonight, in the fading sunlight of Holy Saturday, he would attend the Easter Vigin in St. Mark's Basilica. It was a truly awe-inspiring building, one of the few outside of the Palaso Dogal that he could visit with regularity, and so this trip brought him a fleeting sense of joy that he had not felt in ages. Dawning the traditional, near regal garb befitting of the Serenissimo Principe de Venexia, he made his way gently down to the main floor of the Palaso. Emerging out into the open, he was greeted by a number of Senators and Councilmen, who accompanied him as he walked down the Scala dei Giganti and into the courtyard. From there, they moved solemnly to the entrance of the Basilica, passing under the Horses of Saint Mark, and entering the darkened chamber. Outside, the Bishop, his entourage, and those not as old and decrepit as Barbarigo would stand and light the Easter fire, from wich the Paschal candle would be blessed and lit.

The Doge in the front row bearing his own small candle, which would eventually be lit by the Paschal candle held by the Bishop. This was not easy for his old, aching legs, but he would not disrespect God in His own home tonight. Just as it seemed as if he could hold out no longer, the Bishop entered the Basilica, becoming the only source of light inside the darkened building.

"Lumen Christi"

"Lumen Christi"

"Lumen Christi"

"Deo Gratias" Barbarigo replied each time, the Paschal candle lighting others as it made its way further into the heart of the Basilica. As more and more candles were lit, the room gradually filled with light, until every corner seemed lit with the Light of Christ on this most holy night. Finally, having completed his journey to the altar, the Bishop begins to chant the Paschal Preaconium.

"Exsúltet iam angélica turba cælórum:

exsúltent divína mystéria:

et pro tanti Regis victória tuba ínsonet salutáris..."

After three long minutes, the chanting comes to an end, and Barbarigo is able to sit and rest his weary legs. From there the Liturgy begins, containing seven passages from the Old Testament with a psalm following each. Then comes the Gloria, sung for the first time since before Lent, at which point the altar candles were finally lit, the bells were heard again in all their glory and the organ was silent no longer. It should have been a glorious and awe-inspiring occasion, bringing the joy of Christ's resurrection to the forefront once again, but for some reason Barbarigo felt all the more solemn, and contemplative. Finally, the Bishop began the Gospel of the Resurrection.

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’”

Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid, but also filled with joy.

Following this proclamation, the Bishop begins his homily with a poem:

I fix a glance on gold and bread

And a band of light begins to widen across the world.

I see my low latched God in bread, and touch him with my eyes in this one place, but see as well the why and how of so housed a host.

For I see the majesty of a crucified now risen man who in his body flails then fills the entire what-is with what he now is.

A body risen, bread that is what he now is, a band of light that likewise lifts his name —

all rocks and dirt are gold in him, every face a jewel, every time an emptied tomb.

And low beneath this band, low lies here a heart, and heart breaks here to be so inadequately a vessel where fall the whitened drops of divinized dust and death.

O Vessel Me, O Vessel Me,

all my short loving breaks my heart to be

Vessel of Thee, Vessel of Thee, low latched God, latching Joy to me,

Joy and Wonder, Adoration and Thanks.

"On this day, we celebrate the resurrection of the Christ our Lord. But what exactly does that mean?

Yes, it is a symbol of the everlasting truth of God, that He truly sent His only begotten son to us, to forgive us of our sins, to journey to Purgatory and free the damned, and to show us the path of truth and righteousness.

But what can we as a people take from the journey of Christ? His body, his presence among us physically, is gone. It rose from the dead three days after his death, and ascended into heaven. But does that mean that his presence is gone from us now?

Of course not. Jesus came to us not just to forgive our sins, but to help us choose right over wrong. He wants his presence not just in a mortal body, or at the right hand of the Father, but in each and every one of us. We are all a vessel for His love, a home for his light long after his body has risen, so long as we show and spread that love among each and every one of us.

In here are lifelong public servants, members of the cloth, the rich and powerful of Europe's greatest city, even the Doge himself. But while our stature might be lofty, we are all equal in the eyes of our Lord. He expects the best out of each and every one of us, regardless of stature. Our value is not equal to the weight of our purses, the armies we command, the people we control, or the titles before our names. Our value is the goodness we bring to the world, the kindness we show to others, even those that do not deserve it, and the adoration we show to the Lord our God who blesses us each and every day.

We began this Vigil with the lighting of candles, to symbolize the Light of Christ spreading to and from each one of us. Do not let that end here. Be a candle for others to light themselves upon, every day and everywhere, so that you too can become a vessel of God's love and joy, in his glory, forever and ever. Amen."

Barbarigo heard these words, and his heart became heavy with guilt. Had he done his best, in his long life, to act as a vessel for God? He hoped that he had, he wanted to have done so, but he could not be certain that this was true. How hard had he truly tried to do good, to do right not just by his people, but by his Lord?

He pondered these questions as the Vigil continued, as he was sprinkled with holy water, as he received the Eucharist, as the final psalms were sung, and as the congregation stood up to leave the Basilica. The equerries stood up to assist him in leaving, but he ushered them away, saying he needed time to himself to pray, and ordered everyone else to leave. Alone in St. Mark's Basilica, he began to pray aloud.

"Forgive me, my Lord, for I have sinned.

I have sinned without malintent, and without the forces of evil inside of me, but I have sinned nonetheless.

For years I have tried to be a good leader for my people. I have defended their rights in all corners of the Mediterranean. I have grown the coffers of the republic, I have increased the wealth and well-being of all Venetians, and I have fought for the spread of Catholicism against those who would oppose it. All of this I have done to be the leader my people had chosen, the one to lead our most Serene Republic.

But for all my attempts to become a good leader, I never truly tried to be a leader that was good. I showed no hesitation to sending my own people to their death in wars of honor and frivolity. I have shown little regard for expanding the institutions and infrastructure available to the masses in our great city. I sought this office, believing myself to be a strong man who could serve the people well, but did not consider whether I truly deserved this great office.

I have failed to become a vessel for the Light of Christ, and I have not recognized this failure until too late in my life to right my many wrongs. I cannot pray for forgiveness, for I know I deserve none, but pray for understanding, that I did what I did because I believed it to be right and just, even if, in the end, it was not."

He collapsed to his knees, his strength failing him. "Father," he croaked, "all my glory and honor I give unto you, now and forever."

And with that, he slumped forward, as if in prayer. After nearly a half hour, his attendants entered the room. "Monsignor!" they asked, approaching their Doge. They attempt to get his attention, but he falls to the side, unmoving. Medicae are called for, but it is too late.

It is Easter Sunday, the 14th of April, 1501, and Agostino Barbarigo, the 74th Doge of the Most Serene Republic of Venice, is dead.