April 20, 2025 Reflection

Friends, today we stand in the space between.

Between what was – and what might yet be.
Between the weight of grief – and the glimmer of hope.
Between the tomb – and the garden.
Between the pain of Friday – and the joy of Sunday.
But we are here today not just to celebrate a resurrection that happened two thousand years ago, but to wonder, to wrestle, and to believe that resurrection is still possible…even here, even now. It has to be! It is our hope.

The story in Luke 24 begins in that in-between space.
The women come to the tomb at dawn. It’s early… too early for answers. (and definitely too early for small talk!)
The sun is rising, but they’re still wrapped in the shadows of loss.
They are carrying spices – one final act of love for a friend who died too soon.
They are not expecting a miracle.
They are expecting to grieve.

Because when someone dies, we don’t go looking for life. We prepare for goodbye.

And isn’t that where many of us live?
In the middle of things that don’t make sense.
In the ache of prayers unanswered.
In the fatigue of another war, another shooting, another lie, another betrayal.
In the heaviness of watching leaders exploit fear for power,
or seeing communities torn apart by polarization,
or scrolling through news that makes us want to shut down or give up. Or maybe just move to a cabin in the woods with no Wi-Fi!

Grief is not just for funerals.
It’s the background music of our age.
We grieve what we’ve lost…yes. But also what could have been.
What was never allowed to grow.
We grieve the truth that injustice still breathes freely while compassion struggles to catch its breath.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, we grieve even the joy of others – because it reminds us of what we’re still waiting for.

So the women arrive at the tomb with grief in their hands. But what they find is not what they expected. The stone is rolled away. The body is gone.
And two men in dazzling clothes appear – heavenly messengers with earth-shaking news: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen.”

Let’s be honest: this is not a comforting moment – it’s a confusing one.
The women are terrified. The world has already been turned upside down by crucifixion,
and now it’s twisted again by mystery.

They had come to say goodbye. But resurrection interrupts their grief.
Not by erasing it, but by transforming it. Not by pretending death didn’t happen, but by declaring that death does not get the final word.

And here’s the beautiful irony of Easter: Just when you think the story is over, God says, “Wait – there’s more.” Kind of like those TV infomercials – but instead of steak knives, it’s eternal hope!

Easter doesn’t erase Good Friday. The wounds of Jesus remain.
The trauma of the crucifixion lingers in the memory of the disciples.
Easter happens not in denial or absence of grief, but in the very heart of it.

And that’s where we live, isn’t it? In the “everything in between.”
Between sorrow and celebration.
Between endings and beginnings.
Between what has died and what is being born.

We live in a world where the tomb is still open – but not everyone can see it yet.
We live in a world where resurrection has begun – but not everything has caught up.
Hope is not always obvious.
It takes courage to believe when the evidence is mixed.
It takes faith to keep showing up to tombs expecting something more than death.

And still, resurrection keeps finding us.

Sometimes it’s in the quiet relief of a doctor’s phone call or that ‘all clear’ letter from a recent mammogram.
Sometimes it’s in a stranger’s kindness, or a song you needed at just the right time.
Sometimes it’s a child’s laugh, or spring bulbs poking through frozen earth,
or the first real smile after a long season of tears.

Joy has this beautiful habit of sneaking up on us – like an empty tomb at dawn.

Look around our world.
There are still tombs everywhere:

The tombs of racial injustice
The tombs of poverty and exclusion
The tombs of climate catastrophe
The tombs of political hostility
The tombs of broken relationships
The tombs within ourselves: shame, addiction, fear

But what if the Easter story means that these tombs are not sealed shut?

What if the God who rolled away the stone is still rolling away the barriers between us?
What if the Spirit of resurrection is whispering even now:
“This is not the end. Keep going. Hope still lives.”

This Holy Weekend, many churches and schools across our nation are doubling as advanced voting stations.
People are walking into places of worship not for sacraments, but for ballots.
That might seem like a strange overlap – Holy Week and democracy.
But maybe it’s not so strange after all. Because resurrection is always political.
It always has something to say about how we live together, how we use power, how we care for the most vulnerable.
And in this election season, as division runs deep and rhetoric runs hot, what does resurrection mean?

It means we don’t give in to despair.
It means we reject fear-based narratives.
It means we remember that our choices matter – because hope isn’t just a feeling, it’s a practice.
And resurrection isn’t just a miracle, it’s a movement.

And if you’re feeling like you don’t have it all figured out? Good!
Neither did the disciples.
Neither did the women.
Resurrection doesn’t begin with certainty – it begins with amazement, with trembling, with stories that sound too good to be true.

Back in the tomb, the women do something brave.
They don’t keep the mystery to themselves.
They run to tell the others.

And they’re not believed.

Their words are dismissed as “nonsense.”
Because that’s what hope sounds like at first – like nonsense.
It doesn’t match the facts. It doesn’t follow the logic of empire or realism.
But Peter runs to the tomb.
And when he sees the linen cloths lying there, he goes home amazed.

Notice: the first response to resurrection is not clarity – it’s curiosity.
Not perfection – but participation.

Easter is not about having all the answers.
It’s about having the courage to keep running toward the possibility of life.

So what does it mean to be Easter people in a Good Friday world?

It means we carry both grief and hope – at the same time.
It means we refuse to numb ourselves.
We show up to the tombs of our lives, our communities, our country – expecting something new.
We tell stories of life even when the world only wants to talk about death.
We challenge injustice even when it seems immovable.
We practice mercy even when it seems ineffective.
We love… not because it always works…but because it is who we are, and who God is.

Being Easter people means stepping into the in-between space with open eyes,
open hands, and open hearts.

It means we learn to laugh again.
To dance…even if it’s a little awkward at first… some of us more awkward than others!
To plant gardens in the middle of storms.
To trust that joy is not naive, it is resilient.
And to proclaim – sometimes with trembling voices,
sometimes with tears in our eyes,
sometimes with full-on belly laughter
that love has won.

Friends, resurrection is not the denial or absence of grief.  It is grief transformed.
It is love that has passed through death and come out the other side.
It is the deep truth that God is not finished.

Not with the world.
Not with the church.
Not with you.

So if you come this morning carrying grief, you are not alone.
You are standing in the place where resurrection begins.

And if you come this morning holding onto a thread of hope, know this: That thread of hope is stronger than any empire, any tomb, any fear.

Christ is risen.
Love lives again.
And the story isn’t over.

So let’s keep walking.
Let’s keep hoping.
Let’s keep singing… badly, boldly, loudly, off-key…but joyfully!
Because Easter is here.  And joy comes in the morning.