Grace Episcopal Church (Sheldon, VT)

But now, it’s really over. Gradually you and the others had realized that his Way went far beyond the power of politics and earthly notions of power. It went right to the core of people’s lives. And you watched as he set people’s hearts on fire, healed them. Gave them real, solid hope for the first time in their lives. Just think–all that happening in Galilee, a little out of the way place. With him in our midst, we knew we mattered. We felt so close to God. Well, of course—God was in the midst of us, walking with us, giving us a smile when we needed it, mending our wounded places, stirring our hearts, giving us a vision of a totally different kind of kingdom.

But then he had to go to Jerusalem. There was no choice. He was so stubborn. Why not hide out on the hills of Galilee and keep on doing his work quietly? No, he had to go. And once he got there–well, there’s no use thinking about that now.

It’s over. You feel like lead as you trudge around the last corner. Dread seeps into your stomach at the thought of seeing that beloved body dead.

You get there, and the stone has been rolled away. His body is not there. Two men, two pulsating figures of light tell us that he is risen. They remind us of what he said, that he would be crucified and he would rise again.

And you are running to find the others. Just when hope was gone—and then you realize that, even if you had not seen him with your own eyes, still, you would have had to believe, because of everything he said, everything he was. Is.

And you know to the core of your being that he has transformed every death into life, every brokenness into wholeness. Everything is touched and transformed by his infinitely gentle, courageous, relentless love, by that insistent justice that treats lepers and beggars as if they were kings and queens, that disturbing justice that condemns only those who insist on condemning others, that justice which says that even Samaritans aren’t outcasts. There are no outcasts.

In the holy and hope-filled light of this Easter morning, when the light of Christ overcomes all darkness forever, we proclaim that Christ is risen. And, as we make that proclamation, we realize, more profoundly each day, that we are joined with him, that we are parts of him, that we are his risen Body. We are members of his body, hands and feet, eyes and ears. We are therefore called to extend his quality of life to a world much in need of love, and to people much in need of love, and to each other.

What we have promised in baptism and prayed for in gathered community is not business as usual. Being members of his Body—ministers by virtue of our baptisms—places us in a new world, a new realm, a different dimension that is growing right in the midst of this tired old one, growing just like yeast making the bread rise—a new dawn, God’s new creation, transforming us, transforming the world.

Christ is risen. Alleluia!