We have walked a long road to get here.
From the palms of celebration to the quiet tension of the upper room… from the basin and the towel to the darkness of the cross… from the silence of the tomb to this moment.
And if we are honest, we do not arrive this morning unchanged.
Holy Week does something to us, if we allow it. Sometimes, it strips away the illusion of control. In these moments—reflecting on where we’ve come from—we face suffering, betrayal, fear, and loss. We are brought face to face not only with the brokenness of the world, but also with the brokenness within ourselves.
I must admit, this Holy Week was profound for me. It is hard to explain, but it was transformative. Each night this week, I attended a service and listened, really listened to the words of Scripture. On Thursday night, I gathered with many of you for a meal. We sat around a table, broke bread, shared conversation, and shared Jesus in the bread and cup of communion.
We have seen power abused, fear taking hold, and love refusing to walk away. Now, we stand at the threshold of Easter.
I read about a church that held its Easter service on Good Friday. They rushed past the cross to get to the resurrection. Denying the cross denies the humanity of Jesus. Denying the cross denies the love that was poured out in that act. Sure, no one likes to suffer or look upon one who suffers, but without Good Friday, Easter becomes a magic trick that does not make sense.
Easter is not an escape, or God pretending Good Friday did not happen. Nor is it a reversal that erases suffering. Easter is transformation. The wounds of Jesus do not disappear in the resurrection; they remain. The story of suffering is not denied; it is redeemed.
And that matters. Because we live in a world that still bears wounds.
We do not have to look far to see it. Turn on the news. Scroll through your phone. Listen to the conversations happening around you. This is a world marked by division, by violence, by fear, by deep and growing mistrust. It is a world where it is easier to shout than to listen, easier to divide than to reconcile. Easier to protect ourselves than to love one another.
And into that world, Easter speaks. Yet as we move from observation to hope, we see Easter does not speak with shallow optimism or easy answers.
Easter speaks with a quiet, defiant hope. A hope that says: this is not the end of the story.
But here is where we often get it wrong. As we continue forward, we sometimes treat Easter as something to be believed rather than something to be lived. We proclaim, “Christ is risen,” and then return to lives that look very much like the world before the resurrection. We celebrate the empty tomb, but we hesitate to step into what it demands of us.
Easter is not just about what happened to Jesus. It is about what happens to us now. And that is why we proclaim Christ IS Risen, not Christ has risen, but Christ IS Risen! Because he is here, present with us now, in this place and in our lives.
And if we want to understand that, we cannot forget what happened just a few nights before the cross.
On that night, and this is profound, in the upper room, Jesus took a towel and washed the feet of his disciples. He knelt. He served. He loved in the most tangible, human way possible. He served others. He loved others.
And then he said, “Do this.” Not admire it. Not turn it into a ritual alone. Do this.
And then, if that was not enough, he took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it. “Do this.” Not as reenactment, but as participation. Take. Bless. Break. Give. This is the pattern of the Eucharist.
But it is also the pattern of resurrection. Because what happens at the table is what is meant to happen in our lives. We are taken, called, claimed, and known by God. We are blessed, given grace beyond anything we deserve. We are broken, not destroyed, but opened by the realities of life, by suffering, by love. And then we are given, poured out for the sake of the world. This is what it means to be resurrection people.
And this is where hope begins. Not in the denial of suffering, but in the transformation of it.
Hope is not naïve. It does not ignore the reality of the world. It looks directly at the brokenness and still dares to say, “There is more to this story.”
Hope is choosing love when hatred is easier. Hope is forgiving when anger feels justified. Hope is staying when walking away would be comfortable. Hope is resurrection lived out in real time.
And the same is true of peace. Peace is not simply the absence of conflict. If it were, we would be waiting a very long time. Peace is the presence of Christ amid conflict.
When the risen Christ appears to the disciples, he does not come with anger or accusation. He does not shame them for their fear or their failure. He stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” This is not a passive peace. It is an active, living presence.
And then, just as before, he sends them. “Just as the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In other words, do this. Be peace. Carry it into the places where it is most needed.
And what about reconciliation? If Easter means anything, it means that reconciliation is possible. Not easy. Not quick. Not without cost. But possible.
If God can take the worst that humanity can do, the betrayal, the violence, the cross, and bring life out of it, then there is no relationship, no situation, no divide that is beyond the reach of God’s healing.
But, and this is important, reconciliation does not happen on its own. It requires people who are willing to do the work. People who are willing to listen. To confess. To forgive. To begin again. People who are willing to “do this.”
And this is where it comes together: All that has come before leads us to transformation.
Resurrection is not just about life after death. It is about life before death. It is about being changed, here and now. It is about becoming the kind of people who reflect the love, the humility, the courage of Jesus in the way we live our daily lives.
And that is not easy. It means letting go of the need to be right all the time. It means choosing compassion over judgment. It means stepping into uncomfortable places for the sake of love. Quite simply, it means becoming what we receive.
And this is where this turns back to us. After all that has been said about resurrection, it is one thing to talk about it. It is another thing to live it.
The question this morning is not, “Do you believe that Christ is risen?” The question is, “Will you live as if it matters?” Will you carry hope into a world that feels hopeless? Will you embody peace in places of conflict? At home, at work, and in yourself. Will you work toward reconciliation in a divided world? Will you allow yourself to be transformed, not just once, but again and again? Will you do this?
Friends, the world does not need more people who can explain Easter. The world has enough theologians and people who think they are theologians. The world needs people who will embody it and make it real. People who look like resurrection. People whose lives tell a different story, one shaped not by fear or division, but by love.
And that is the invitation of this day. Do not just celebrate the resurrection—live it out. Step into the world committed to embodying hope, peace, reconciliation, and love in your daily life. Choose to become the living presence of resurrection in your words and actions, loving more deeply, serving more humbly, and hoping more boldly.
Because Christ is risen. And that changes everything. So step out today in the power of that truth: let resurrection live in your hands, your words, your love, and your courage. May the world know, through you, that Easter still transforms—and that hope is alive.
Amen.
