Christ Still Rises

Easter Sunday

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
John 20:1-18

Growing up, Easter was exactly the same year after year. My dad being a pastor, we couldn’t really go anywhere, so my grandparents, my dad’s parents, would always come spend Easter with us. They’d drive down to the Albany area from their home in Saranac Lake on Good Friday, and leave mid-afternoon on Sunday. Don’t read too much into that. Since Sunday was the big day, with lots going on, we would always have Easter dinner on Saturday—which was always ham, potatoes in some form, some roasted vegetables, and a relish tray full of pickles and olives. During the years my brother spent as a vegetarian, his plant-based celebration roast joined the table, too. Saturday morning was for coloring the eggs, which we would dye in the fancy tea cups. One of my favorite bits a long, long time ago (definitely not recently), was sipping the vinegar-based dye out of the tea cups, pinky out like a gentleman. I would say it never got old, but it only might have been a little funny the first time. Sunday after church, we would always find a trail of plastic Easter eggs leading up the lawn, through the front door, and to Easter baskets waiting in the living room. Lunch on Sunday was always ham sandwiches and the rest of the leftovers from dinner the day before. And, of course, after lunch was the egg-cracking contest, which I’ve learned is not something that everyone does. For those who don’t know, the egg-cracking contest is when everyone gets one of the dyed hard-boiled eggs and you turn to the person sitting next to you, knock your eggs together, and whichever egg doesn’t break is the winner. Then you keep going like a tournament until there’s a winner, and then you keep going still until all the eggs have been cracked. 

And then the grandparents would pack up their things, load up the car, stand around chatting in the driveway for a bit, and go back home. And that’s how I knew, year after year, that Christ had still risen—because it always looked the same.

And then it didn’t. Easter in 2020 looked nothing like that. There were eggs, sure, and there was ham. But there were no grandparents. Church was pre-recorded, and there were no grand hymns played on the organ and sung by hundreds. There was no communion, in any sense of the word. People were dying, from the pandemic and from increasing racial violence, everything was in turmoil, and it seemed like the world was coming to an end. And the craziest thing happened that Easter Sunday: Christ still rose. In spite of everything, Christ still rose. The next year, in 2021, restrictions had loosened up significantly and I had been able to return to college. But, because restrictions hadn’t been totally removed and travel was still limited, I wasn’t able to make it home at all for Easter. So, I spent that Sunday in Plattsburgh, with my mom’s parents at their church. And I sang the hymns, and there was ham, and there were eggs. And there were grandparents, too, though not the usual ones.  It was different. Not bad at all, but different. And, once again, funnily enough, Christ still rose that day, in spite of things not being quite right or normal or exactly the same as they had always been, year after year after year. Through fear and confusion, through illness and violence, through war and threats of war, still Christ rose—and still Christ rises, again and again. Not because he is manifested through ham and eggs and the wonderful, triumphant hymns played so powerfully on the organ. But because of those who have borne witness to Christ since Mary preached the first Christian sermon on that first Easter Sunday. In the lives and witnesses of the least among us—the tired, the hungry, the unhoused, the queer, the transgender, the undocumented—Christ is made known to us. Through the lives and witnesses of those who have the courage to live fully and authentically into the life that God is creating for and with each of us and all of us. Through the lives and witnesses of those who dare to live out the resurrection hope to which we are called this day. 

Christ still rises, even in the midst of all the fear and anxiety that plague our lives. Christ still rises, even in the midst of struggle and injustice. Christ still rises, even when we can’t see the empty tomb, even when we don’t recognize him walking and moving and living among us. Christ rising isn’t contingent upon our rituals or traditions, however lovely they may be. Christ has already risen, and Christ continues to rise—when we are bold enough to recognize the face of God in those our culture would deem lesser than us. When we step out of our places of comfort and into the spaces that are difficult, where we can’t possibly imagine life could be. When we allow ourselves to have Christ’s resurrection proclaimed to us, remembering that we may very well not be Mary in this story. And that’s ok, if we are willing to listen. Because Christ still rises, when we walk as Christ walked before us. When we share with our neighbors in God’s abundance, when we step out into places that aren’t safe or respectable, when we seek healing and wholeness, in body, mind, and spirit for all of Creation. Christ’s rising does not come by way of destruction, by military might or a great show of force. He does not rise, conquering or occupying. Christ rises in those whose homes, schools, hospitals, and churches have been bombed and ruined. Christ rises in those who have walked hundreds of miles through deserts and forests for even the chance at safety. Christ still rises, in those we are told to hate and fear. No matter how hard we try, Christ still rises, Christ still rises today.

May we hear this call, not only to share the good news that Christ is risen, but to hear the good news. That even in the midst of death and destruction, even in the midst of sickness and violence, even in the midst of chaos and confusion, Christ still rises. May we rise with Christ, walking where he first walked, loving as he first loved us, and to live into the life which Christ has opened to each and to all of us. May we follow this death-defying God into the fullness of new life, as Christ still rises—even among us. Amen.