We abide in God’s love, and Jesus promised that his joy would be in us and our joy would be complete. We are called to practice joy, and share it with the world.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
     The Sixth Sunday of Easter, year B
        texts: Acts 10:44-48, Psalm 98, 1 John 5:1-6, John 15:9-17

Joy and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

For Christmas last year, we gave my 2-year old nephew a drum. And not just any drum. We found a lollipop drum, with a long narrow handle and rainbow colored swirls covering the metal surface, complete with a drum stick with a ball at the tip. He opened it and laid the drum on the floor and began to hit it with the stick. The sound was somewhat flat with the drum laying on the floor, so I picked up the drum by the handle and held it for him, and he struck it a couple more times, producing a very satisfying—and LOUD—bang that echoed through the house. I watched his face, and in a flash, there it was—pure joy. Eyes sparkling under his curly mop of hair, mouth wide open with all his teeth showing, giggling as he eagerly took the drum from me and marched around the room as he continued to play it.

My nephew’s unbridled joy didn’t come from achieving anything. His joy wasn’t the result of a carefully crafted plan that went something like, “I would be really, really happy if only . . . .” It didn’t come from our approval—he didn’t need an audience, although he certainly had one! The joy my nephew felt simply bubbled up in him as he reveled in wonder and amazement at the sound he could create by hitting the drum with the stick. And his joy overflowed, filling me with joy as I watched him!

What brings you joy? What does the face of joy look like to you?

Jesus says his joy will be in us, that our joy may be complete. Joy, true joy, comes from God, not from external circumstances. It might be thought of as “grace recognized,” the knowledge of God’s love and care for us. And all of this, Jesus tells us, comes out of knowing we are chosen, abiding in God’s love.

I have been watching my garden beds hopefully, since the snow melted, waiting to see if the Japanese Lilac tree we planted last spring would bloom again. To see if the hosta we planted in the summer would come back this year. And sure enough, our tree is covered in buds waiting to burst into leaves, and even the slowest-growing hosta has poked little fleshy spikes of green above the soil.

And the miracle of it, to me, is that I didn’t have to do anything to make that happen. Thank goodness! And neither, really, did the tree, or the hosta. The tree and hosta simply abided in the water and soil that surrounded and fed them, and they grew. They abided in the sun and warmth, and what looked like dead branches and lifeless dirt have been transformed into new life before our eyes.

As we have heard over and over the last few weeks in the Gospel of John, we, each one of us, abide forever in God’s love. We abide in God’s love, and just like the tree and hosta, we are transformed. We are not slaves any longer, Jesus tells us. And we did not have to do anything to make that happen. We have been chosen. Jesus calls us his friends, his joy is in us, and we are appointed to bear the fruit of joy in the world.

Joy is an emotion, one that often takes us by surprise. It is not within our control, and we don’t always feel it. Joy is also a choice, a spiritual discipline, if you will. We can practice joy by listening to God say to us, in the midst of fear, “Be not afraid, I am with you.” God loves us, and in Jesus God laid down his life for us. Just think about that for a moment. Jesus laid down his life for you. Because Jesus died, we can live. Because Jesus died, and rose, we need never be afraid, because we can face even our own death knowing the promise of the resurrection. Each one of us abides in God’s love, a love so deep that death itself has been banished, forever.

We can practice the discipline of joy by seeking evidence of God’s presence in each moment, seeking evidence that Christ is alive, as Mary and Thomas did. In doing this, we consciously abide in the extravagant love of God in each moment as it comes. We meet God in the present. Children, like my nephew, seem to know this instinctively, finding wonder in things that we adults often overlook. You children can teach us adults a lot about joy!

Jesus tells us to love one another—“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” As Jesus’ friends, we are called to love one another, as God loves us. We are to lay down our lives for each other, to love each other with everything that we are, and that too, is joy.

Just like my nephew’s infectious grin and giggle, joy is contagious, and it grows as it is shared. We as a community are called not just to practice joy ourselves, but to go and tell others. In our baptisms, we celebrate the Spirit of God that pours over everyone, without distinction, lavishing us with gifts meant to be shared with the world. And the greatest gift is the joy of the hope we have in Jesus.

Our joy doesn’t come from achievement or success. It isn’t the result of a carefully crafted plan that sounds something like, “I would be really, really happy if only . . . .” It doesn’t come from the approval of others. Joy comes from simply being in the presence of God who loves us abundantly. We are transformed by God’s love in Jesus into people of the resurrection, knowing that whatever happens in our lives, God is with us, God loves us, and the best is yet to come. And because of that, we can be the presence of God’s love and joy for others. The joy of Jesus is in us, and our joy is complete.

Thanks be to God!

We abide in God’s love, and Jesus promised that his joy would be in us and our joy would be complete. We are called to practice joy, and share it with the world.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
     The Sixth Sunday of Easter, year B
        texts: Acts 10:44-48, Psalm 98, 1 John 5:1-6, John 15:9-17

Joy and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

For Christmas last year, we gave my 2-year old nephew a drum. And not just any drum. We found a lollipop drum, with a long narrow handle and rainbow colored swirls covering the metal surface, complete with a drum stick with a ball at the tip. He opened it and laid the drum on the floor and began to hit it with the stick. The sound was somewhat flat with the drum laying on the floor, so I picked up the drum by the handle and held it for him, and he struck it a couple more times, producing a very satisfying—and LOUD—bang that echoed through the house. I watched his face, and in a flash, there it was—pure joy. Eyes sparkling under his curly mop of hair, mouth wide open with all his teeth showing, giggling as he eagerly took the drum from me and marched around the room as he continued to play it.

My nephew’s unbridled joy didn’t come from achieving anything. His joy wasn’t the result of a carefully crafted plan that went something like, “I would be really, really happy if only . . . .” It didn’t come from our approval—he didn’t need an audience, although he certainly had one! The joy my nephew felt simply bubbled up in him as he reveled in wonder and amazement at the sound he could create by hitting the drum with the stick. And his joy overflowed, filling me with joy as I watched him!

What brings you joy? What does the face of joy look like to you?

Jesus says his joy will be in us, that our joy may be complete. Joy, true joy, comes from God, not from external circumstances. It might be thought of as “grace recognized,” the knowledge of God’s love and care for us. And all of this, Jesus tells us, comes out of knowing we are chosen, abiding in God’s love.

I have been watching my garden beds hopefully, since the snow melted, waiting to see if the Japanese Lilac tree we planted last spring would bloom again. To see if the hosta we planted in the summer would come back this year. And sure enough, our tree is covered in buds waiting to burst into leaves, and even the slowest-growing hosta has poked little fleshy spikes of green above the soil.

And the miracle of it, to me, is that I didn’t have to do anything to make that happen. Thank goodness! And neither, really, did the tree, or the hosta. The tree and hosta simply abided in the water and soil that surrounded and fed them, and they grew. They abided in the sun and warmth, and what looked like dead branches and lifeless dirt have been transformed into new life before our eyes.

As we have heard over and over the last few weeks in the Gospel of John, we, each one of us, abide forever in God’s love. We abide in God’s love, and just like the tree and hosta, we are transformed. We are not slaves any longer, Jesus tells us. And we did not have to do anything to make that happen. We have been chosen. Jesus calls us his friends, his joy is in us, and we are appointed to bear the fruit of joy in the world.

Joy is an emotion, one that often takes us by surprise. It is not within our control, and we don’t always feel it. Joy is also a choice, a spiritual discipline, if you will. We can practice joy by listening to God say to us, in the midst of fear, “Be not afraid, I am with you.” God loves us, and in Jesus God laid down his life for us. Just think about that for a moment. Jesus laid down his life for you. Because Jesus died, we can live. Because Jesus died, and rose, we need never be afraid, because we can face even our own death knowing the promise of the resurrection. Each one of us abides in God’s love, a love so deep that death itself has been banished, forever.

We can practice the discipline of joy by seeking evidence of God’s presence in each moment, seeking evidence that Christ is alive, as Mary and Thomas did. In doing this, we consciously abide in the extravagant love of God in each moment as it comes. We meet God in the present. Children, like my nephew, seem to know this instinctively, finding wonder in things that we adults often overlook. You children can teach us adults a lot about joy!

Jesus tells us to love one another—“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” As Jesus’ friends, we are called to love one another, as God loves us. We are to lay down our lives for each other, to love each other with everything that we are, and that too, is joy.

Just like my nephew’s infectious grin and giggle, joy is contagious, and it grows as it is shared. We as a community are called not just to practice joy ourselves, but to go and tell others. In our baptisms, we celebrate the Spirit of God that pours over everyone, without distinction, lavishing us with gifts meant to be shared with the world. And the greatest gift is the joy of the hope we have in Jesus.

Our joy doesn’t come from achievement or success. It isn’t the result of a carefully crafted plan that sounds something like, “I would be really, really happy if only . . . .” It doesn’t come from the approval of others. Joy comes from simply being in the presence of God who loves us abundantly. We are transformed by God’s love in Jesus into people of the resurrection, knowing that whatever happens in our lives, God is with us, God loves us, and the best is yet to come. And because of that, we can be the presence of God’s love and joy for others. The joy of Jesus is in us, and our joy is complete.

Thanks be to God!

Resurrection does not have meaning for us IN SPITE of our wounds. Resurrection has meaning for us BECAUSE OF our wounds. Jesus rolled away the stone from the tomb, and as we share our wounds–and our hope–with others, they too can believe that resurrection is possible.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
   The Second Sunday of Easter, year B
      texts: Acts 4:32-35, Psalm 133 (1), 1 John 1:1—2:2, John 20:19-31

My brothers and sisters in the risen Christ, grace and peace to you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A week ago, in this sanctuary, we came together as a community to celebrate Easter, in the way we do here at Mount Olive. Countless people contributed to the festival. Pews and floors and rails were shined and polished. A veritable garden of flowers was created. Assisting ministers, lectors, acolytes, and sacristans spent extra hours preparing for worship. We banished the darkness of Jesus’ death and the sanctuary glowed in candle light, as we shared stories of God at work in our history. And we gloried in the proclamation: “Jesus is risen! He is risen, indeed!” Thanks to our children, who found our banner for us last Saturday, and the choir and cantor, we sang Alleluia in great majesty. And then, as we do here at Mount Olive, we feasted together on food lovingly prepared for us, reveling in the joy and abundance of God.

A week ago, we celebrated Easter together, rejoicing in God who saves us, frees us, loves us, who in Jesus has overcome death. We celebrated joy and abundance and promise when we were together as a community on Easter Sunday. But today, we have moved beyond Easter Sunday, and we are called again to live as people of the resurrection every day. And sometimes, this just doesn’t seem possible. It can be really hard to grasp the resurrection, to have hope, when we ourselves feel wounded, buried, overcome by death.

We have all been hurt, we have all experienced loss, betrayal, shame, fear, and the pain is not erased on Easter Sunday. On Easter Monday, when everyone has gone home, the grief of losing a spouse, a parent, a child, settles back down around you like a heavy, dark, shroud. The hopelessness and despair and exhaustion of shame and depression are still daily companions. What does resurrection look like, when you are face-to-face with death, making plans for a loved one’s funeral, or your own, knowing that your remaining time here can be measured in months, or weeks?

And when the wounds are deep and the loss is great, despair sets in. We feel hopeless—we will never find our way out of the darkness. We feel cut off, from God and from everyone else. No one knows how much it hurts. It’s hard to breathe, even the air feels heavy. How do we celebrate the hope of the resurrection when we feel like we are in a tomb?

Thomas, like the other disciples, had experienced a profound loss. Jesus, his friend and mentor, had died, and with him had gone all the hopes they had placed in him. The despair, and grief, and fear Thomas felt could not be removed by simply hearing that Jesus had risen. A transfigured and glorious Jesus, as is presented in the Gospel of Matthew, would not give Thomas the courage to step outside of his own tomb of fear and grief to trust in the resurrection. The other disciples told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

Thomas was wounded, buried in despair and grief, and he had to acknowledge the reality of Good Friday before he could enter into Easter Sunday. He couldn’t move on to rejoicing without acknowledging the pain of what they had been through, the last few days. To believe that Jesus had risen, Thomas needed to know that this was the same Jesus he had lost, the one who had been taken away from them, tortured, murdered. Thomas needed to know that Jesus, if he was risen from the dead, knew his pain. Touching Jesus’ wounds was for Thomas a necessary proof of resurrection. Jesus, understanding this, invites Thomas to touch his wounds. Jesus’ wounds became a sign of the resurrection.

Like Thomas, we are beyond Easter Sunday, continually living into life after the resurrection, and like Thomas, we are still wounded, and believing in the resurrection may seem impossible. Touching Jesus’ wounds brought Thomas hope, and faith. What does that mean for us, as we face the darkness of the tombs in our own lives?

Wounded-ness is a sign of hope for us, too. If we don’t know that someone understands our pain, it is hard to believe they have been healed, and like Thomas, we often need to see another person’s wounds before we can believe in their resurrection. And we often need to believe in another person’s resurrection before we can hope in the possibility of our own.

The pain and darkness of our wounded-ness does not miraculously disappear on Easter morning, but Jesus has rolled the stone away, and we can see that God has been with us, in the tomb, all along. We are brought out of the tomb, into the light and air that, over time, will help us heal. The pain is still there, but as we share our story but we know we are not alone. God knows our pain. Someone else understands. In the midst of the darkness, hope begins to return.

The truth is that resurrection always follows time in the tomb. The freedom of forgiveness follows deep hurt and resentment. The new life of recovery often follows years of living in the prison of addiction. A return to joy in life follows sadness, despair, and grief at the loss of a loved one. Even creation reveals this truth, as rejuvenation of forests is made possible by the devastation of fire, and the warmth and green of spring follows long, dark, cold, winters.

The scars will always be there. Resurrection, far from taking our scars away, makes them visible for all to see. There is a hope born of this process that is not possible in any other way—the relief of coming out of the tomb, the knowledge that God is with us and we are not alone, the hope that if resurrection is possible for someone else, it is possible for us, and for our community. God knows our pain. Jesus is risen! And as we become vulnerable, and share our journey with others, Jesus continues to reveal the transforming promise of resurrection to everyone we encounter. Resurrection does not have meaning IN SPITE OF the reality of our wounds. Resurrection has meaning BECAUSE OF our wounds.

We have all been there, in different ways and times. We have been the disciples, seeing the empty tomb and proclaiming that Jesus is risen. We have been Thomas, carefully guarding our wounds, demanding to see the scars of another before we can believe, and hope, in the resurrection. And we have been Jesus, inviting others to touch our wounds, so that they too can believe that resurrection is possible. Where are you today, in this journey of wounded-ness and resurrection?

Without Good Friday, Easter means nothing to us, except another opportunity to celebrate together. With Good Friday, Easter means everything. Jesus knows our pain, and calls to each of us, by name: “Come out of your tomb! Touch my wounds, and know that I am risen.” We are called by God to share our brokenness with others, and witness to the pain—and the hope—we have experienced, so that our wounds can be transformed into sources of profound healing. By doing this, we affirm our belief that resurrection is possible, and with Thomas, we can proclaim, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed!

Thanks be to God!

Resurrection does not have meaning for us IN SPITE of our wounds. Resurrection has meaning for us BECAUSE OF our wounds. Jesus rolled away the stone from the tomb, and as we share our wounds–and our hope–with others, they too can believe that resurrection is possible.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
   The Second Sunday of Easter, year B
      texts: Acts 4:32-35, Psalm 133 (1), 1 John 1:1—2:2, John 20:19-31

My brothers and sisters in the risen Christ, grace and peace to you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

A week ago, in this sanctuary, we came together as a community to celebrate Easter, in the way we do here at Mount Olive. Countless people contributed to the festival. Pews and floors and rails were shined and polished. A veritable garden of flowers was created. Assisting ministers, lectors, acolytes, and sacristans spent extra hours preparing for worship. We banished the darkness of Jesus’ death and the sanctuary glowed in candle light, as we shared stories of God at work in our history. And we gloried in the proclamation: “Jesus is risen! He is risen, indeed!” Thanks to our children, who found our banner for us last Saturday, and the choir and cantor, we sang Alleluia in great majesty. And then, as we do here at Mount Olive, we feasted together on food lovingly prepared for us, reveling in the joy and abundance of God.

A week ago, we celebrated Easter together, rejoicing in God who saves us, frees us, loves us, who in Jesus has overcome death. We celebrated joy and abundance and promise when we were together as a community on Easter Sunday. But today, we have moved beyond Easter Sunday, and we are called again to live as people of the resurrection every day. And sometimes, this just doesn’t seem possible. It can be really hard to grasp the resurrection, to have hope, when we ourselves feel wounded, buried, overcome by death.

We have all been hurt, we have all experienced loss, betrayal, shame, fear, and the pain is not erased on Easter Sunday. On Easter Monday, when everyone has gone home, the grief of losing a spouse, a parent, a child, settles back down around you like a heavy, dark, shroud. The hopelessness and despair and exhaustion of shame and depression are still daily companions. What does resurrection look like, when you are face-to-face with death, making plans for a loved one’s funeral, or your own, knowing that your remaining time here can be measured in months, or weeks?

And when the wounds are deep and the loss is great, despair sets in. We feel hopeless—we will never find our way out of the darkness. We feel cut off, from God and from everyone else. No one knows how much it hurts. It’s hard to breathe, even the air feels heavy. How do we celebrate the hope of the resurrection when we feel like we are in a tomb?

Thomas, like the other disciples, had experienced a profound loss. Jesus, his friend and mentor, had died, and with him had gone all the hopes they had placed in him. The despair, and grief, and fear Thomas felt could not be removed by simply hearing that Jesus had risen. A transfigured and glorious Jesus, as is presented in the Gospel of Matthew, would not give Thomas the courage to step outside of his own tomb of fear and grief to trust in the resurrection. The other disciples told Thomas, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

Thomas was wounded, buried in despair and grief, and he had to acknowledge the reality of Good Friday before he could enter into Easter Sunday. He couldn’t move on to rejoicing without acknowledging the pain of what they had been through, the last few days. To believe that Jesus had risen, Thomas needed to know that this was the same Jesus he had lost, the one who had been taken away from them, tortured, murdered. Thomas needed to know that Jesus, if he was risen from the dead, knew his pain. Touching Jesus’ wounds was for Thomas a necessary proof of resurrection. Jesus, understanding this, invites Thomas to touch his wounds. Jesus’ wounds became a sign of the resurrection.

Like Thomas, we are beyond Easter Sunday, continually living into life after the resurrection, and like Thomas, we are still wounded, and believing in the resurrection may seem impossible. Touching Jesus’ wounds brought Thomas hope, and faith. What does that mean for us, as we face the darkness of the tombs in our own lives?

Wounded-ness is a sign of hope for us, too. If we don’t know that someone understands our pain, it is hard to believe they have been healed, and like Thomas, we often need to see another person’s wounds before we can believe in their resurrection. And we often need to believe in another person’s resurrection before we can hope in the possibility of our own.

The pain and darkness of our wounded-ness does not miraculously disappear on Easter morning, but Jesus has rolled the stone away, and we can see that God has been with us, in the tomb, all along. We are brought out of the tomb, into the light and air that, over time, will help us heal. The pain is still there, but as we share our story but we know we are not alone. God knows our pain. Someone else understands. In the midst of the darkness, hope begins to return.

The truth is that resurrection always follows time in the tomb. The freedom of forgiveness follows deep hurt and resentment. The new life of recovery often follows years of living in the prison of addiction. A return to joy in life follows sadness, despair, and grief at the loss of a loved one. Even creation reveals this truth, as rejuvenation of forests is made possible by the devastation of fire, and the warmth and green of spring follows long, dark, cold, winters.

The scars will always be there. Resurrection, far from taking our scars away, makes them visible for all to see. There is a hope born of this process that is not possible in any other way—the relief of coming out of the tomb, the knowledge that God is with us and we are not alone, the hope that if resurrection is possible for someone else, it is possible for us, and for our community. God knows our pain. Jesus is risen! And as we become vulnerable, and share our journey with others, Jesus continues to reveal the transforming promise of resurrection to everyone we encounter. Resurrection does not have meaning IN SPITE OF the reality of our wounds. Resurrection has meaning BECAUSE OF our wounds.

We have all been there, in different ways and times. We have been the disciples, seeing the empty tomb and proclaiming that Jesus is risen. We have been Thomas, carefully guarding our wounds, demanding to see the scars of another before we can believe, and hope, in the resurrection. And we have been Jesus, inviting others to touch our wounds, so that they too can believe that resurrection is possible. Where are you today, in this journey of wounded-ness and resurrection?

Without Good Friday, Easter means nothing to us, except another opportunity to celebrate together. With Good Friday, Easter means everything. Jesus knows our pain, and calls to each of us, by name: “Come out of your tomb! Touch my wounds, and know that I am risen.” We are called by God to share our brokenness with others, and witness to the pain—and the hope—we have experienced, so that our wounds can be transformed into sources of profound healing. By doing this, we affirm our belief that resurrection is possible, and with Thomas, we can proclaim, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed!

Thanks be to God!

The risen Christ knows you by name, knows about death, knows how to give life, and draws you into the love of the Triune God forever: you don’t need to know much when such a God knows us and loves you.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   The Resurrection of Our Lord, year B
   text:  John 20:1-18

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

He called her “Mary.”

That’s when she knew. She knew her world had changed again.

Before he spoke, there was so much she didn’t know anymore. She didn’t know the tomb was going to be open. She didn’t know why his body wasn’t where she saw it buried. She didn’t know how she would live without this person of God who knew her, loved her, had given her her true self.

In the devastating hours since Friday afternoon, Mary Magdalene was overwhelmed by what she no longer knew. It was like those terrifying days before she met him, those days of her possession, when she didn’t know who she was, couldn’t control her thoughts, wasn’t able to live or function. When there were so many other voices in her head there was no room for her voice anymore.

That day when she first heard his voice, when it called to the depths of her soul and found her, the real her, called her back to herself, sent away the voices, drew her out into her life: that day was the beginning of life. That was birthday. Friday’s unspeakable horror destroyed everything. Now she was back to knowing nothing, standing by an empty grave, because the one who knew her, the one who brought God to her, was murdered.

Then he said, “Mary.” That unknown man in the garden spoke, and she knew. And once again she was born.

Listen: our hearts are not far from Mary’s.

We long to be known for who we are, really known, really loved. We often have competing voices inside us that devalue us, challenge us, confuse us, even if we wouldn’t go so far as naming it possession. At our core we desire to have someone call us to our true selves. We dread not being known and loved; we fear it might not be possible if our truths were known.

Sometimes we have sensed that God knows us, loves us. We have found ourselves in God’s love. Sometimes others have told us of this, they have known us on behalf of God, they have been God’s loving presence to us. Sometimes we have known what it is to be known by God, and it was new life.

There are other times, though. When we face our internal pain, our fears, our worries. When we deal with shame and what we’ve failed. Times when death seems far more powerful a reality than God to us. We have dark nights of the soul when we doubt God could love us, we fear God is absent and is not coming back. When we know nothing about anything, but that we are alone.

Maybe this is a comfort: “Not knowing” seems to be the normal for disciples of Jesus.

Before the cross, the disciples constantly don’t know. To hear John today, nobody knows anything after Jesus dies, either. Twice today Mary says she doesn’t know where Jesus’ body is. John and Peter run to the tomb, and all they know is it’s empty, grave cloths lying where his body was. They don’t know about the resurrection. Later this evening, Thomas doesn’t know Jesus is risen because he didn’t see him himself.

There’s so much we don’t know, too, about life, about death.  There is so much we don’t understand, about ourselves, about the world, about others, so much beyond our control. So we are afraid. We lock up parts of our hearts as surely as the two disciples ran back and locked themselves into their upper room.

There’s so much we don’t know about God, especially when we’re struggling in darkness. So we are afraid. What if we aren’t good enough? What if God has abandoned us? What if death really is the end? We go to those places in our hearts where there is pain and death and sadness and we stand there, like Mary at the tomb, wondering what’s next.

As we stand with them, locked away, or looking at the tomb, we come here to listen to God’s Word today and we hear a voice speak.

We hear a voice that is familiar to us, a voice that comes through the locked doors of our hearts, and to our side at the gravestones of our lives. We hear the voice of Christ here, risen from the dead, and calling us by name. Knowing us.

We don’t know many things, and we fear them all. But Christ has faced them all – suffering, betrayal, sadness, abandonment, pain, death – and knows them intimately. And this morning we are told once again that none of them, none, have any power over Christ, the one who knows you, who calls you by name.

Listen . . . listen: nothing, nothing, can separate you from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Not life, not death. Not the present, not the future. Nothing.

So we don’t need to be afraid anymore. This day is birthday for us, today we come to life.

But Christ Jesus says another thing: this life, this knowing, is his to give, not ours to control.

Mary wants to hold on to him, I’m sure hug him, hold his hand, and probably in her mind she thinks, “this time I won’t let him go.” But he says, “Don’t hold on to me.” He needs to go places, do things. Christ needs to ascend to the Father. He needs to go to meet other disciples, in locked rooms, on lonely roads leading out of town, on sandy lakeside beaches. The Christ knows others, has others to reach, others to love.

Peter learned this too. “I truly understand that God shows no partiality,” he says in an Easter sermon today. Despite what Peter thought he knew, Christ Jesus is reaching out to all people, not just those first chosen. Even Gentiles are welcomed into the love of the risen Christ. No partiality. Christ knows all who need to be found.

We can’t hold on to Christ Jesus as if we own this life, as if we own God. We can’t cling as if we can control when we sense the presence of the Triune God or not. We have to learn to trust, like Mary and Peter, that we, too, are known, and loved. Christ will come to us again, always. But we don’t control wherever else our God is going to know and love people.

He called her “Mary.” 

That’s when she knew. So it is for us this Easter morning, as Christ calls us by name.  We meet the risen Christ in this place, hearing God’s Word alive in our midst, meeting our Lord in this meal of life, seeing all these who are also known by Christ, who embody God’s loving grace and presence for us, who call us by name.

Most days we don’t know much else. But we are known by the Triune God and loved forever, with a love that is going to bring life out of death for all the people of this world.

That’s really all we need to know. Ever.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen