Transformed into New Life
Preached at Germantown Mennonite Church on April 21, 2013
Acts 9:36-43, Psalm 23
Today is Good Shepherd Sunday in the Christian calendar. This is the Sunday when the church remembers that God—our great Shepherd—cares for us deeply.
One of our texts today—Psalm 23—focuses on the Good shepherd. But the Acts text does not. It focuses instead on the resurrection of Tabitha. Now Tabitha was an amazing person—she was known in both the Jewish and Greek community. We know this because of her name. Or rather her names. Her name in Aramaic is Tabitha. In Greek it’s Dorcas. Her name in both languages means “Gazelle.”
This text from Acts comes up during the Easter season, on this 4th Sunday of Easter, and while it’s not about the resurrection of Jesus, it is about the resurrection of believers, and it tells some things about God, our Good Shepherd.
In this story from the book of Acts, as in all the stories from the Bible, details are very important. So, I’d like to look this morning at some of these details, as a way to better understand what this story means.
First of all, did you notice that Tabitha/Dorcas was referred to as a disciple? Tabitha was a follower of Jesus, devoted to what is later called diaconal ministry—she fed the poor, and made clothing for them. She was active in the work of justice for which Jesus was so vocal. She used her gifts to further the work of the church, and to embody the power of Jesus’ words.
And this female disciple was known in both the Jewish and Greek communities. She was known in this metropolitan multicultural community in both worlds, and it appears that she was much beloved in both communities.
This story is reminiscent of a story in Luke where Jesus resurrected Jairus’ daughter. Jesus went to the home of Jairus, a Roman military officer, went into Jairus’ daugher’s room where mourners were weeping and crying for this dead child. And Jesus said to the child, “Talitha Cum.” Little child, get up. And she got up and ate—proving that she was truly alive again. She was healed—brought back to life by Jesus.
Peter went to the home of Tabitha, went to her room where the mourners were crying, and showing Peter the things Tabitha made for them, showing Peter her acts of charity towards them. Peter went up to Tabitha’s body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Which—while I’m not an expert in Aramaic, I think Peter would say in Aramaic, “Tabitha, Cum.” I find it interesting that Tabitha meaning “gazelle” and Talitha meaning “little girl” are so similar. And Luke, who wrote both the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts, is intentional with this comparison. I believe these connections and these stories are similar for a reason. In the story of Tabitha, Luke is pointing back to this encounter between Jairus’ daughter and Jesus, while telling us the story of Peter healing Tabitha.
What’s similar about this text is the method of healing—calling people to get up, to be transformed and brought into new life. What’s different is, of course, who is doing the resurrecting. Jesus resurrected Jarius’ daughter, and Peter resurrected Tabitha, after Easter, after Ascension, and after Pentecost.
Talitha Cum. Tabitha Cum.
In the similarities and differences of this text I hear the call to the church today. Jesus performed resurrections. Jesus received resurrection. Peter performed resurrection for Tabitha, and Peter received the power of the resurrection in knowing Jesus.
But, I must admit that this has been a difficult week to be thinking about resurrection, to be contemplating living into resurrection. There has been too much death and violence. The violence of the Boston Marathon, and the “manhunt” that followed. The unimaginable explosion in Texas that flattened a town. The flooding in Chicago . The failure of the most mild gun legislation in Congress—a legislation that would require background checks for people who buy and transfer guns. It’s been a rough week for our nation. It’s been a violent week. It’s been a week of destruction by people and accidents, by our leaders and by natural disasters.
And yet, we as the church are called to live the resurrection. To act as if the resurrection has happened, is happening, and will happen again. To ourselves call people up—using the words and actions of Jesus—and empower others to rise to transformed living. To be resurrection in the life of the church.
It’s hard to feel like resurrection when all around us is bad news, bad things, and sometimes even bad people.
Death is messy and at times, filled with fear and terror. But here’s the thing—so is resurrection. Good Friday was a day of terror—it was the worst of humanity in all its fear and betrayal that nailed Jesus to the cross. It was the worst of humanity that left Jesus alone to suffer, and refused to stand up for him. It was the worst of humanity that scapegoated and convicted an innocent man, to prevent dealing with the truth of his message.
And three days later was resurrection, but it had its own fear. It was a fear that had the disciples running and hiding. It was fear that had them convinced that Jesus’ resurrection was a hoax. It was fear that made the disciples need to see it to believe it.
We often describe resurrection as a new birth. But, birth is not pretty. Birth is bloody, messy, scary, painful, and sometimes quite dangerous. We come into life covered in the stuff of earth, the most unclean parts of life. That is our resurrection. We are not resurrected above the stuff of life, but to live deep into it.
Like Tabitha, we are resurrected into a messy broken, hurting world. But we spring forth into life, from deep within the worst that humans and death and sin can do to us.
Resurrection is not random acts of kindness. It is deep sustained compassion, even to those we judge to be undeserving. Resurrection is not hate and stereotyping. It is unflinching love in the midst of hateful circumstances. It is not, “I hope he gets what he deserved.” It is prayer for even the “bad guys” because we know God works with the worst of us. Resurrection is not running away from the scary stuff of life. It is always running towards, every day moving into those places of fear, knowing that God walks with us in the valley, knowing that God never avoids the valley, but moves through it with us.
Resurrection is not just by Jesus. It’s not just for Jesus. It is by God’s people, and for God’s people. It is not avoiding death or the other awful parts of life. It is walking towards it, calling out to each other—Talitha Cum, Tabitha Cum—get up. Take my hand. Let’s walk towards our fear together. There is resurrection. There is hope. There is new life.
Even though we walk through the darkest valley, we will not fear evil. For God is with us, and we are in this together, being transformed, even while we are surrounded by the gritty stuff of life. AMEN.
Tell the Story
Preached at Saint Martin-in-the-fields Episcopal Church
Evensong service
April 7, 2013
Exodus 14: 5-22; John 14:1-7
Eight days ago, I sat in this very room for your Easter Vigil. Don’t tell my Mennonite brothers and sisters, but it was the most incredible service I’ve ever attended. You Episcopalians know how to do liturgy. You had this preacher speechless for over two hours, which is a minor miracle.
We gathered here in the darkness, and those stories from the Hebrew Scriptures ministered to us. These stories told us of the ways that God provided for God’s people. While we gathered in this holy, haunting space, with nothing but a few small candles to give us light, and the smell of incense getting into our noses and clothing, I imagined that we were all in the tomb. We were there in the tomb with Jesus on that Holy Saturday, and God was sending us all these stories of hope, stories of God’s provision for God’s people. God was giving us—our collective spirits—the words that we needed to rise again to new life.
This evening’s text from the Hebrew Scriptures is one that was read at last week’s vigil. God saved God’s people from the slavery and oppression by the Egyptians. And God did that by bringing them to the edge of the great and tumultuous Red Sea, with the Egyptian army in hot pursuit.
The Israelites—running for freedom and for their lives—arrived at the edge of the sea, and immediately lost hope. They longed for slavery again. They said to Moses, “What have you done to us? We were better off in Egypt, in slavery, than we are here with you!” All hope is lost.
And yet, despite the disbelief of the anxious and fear-filled Israelites, God saved them. God rescued God’s people. Not by speeches, not with silence. But, God liberated God’s people by altering nature—God opened the waters of the Red Sea so that all the people that were fleeing slavery could come to a place of freedom and liberation.
There’s a reason we tell this story at Easter vigil every year. There’s a reason this story is beloved by our children in Sunday School. There’s a reason that the Jewish people tell this story during Passover. This is a powerful reminder of how God saves us.
I pastor at the oldest Mennonite Church in the country. Not just the oldest in the country—the oldest in the Western Hemisphere even. And we’re right down the street from you—on Germantown Avenue. My church was founded in 1683. The original members of my church were all from Germany, and they are the reason Germantown is called Germantown.
There is a museum at our original meetinghouse, and it’s because of that museum that many of my congregation’s stories are preserved and shared. Those are stories that I like to tell. I like to tell about the first statement against slavery in this country that was written in 1688 by the original members of Germantown Mennonite Church, 175 years before emancipation.
I like to tell the story of 18th century conflicts in the new Mennonite churches in North America, and how Germantown Mennonite sought to bring the community together around shared confessions of faith.
I like to tell the story of how the church almost closed its doors in the 1950s because there were so few people attending, but a few folks rallied, and helped to keep the church going. They helped to give new life and resurrection to the mother church, and because of those people I’ve never met, our church is alive and well.
And I like to tell the story of our death and resurrection in 1997. We have been welcoming of the LGBT community since the 1980’s. That was not a popular idea in the Mennonite church in the 80’s. For over ten years, our congregation was in difficult conversations with our denomination about our beliefs and practices around baptism and membership for our lesbian and gay sisters and brothers. The end result of that dialogue was that our conference voted to remove us from the body, leaving us without a denomination. The mother church for the Mennonites in North America was and is no longer part of the Mennonite Church USA.
To add insult to injury, the votes to remove us, taken by an unusual secret ballot, were in some cases parents voting against the congregation their children attended. This divisive vote was personal. It was mother against daughter, sister against brother.
In the period following our removal, we asked the Holy Week questions. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” “Can these dry bones live?” And we stayed with those questions for a long time. We wondered what was next. We wondered if we would be okay.
The answers to our question and prayers came slowly. God showed us the way. Slowly the waters were parted, as we moved through the rough sea. Resurrection happened. Young families started having children, and that meant that other young families started attending the church. People who weren’t part of the difficult time started to come to the church, happy to participate in a congregation that welcomed folks of all sexual orientations. New life began to spring forth from the congregation. And the wounds of those who had been there a while began to feel less tender. And slowly, slowly, those that broke the body of Christ with painful votes to remove us, are now coming and seeking reconciliation, and a way is being made.
This is the resurrection story we add to the story of the Israelites crossing the red sea. We add this story to other stories in scripture—to the people of God entering the promised land, to Abraham being called by God, to Elijah’s confirmation from God that the “dry bones” of the Israelites would live. We add this story to the Easter vigil stories, and to the story of Jesus’ resurrection.
The events in scripture happened long ago, but they have relevance and meaning today. They are stories of God’s deliverance, of God making a way when there was none, of God’s resurrection and hope happening then as it happens today, and will happen in the future, for our children, our grandchildren, and our great-grandchildren.
In our Gospel reading, Jesus gave the disciples a rather confusing message. “In Abba God’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and bring you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.”
This is a confounding message from Jesus to the disciples. But, in the context of Easter, of our stories of liberation, and of Jesus resurrection, we have an opportunity to hear this word from Jesus in a new way. God provided for us from the beginning. God provided for our ancestors in their most difficult circumstances. God altered nature in the parting of the Red Sea, and in the resurrection of his child after three days in the tomb. God has done these things.
And God continues the work. God’s plan is to provide, to prepare a place for us, to bring us close to God’s side, and be with us where we are.
But, how are we to know that God is with us if we aren’t telling the story to each other? The Easter Vigil Liturgy tells the story of God’s provision in the past. Easter day tells the now story. Easter season—the fifty days after the big Sunday service tells what God is doing now, where the resurrection is now, how God is at work in our lives now.
Easter season is our time to tell the story. We know the story of how God provided for the Israelites, we know the stories of Jesus’ resurrection. Now is the time to be converted by the stories, to use the lens of resurrection to see God at work among us.
Tell the story of the resurrection. Use the story as your lens to see God at work in you, in this congregation, in your community. Share the story of your new life and resurrection.
Fear not.
Peace be with you.
Tell the Easter story.
Because those are the stories that sustain us while we wait for God—at the tomb, at the edge of the Red Sea, in the Desert. Those are the stories that sustain us in conflict, when things fall apart, and when relationships are broken.
Christ is among you, preparing a place for you.
Tell the story.
AMEN.
Redeeming Thomas
April 7, 2013
John 20:19-31
Two years ago, I attended the Mennonite national convention, held in Pittsburgh. There, the subject of homosexuality was at a fevered pitch. The convention and denominational leaders decided to hold a “conversation room” where participants would be led in respectful conversations on difficult, contentious matters to the wider church.
I went to the first conversation about sexuality, and got there late. And they were out of room in the allotted space, so many of us who were also late tried to have an ad hoc conversation in the area outside of the meeting room. It was a disaster of a conversation—which is a story for another sermon perhaps—but there was moment that really stuck out for me in the otherwise disastrous conversation.
I was in a group with an older woman who wore a covering. While we were struggling to talk about scripture and sexuality, this woman looked at me and said sincerely, “So, when I read the bible, I understand that it is true, but when you read it, you don’t believe it’s true?”
Her words took my breath away. “No,” I said, “that’s not what I believe. I believe that every word in the bible is true, but I think you and I understand that truths of the scripture differently.”
That was a moment of breaking open for both of us. I had some compassion for her misunderstanding (because I once shared her perspective on people like me), and I think she realized that I wasn’t being flip about scripture. That moment gave us opportunity to talk together at length.
It turns out that I knew this woman from a long time ago. She and my dad grew up together in the same small, conservative Mennonite community in South Jersey. I used to visit her when I’d go to the Cowtown flea market with my dad—and we’d get donuts and shoe fly pie from her Dutch bakery there. We talked about growing up in South Jersey, our families, and parenting. The conversation went far beyond where it started, amidst a difficult and strained conversation around sexuality. By the end of our long conversation, I felt that I knew her much better.
I’ve been thinking about that moment with my conservative Mennonite sister as I’ve read Thomas’ story this week. How easy it is to misunderstand someone until you’ve come face to face with them until you’ve really gotten to know them. Thomas is terribly misunderstood in the Christian tradition. He’s become the scapegoat for doubt, a victim of people that fear questions, and fear seeing and understanding the story in a different way. We’ve been trained, in some schools of interpretation, to see Thomas as the most incredulous, the most arrogantly disbelieving of all the disciples. So, let’s take some time this morning, and break it open, and get to know Thomas a little better.
There are two references to Thomas that take place before this text from John 20.
In John 11, when Jesus was on his way to heal Lazarus, the disciples were not thrilled about Jesus going there. It was an out of the way trip. They were convinced that Lazarus was only asleep and would awaken momentarily. And they knew that Jesus’ life was in danger if he went and healed Lazarus. But, Thomas said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, so that we may die with him.” Thomas seemed to know the trajectory of Jesus ministry—it would lead to death. This does not seem like the arrogant disbelieving disciple we thought we knew. This disciple knew what Jesus was about, and he was not afraid to follow him, even to his death.
In John 14, when Jesus said to the disciples, “In Abba God’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come again, and I will take you to myself, so that where I am there you may be also. And you know the place I am going.”
The disciples were confused about what Jesus was saying to them. But, Thomas was the only one to ask the question. “Lord, we don’t know where you are going. How will we know the way?” Thomas’ question was honest and direct. He didn’t pretend to know what Jesus was talking about. He asked a good questions—a question that I would have wanted to have the answer to, but may have been too afraid to ask.
And Jesus responded to the question by saying, “I am the way, the truth and the life.” That answer didn’t make things any less murky, but at least Thomas and the disciples were clear that they were following Jesus.
The last time we run into Thomas is there in that Upper Room. The doors were all locked, because the disciples were afraid. They feared to go outside, that they like Jesus might be killed. But Thomas–who we can assume was not afraid because he was not in the room—Thomas did not see Jesus the first time he appeared to the disciples there. And because he was out—presumably getting supplies, or scoping out the post crucifixion environment—he missed Jesus the first time he revealed himself to the fear-filled disciples. Jesus breathed his holy calm on the disciples. No revenge, no questions, no anger from Jesus. Just “peace be with you.”
But Thomas, the one who was out of the room, already being fearless, came back to learn that he had missed Jesus. He did not get to see Jesus in resurrected form.
And Thomas didn’t believe it. Perhaps he thought that the disciples had seen a ghost. He didn’t want to see the ghost of Jesus past. He wanted to see the fleshy Jesus, the impure broken body of his crucified Rabbi. He needed to see the medieval gash on Jesus’ side, and the scabbing, oozing holes in his hands and feet. The ghost of crucified Jesus wasn’t going to fill the void. He missed his living friend, his teacher.
Jesus returned to his disciples later that week, and marked by the empire, breathed PAX on them. When Thomas saw Jesus, he didn’t have to put his hands in the wounds to know that it was Jesus, in the flesh. He saw the wounds. He saw the gash. He knew Jesus was no ghost, but was the real, alive fleshy, transformed Jesus.
And Thomas, seeing the flesh of Jesus, the real-ness of Jesus, transformed by the cross, but still alive, declared that which the Gospel writer declared in John 1: In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God. And the word became flesh.”
Thomas said, “My Lord and my God.”
And then, it seems as if the gospel writer turns to you, the listener, and says this: Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you might come to believe that Jesus is the Son of God….
A little word about the Greek. When it says “so that you may come to believe” it also can mean “so that you may continue to believe.” Which says something about Thomas, doesn’t it? Thomas already believed, but his encounter with the fleshy risen Christ gave him hope to continue to believe.
This is not a text about Doubting Thomas. This is not a text about a disciple that couldn’t understand what was happening. This is a text about fearless Thomas, faithful Thomas, wondering and questioning Thomas. This is a story about a follower of Jesus that engaged him in a way that no other disciple did—he asked direct questions, he understood the consequences of Jesus ministry, and he had faith enough to leave the upper room when the others were too afraid.
But until we get to know Thomas, we accept this notion that he’s a doubter, and that doubting is bad. Until we look at the scope of the story, we think that Jesus is admonishing Thomas. But, stick with Thomas, get to know him, and you see that he is Jesus’ faithful follower. Read the story all the way through and see the great compassion and openness that Jesus had to Thomas’ questions.
We often meet people like a snapshot. Our opinions of them are based on our brief encounters. Sometimes we can develop unrealistically positive or negative views of someone based on one brief moment with a them.
But what we see is not often what is real or true. It’s not the whole picture, the fullness of a person’s personality, until we spend time with them.
The time spent with my conservative Mennonite sister, opened my eyes and hers. In the same way, time spent in the story—with Jesus, the disciples and Thomas—fills in the story of these characters and gives us a better understanding of everyone in that upper room that day. Jesus was no ghost, but a real in-the-flesh transformed by crucifixion Jesus. Thomas was less of a doubter, and more of a believer than he is given credit for.
I pray that this Easter season—this celebration of resurrection—is a time for us to see the faithfulness of Thomas, the resurrection of Jesus, and the hope and new life in each of us. May we be surprised and delighted by what we find. AMEN.
The Resurrected Jesus
Luke 24:1-12
We Mennonites like to talk about Jesus. We like the guy. He’s cool. We respect his work. We respect his words. We think about how he lived 2,000 years ago, and wonder how he would live now based on his timeless wisdom.
For Mennonites, Jesus’ life is at the center of the story. It’s the lens through which we operate. We follow in the way of Jesus, who lived fully to be who and what God called him to be.
But when we talk about Jesus, I think we talk about the man as he was before the resurrection. We talk about Jesus’ words and life, and they are important to our faith. But, the reason he matters, the reason we have four or more gospels written about him, is that he resurrected. Jesus was not just another radical prophet and teacher who was killed off by the Roman Empire. Jesus was a radical prophet and teacher, killed off by the empire, but resurrected—transformed—by God.
It’s not enough that Jesus was a good guy and did the right thing. It’s not enough that Jesus challenged the empire, and worked towards justice. This resurrection is what makes Jesus unique. This is why Jesus’ legacy lives on and all the other prophets of his time—many preaching messages like Jesus—have fallen by the wayside, relegated to a line or a comment on a piece of papyrus and left on some scroll in a cave.
If this resurrection is what makes Jesus so special, so incredible, so worthy of following, why is it that we give it so little attention to the resurrection in this tradition? Why do we not make this the central thing we talk about in church, in our prayers, in our spiritual communities?
Indulge me in a little thought experiment here:
Imagine that you are ganged up on by people that really hate your guts. And imagine that they accuse you of all sorts of terrible things that are simply not true. They have misunderstood what you are all about and twisted your words. They mock you, and say the most horrible things about you.
Now imagine that these people are beating you and all those that love you have slunk away into the darkness, too afraid to defend you or protect you. They can’t or won’t help you in this terrible, lonely time. These enemies beat the life right out of you, and leave you—dead.
Now imagine that after three days of death, you are alive again. We don’t know how, but it’s true—you are alive. Having already died, you can hardly die again. You have become invincible. What do you do—invincible one–to the people that have mistreated you? How do you approach the friends that have betrayed you?
I don’t know about you, but if this happened to me, I might come back to life angry. I might be out for revenge. I might want retribution. I might have urges to approach my friends, Quinten Tarantino style. How dare they abandon me, leave me alone to be killed by my enemies? Were they not willing to defend me, even if it meant the possibility of their own death?
But this is not what Jesus did. After the resurrection—a miraculous event indeed—another miracle took place. Jesus kept doing what he was doing before he was killed. He continued to preach a message of love and hope. He continued to do what God called him to—except he was transformed. The invincible one did not need to retaliate. He continued living God’s call on his life in resurrected form!
There was no retribution. No payback. No eye for an eye. Because death did not matter to God. It was no obstacle. It did not frighten God. Death did not get in the way of God’s justice being done, God’s message of love and forgiveness being spread. And what power—what incredible power—to have that gospel of love and forgiveness spread by Jesus, who was transformed bodily by death, but who was consistent, both in life and death.
In our gospel reading today, the women (who never betrayed Jesus, by the way) came to the tomb to take care of Jesus’ body. The Sabbath was over, and they made their way to the tomb as quickly as they could—at sunrise the day after Sabbath. They were astonished to find that Jesus was not there. It was the two men that appeared—dazzling, shining, transformed—that reminded the women of Jesus’ earlier words. Jesus himself said that he would be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and rise again on the 3rd day.
And then the women’s eyes were opened. They understood. They were transformed in understanding what had happened to Jesus. And being the good disciples they were—these women went and shared the story with the others.
And the other disciples thought it was an idle tale. They thought those women were smoking something, or playing a trick on the anxious disciples. But Peter, the one that denied Jesus just a few days before, needed to see it for himself. He needed to confirm it. He ran to the tomb, and was amazed.
I do wonder if Peter’s amazement was mixed with a bit of fear—a little concern about his first encounter with the risen Jesus. I wonder if he felt that he would need to explain himself, to defend his complicity, his denial, his escape when Jesus needed him most.
We don’t hear what happened in this story, but I will give you a sneak peak to later in the chapter. Jesus—when he encountered all the disciples—said, “Peace be with you.” Jesus breathed calm onto the frightened disciples. He did not seek revenge. He did not threaten. He gave the same message of peace, forgiveness and love that he had given in pre-resurrected life.
But the message had more power—more oomph—when Jesus told it after suffering the way he did. The message had more power because in his resurrection Jesus continued to love people, show people the way, and bring hope. Jesus didn’t change the message.
But Jesus was transformed by the suffering. He was transformed, but not in the way you think he would be. He was not transformed to hate, but to love more deeply. He was not transformed to seek revenge, but to forgive fully. He was not transformed to show those that killed him that he won, but to continue to be God’s messenger of hope and peace.
On Friday afternoon, I stood with several hundred people at the Heeding God’s Call Good Friday Vigil. It may be the only Interfaith Good Friday service—ever. Cherlynn and Joe Seay shared the story of losing their son to violence. Joe said, “I watch my son get shot, right in front of me. It changes you. It does something to you. I wanted to retaliate, but I knew I couldn’t. So I join my voice with yours.”
This father—who was opposed to violence, who taught his son peace, and who had to watch his son die in front of him (sound familiar?)—was changed by the violence and suffering of his child. He was changed, not to live into the predictable “eye for an eye” motif, but he was transformed to live more fully into the message of peace for which he already lived. That which he already believed was more fully rooted in him and he now lives this ethic of peace and non-violence as a man transformed.
Jesus’ resurrection does not mean that death never happens, that suffering is over. But it does mean that God is not stopped by it. God’s work is not over because we die. Quite the opposite—Jesus’ resurrection means that we have nothing to fear. Suffering, tragedy and death did not stop Jesus. And it doesn’t stop us.
I invite you today and throughout this Easter season, not to simply follow the Jesus that lived two thousand years ago, but more importantly, in the way of the risen Christ, who showed us that God is not afraid of death, that death is not toxic, that God is not frightened of our violence, of our cruelty, or of our stupidity.
We follow Christ, who is beyond death. Let us live into the promise of our transformation, into the hope of new life, of resurrection. Let us follow the risen Christ, without fear of death, knowing that God has—through the resurrection—shown us a better way. A way of life. A way of hope a way of love and power.
And that message can never be put to death. AMEN.