Easter Sunrise Service: New light

We have spent these last days in darkness.

Hope died with Jesus in a tomb somewhere and we have been exposed to only the midnight skies of a new moon cycle, unclouded, the stars fail to shine.

We have been removed to upper rooms, the outside doors locked to prevent the authorities walking in to arrest us and treat us as they did Jesus.

We hold back tears with fearful restraint, these nights have not gone the way we imagined they were planned.

We saw our savior stolen from us in the garden, we fought but were told not to fight.

We witnessed his arrest, we saw him taken, Judas pointed the way.

To Caiaphas, and to Pilate, we followed Jesus as he was taken from castle to castle.

Born in a manger, Jesus was visiting with royalty.

We saw him in the streets, we saw the rocks fly and thorny crown lie on his head, cutting into skin.

He fell.

We helped him rise.

He was marched and carried and jostled to Golgotha, to the place of skulls, and we heard the hammer blow.

We still hear the hammer fall on metal spikes that pierced human flesh, we entered into night.

Darkness since Friday, we’ve known no light.

Behind doors that would keep out our seekers but never our savior, we waited.

And cried.

Tears tasted metallic in our mouths, this was not how things were supposed to be.

We were doing good things, great things.

Miracle things and yet those things have stopped.

In darkness, it hard to see in Galilee

Until.

Until light arrives through the sound of a knock on a locked door.

The knock is heard then answered.

Light enters in.

He is risen.

Alleluia, he is risen.

This is a day of light and as I sit in a coffee shop in Southington Connecticut writing this homily, I do wonder if this Easter sunrise will take place under blue skies or behind cloudy ones.

Regardless, sunlight upon our faces or rain falling upon us, the light remains.

And still, there are days when the light seems far away.

When we are caught behind our own locked doors in Galilee.

And from the windows of that coffee shop, I could certainly see that the light seemed far away.

Steady rain beat against windowpanes, the Easter light of this day remained in question.

But let me contradict myself a bit here.

While the light may seem uncertain, we are never without the light.

Behind those locked doors following the passion, when all seemed lost, all seemed gone, the light remained, unseen by eyes shut weeping tears of heartache.

Just as God flew in the darkness above the waters in Genesis, so too did God fly in that room closed by fear and locked with metal locks.

The light remained; the light remains.

To feel that light in our darkest days is sometimes the hardest thing to do, but it is there to be relished, its warmth still rises.

This light is love.

This love is God’s.

We are never separate from God’s love.

And God’s love is no allegory.

It is real.

It is tangible.

It is warmth upon our faces, it is rain falling upon our necks, it is a confirmation that we are never without God’s love.

God is in that thin pink line resting upon the horizon as the sunlight emerges from night, the dawn betrays the darkness that we knew, God is with us.

God is with us in the exploding orange sky as day gives up to night, there is no need for fear in the dark for God is with us.

It is then our realization that we are never without God that makes this Easter morning so meaningful.

We are not celebrating the anniversary of Jesus’ resurrection, we are not cosplaying as disciples imagining the miracles that just occurred.

No, we are celebrating the very real, very much happening God’s presence in all of our lives.

On this morning, Jesus rose from the dead.

And the women who went to visit Jesus, expecting his body but instead found an angel, were told to not be afraid.

And they were told to spread the word that Jesus was raised.

And they left that tomb with fear and joy and God and they rushed to spread the word.

Alleluia, Jesus was risen.

And they then saw Jesus directly in front of them.

And they took hold of his feet.

They worshipped him and kissed him with tear-streaked cheeks and salty lips.

“Go, tell my brothers they will see me soon!”

That event happened.

Jesus arrived on the road and his sister disciples worshipped him and loved him.

Yet if this is to be a homily about that one event, then we can end this now.

Jesus died.

Jesus was risen.

Amen.

Yet we are not celebrating a single event.

We are not celebrating just the resurrection.

We are not just remembering Jesus’ return.

What we are doing is celebrating the fact that after those events, amidst the darkness and the light, everything changed.

Nothing was the same.

Yet just as no sunrise is the same, their essence is.

And even the essence of a sunrise was changed by a man who came down from the heavens, lived and performed miracles among us, and died to conquer death through the promised union to God.

We can find God in these sunrises just as we can witness God’s presence in the morning mist, the cooling fog, the punishing storms.

We celebrate the resurrection and all that it changed and we celebrate the continued presence of God in our lives.

We witness God in the hopefulness of the day before us, hope for the opportunity to fulfill God’s dream for all of us.

It is the God of the early morning who helps us greet the day, the day being a continuation of everything that Jesus changed when he rose from the dead.

In the sunrise we witness the continuity of God who was with us in the night, when we dreamed of an earth without hunger, a people thirsting only for God’s love.

In the sunrise we walk with God as we do the work to remove hunger and sate the thirst of a people looking to be loved.

This is the Sunday of Jesus’ resurrection.

This is Easter Sunday!

It is also the Sunday where we continue to witness God’s continuing presence in our lives.

Alleluia, Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed,

Alleluia!

Amen!