Easter Sunday
Wow
"True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying, 'I'm sorry,' than to the future and saying, 'Wow!'"
— Frederick Buechner
Six weeks ago, at the beginning of Lent, I invited you to listen for that "Wow" —to release what weighed you down, to receive something at the center of your journey, and to return ready to live differently.
Today is Wow.
When they returned from the tomb, they reported all these things to the eleven and all the others. It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told these things to the apostles. Their words struck the apostles as nonsense, and they didn't believe the women. But Peter ran to the tomb. When he bent over to look inside, he saw only the linen cloth. Then he returned home, wondering what had happened.
—Luke 24:9–12, CEB
There is a vulnerability in sharing your experiences of the divine—in telling others what happened in the silence, in claiming that something shifted in you, in insisting on hope in the midst of despair. That vulnerability is exactly what this Lenten journey has asked of us. And it's exactly what the women did after they encountered the empty tomb. The disciples thought it was nonsense. Even running to see it for themselves, they kept wondering what had happened.
I believe that these stories of new life, of resurrection, of radical hope are still happening in our lives. They are happening every week right here at St. Mary's Sewanee.
I sat with the Spinners last month, a biannual partner group that comes to knit, spin, and create amidst the serenity and beauty of the bluff. I got to tell them about the recipients of the prayer shawls they left last November—retreatants who arrived in life's most vulnerable moments and were surprised by grace: a handknit prayer shawl waiting for them. Comfort during chemotherapy. A warm hug while resting from caregiving. A reminder of love in the transition between careers.
Folks come here every week in the midst of despair and existential wondering. Some come to write the sermon or the story of miracles and new life. Some come simply to rest and sit with their wondering.
We find sticky notes left in the art room. We find all the rocking chairs on the front porch pulled into a circle. We find a single wrought iron chair at the Hermitage perched at the edge of the bluff for the best view. We see folks walking the labyrinth.
This is the evidence. Not nonsense, but the traces of real transformation. The disciples needed to see the empty tomb to believe. We see the sticky notes, the rearranged chairs, the worn path to the labyrinth, and we know: resurrection is happening here.
These are uncertain days. This is a vulnerable world. And whether you receive this Easter morning trusting in the great good news of hope and resurrection, whether you doubt the possibility of change and new life, or whether, like Peter, you sit in stillness and wonder, you are not alone. There is a place for you here, to release your burdens, to receive a word of grace, to prepare for the return to your life.
I have shared my stories with you these six weeks—my knee surgery, my failed silence, my job interview, my Monday morning anxiety. I have been vulnerable with you because that's what Easter asks: to tell what we've seen, even if it sounds like nonsense. To claim hope, even when we're still wondering.
Christ is risen. The tomb is empty. Love is the way.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to make us say, "Wow."
Practice: Living Resurrection
This week, notice one place where new life is breaking through in your own life, your community, or the world. It might be small—a difficult relationship softening, energy returning, a decision made, a burden set down.
Tell someone. Like the women at the tomb, share what you've seen. Risk sounding like nonsense. Claim your "Wow" out loud.
Keep walking. The labyrinth is always here. The path of release, receive, and return never ends; it simply begins again, deeper each time.
Thank you for walking this Lenten journey with me.
