Easter Sunday 2026

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

We arrive at Holy Week having learned to walk in darkness, and now we watch Jesus enter the darkest week of all. Following Jesus sometimes means walking toward more conflict, not less, choosing costly discipleship over easy answers. The Palm Sunday crowd wanted a king who would make their lives easier; they got a savior who called them to take up crosses. Even the Jesus experienced the lights going out - the cross is God's solidarity with our darkest moments. Jesus becomes our ultimate fellow traveler who faced abandonment, state violence, institutional betrayal. This week we explore concrete ways to keep moving forward when we can't see outcomes, discovering hope that doesn't bypass suffering but walks through it. We find courage to choose love when hate seems to be winning, remembering that Easter is coming, but it's still Friday. Following Jesus means walking toward difficulty rather than around it, trusting that God's love is strong enough to hold us even in the darkness of Holy Week.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God."

TRIALS — James….As days lengthen and spring approaches, we integrate what winter taught us without toxic positivity or false explanations. Dark seasons can develop capacities we didn't know we had - empathy that

"Now there was a great wind... but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence."

Like Elijah discovering God in the still small voice rather than the dramatic displays of power, we learn that our spiritual senses adjust to perceive God's presence in unexpected places. When familiar reference points disappear, our eyes adjust - and we begin to see God working through grassroots organizing, sanctuary efforts, teachers protecting students, community members caring for one another. As winter slowly gives way, we develop spiritual night vision that allows us to perceive the sacred in resistance movements and quiet acts of love. Barbara Brown Taylor teaches us that "when you can't see where you're going, you rely on what you hear, smell, and feel." This week we explore contemplative practices that sharpen spiritual awareness, learning to pray with our whole selves and pay attention to what we usually miss. God speaks in the silence, and we can learn to listen.

The valley isn't a place you run through; it's where you learn to walk slowly and breathe deeply. Our urgency culture tells us to sprint through difficulties, but some seasons of life force a different pace - chronic uncertainty that won't resolve quickly, aging parents, struggling adult children, marriages in rough patches. The civil rights movement understood this: Rosa Parks didn't just decide to sit down one day; she was trained, prepared, supported for the long haul. Justice work is marathon, not sprint. Martin Luther King Jr. reminded us that "the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." This week we explore Sabbath as resistance to urgency culture, discovering spiritual practices for the long haul rather than just crisis moments. Sometimes God's gift to us is forced slowness that teaches us what really matters. Kate Bowler's wisdom rings true: "There is no cure for being human" - so we learn to walk slowly through the valleys with grace.

The Emmaus story teaches us about walking through confusion with companions. Sometimes Christ shows up disguised in the stranger, the immigrant, the unexpected ally. The disciples didn't recognize Jesus until he broke bread - salvation often comes through those we least expect. In our dark seasons, we discover who shows up versus who disappears, learning to build unlikely coalitions across difference. Jonathan Martin writes about "fellow shipwreck survivors" who understand without needing to solve everything. This week we explore the art of presence without answers, learning skills for authentic community that can handle both political disagreement and personal uncertainty. We discover how to ask for help and how to offer it, embracing mystery as transformation space rather than threat. Sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is simply walk alongside one another without having all the answers, trusting that Christ joins us on the road even when we don't recognize his face.

Life has a way of turning the lights out on our carefully mapped plans. Job loss, diagnosis, relationship breakdown, political upheaval - moments when the vessel we were counting on breaks apart. Abraham was called to leave the familiar empire for an unknown promise, trading sight for trust. Ash Wednesday reminds us we are dust - our carefully constructed plans are fragile. But this isn't cause for despair; it's invitation to discover that God's guidance doesn't require our vision. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is take the next right step without needing the whole staircase illuminated. Kate Bowler's wisdom rings true: "I can't see the plan, but I can see the next right thing." This week we explore how to move forward with trust when sight fails us, learning that God's call often leads us into uncertainty precisely because that's where faith becomes real.

Valentine's Day weekend arrives with its annual prescription for perfect romance: candlelit dinners, flawless relationships, love that looks like a greeting card. But what about the other 364 days? What about love that 

In a world that promises the sacred only comes through special moments—retreats, worship services, spiritual highs—Brother Lawrence discovered something revolutionary: God is as present in the monastery kitchen as in the chapel. This 17th-century monk developed what he called "practicing the presence of God" while washing dishes and preparing meals, learning to find the divine in the most mundane tasks.

We live much of our lives in grocery stores of the soul—routine tasks, daily commutes, endless errands that feel anything but holy. But what if these aren't interruptions to the spiritual life but the very place where it happens? When we learn to pay attention, the grocery store becomes a cathedral: we notice the hands that grew our food, the systems that brought it to us, the abundance that surrounds us, the neighbors we encounter in every aisle.

This isn't about adding more spiritual practices to an already busy life; it's about discovering that presence itself transforms ordinary moments into encounters with God. Whether folding laundry, stuck in traffic, or yes, wandering the cereal aisle, we can learn Brother Lawrence's secret: that there is no moment too small, no task too mundane, no place too ordinary to practice the presence of the One who is with us always.

The goal isn't perfection but attention—learning to notice God's fingerprints on the everyday moments that make up most of our lives. In a culture that constantly pulls us toward the next thing, the practice of presence invites us to discover the sacred right where we are.

Generosity