Despite our endless fascination with the “how” of the empty tomb, none of us can ever really know—at least not in any way that would answer all questions. Exactly what happened in the tomb sometime between Friday night and Sunday morning was between God and Jesus. Easter, as we know it, really began the moment Mary heard the gardeners say her name and she knew, she knew who it was. That is the miracle. The encounter with the living God. And it still is the miracle. And every time we encounter him we change a bit—we become a little more confident, bolder, stronger, a little more like him.

Despite our endless fascination with the “how” of the empty tomb, none of us can ever really know—at least not in any way that would answer all questions. Exactly what happened in the tomb sometime between Friday night and Sunday morning was between God and Jesus. Easter, as we know it, really began the moment Mary heard the gardeners say her name and she knew, she knew who it was. That is the miracle. The encounter with the living God. And it still is the miracle. And every time we encounter him we change a bit—we become a little more confident, bolder, stronger, a little more like him.

We are always and everywhere called to bear witness. To sit face to face with the the pain and suffering of others and to see the face of Christ in that agony: humanity

and divinity always and everywhere mysteriously co-mingled. Because, of course,

when one’s pain is seen and acknowledged by another, it can be transformed, it can be redeemed, and it can be healed.

Whenever we drink it we remember, we accept the gift, renewing the covenant and reminding ourselves that we do not live for ourselves alone. Remember that we are possessors of a double life—having taken our friend’s life and nature into ourselves. Inside of us God flows through our veins, to our heart where the covenant is forever inscribed: I will be your God. And you shall be my people.

We experience salvation by and through Jesus’ courageous refusal to participate in the power games of Empire...even though it means putting his own life on the line. Through Jesus refusal, a space for alternative possibilities is opened. And in that open space, where the boundary between heaven and earth thins, all manner of things become imaginable. Life beyond death becomes imaginable. “Enough for all” becomes imaginable. Living in peace becomes imaginable.

Who are those who set themselves up as guardians of the faith? Who claim to be the only true Christians? The fully initiated, law abiding, dues-paying, creed-saying, theologically correct people who can spot a heretic a mile away. In our 21st century society we have plenty of folks who fit this bill—who are certain they hold the right beliefs—the only right way of approaching God, or of pretty much any other aspect of our common life. According to John, these are precisely the people to worry about because they think they can see. And not just see, but see much more clearly than others. And they will not hesitate to tell you that what you see is wrong—they do this because they love God and maybe even love you too—they do it to protect you from believing the wrong things.

We do not serve because other people are needy. We serve because we are ALL needy. Because we all need the kinds of relationships that only happen when we consent to becoming resident aliens – when we become people who are willing to put our bodies, hearts, and minds in places that are uncomfortable, in places that might not seem like they have much to offer, in places where human need is palpable and seemingly endless. Because even, and maybe especially, in these places – there is always something to receive, as well as something to give.

That understanding, that view of life that none of this is really ours, that we are finite, may be hard to take—hard to view as good news. But it is, in fact, good news. It is good that we are not in charge but God is. Not in the sense that we are pawns on a chess board and God is moving us around, but in the sense that God is the ground, the beginning and the end of all life and that God is in essence merciful, gracious and good. We don’t have to be afraid because the One who created us in love is with us now and will be with us at the end.

What if Lent is actually nothing more than an opportunity to start again? To re-receive all that we are and all that we have as gifts? To be reminded that we are dust, and to dust we will return. And with the loosened grip made possible by the fact of our mortality, by the fact that we are not God and don’t have to try to be God – to inquire about what is really necessary. About what is really of worth and value. And then to pare our lives down to the basics, and learn to receive all over again.

Learn that everything is gift. Gift upon gift upon gift.

We are in a world both starved for contact with the holy and afraid to talk about holy moments when they happen. And the good news is that they do happen—I firmly believe that there is no shortage of epiphanies in this world. The light from another place still breaks through in God shaped beams, illuminating the darkness and breaking through the thick cloud, leaving our faces glowing.