Things don’t look any different today.
There’s the expected bustle of Easter Sunday, of course—making sure everyone’s in their finest spring outfits; phoning ahead for brunch reservations; perhaps looking after company. There’s an excitement, though, an undeniable energy often lacking in our routines…and yet. And yet someone still needs to make sure everybody’s loaded into the car; to make sure that you leave with enough time to get a good seat; to keep everyone happy. There are mental lists to run through, tasks to be dutifully checked off, pressing concerns at work that you can’t quite push to the back of your mind. No, things don’t look any different—our lives go on just as they did yesterday, and the day before. The scenery slides by our car windows, the clock on the desk ticks away the minutes, our many and varied toys distract us just as much as we need.
And yet. And yet here, today, we hear a word that stands out in vivid color against a dull background: Christ is risen.
Risen, indeed—but risen into our world; the world where we go on relatively unchanged, with our plans, our work, our worries. Risen into our world, almost without our noticing, like the tune you can’t get out of your head, quietly playing in the background of everything you do. Risen into our world, inescapably, like a trumpet blast sounding out of nowhere, just behind you. Meeting us unexpectedly on the road to Emmaus, listening to us babble senselessly on, and opening up our eyes to the world around us. Meeting us in the guilt and shame we carry with us; after all, Christ still had scars on Easter morning. Triumphantly he calls to us, letting us know that we are risen with him—even if we haven’t noticed yet. Yes, Christ is risen into our world, but slowly, very slowly, he’s making it his own. Bringing life where there was death; making peace where there was war; charging even our blandest hours with a hope for something more.
Christ is Risen.