6 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 10, 2026

• Acts 17:22-31
• 1 Peter 3:13-22
• John 14:15-21
• Psalm 66:7-18

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” Jesus says. And if we are not careful, we can fall into the trap, and think the words of Jesus today sound less like an invitation and more like a condition… as though Christ’s love must somehow be earned or proven.

But throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus never speaks of love as a transaction. We have spent the past few weeks in what is referred to as Jesus’ farewell discourse in the Gospel according to John. This particular passage comes right in the middle of the tenderness of his farewell discourse, as Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure, for the confusion and grief that will surely come after the cross. 

These are not the cold demands of some distant master. They are the words of one who loves his friends deeply and wants them to remain rooted in that love even when he is no longer physically beside them. So when Jesus says, “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he is not threatening to abandon them. He is describing the shape love takes in human life.

If we allow ourselves to love as Jesus loves, then love always moves us toward something. When we love someone deeply, we begin to care about what matters to them. Their joys begin to affect us and their burdens become our concerns. Over time, that kind of love changes how we live, not because we are forced to change, but because love itself reshapes our desires.

That is the kind of love Jesus is speaking about here. 

And perhaps this is where the wisdom of Julian of Norwich, whose feast day we celebrated on Friday, speaks so beautifully into the Gospel lesson today. Julian lived during a time of plague, political unrest, violence, and uncertainty. The world around her was fragile and frightening. And yet, in the midst of all of that instability, she experienced the overwhelming nearness of God’s love. Again and again, she returned to the conviction that God does not relate to humanity through fear, but through generous love and mercy.

You probably know her by her famous quote: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” She wrote that not because suffering was unreal. Not because the world was easy. But because she knew that divine love was deeper still. And Julian understood something essential about the Christian life. She knew we’re not transformed through fear of punishment, but through remaining in the love of God long enough for that love, God’s love, to change us.

That is exactly the kind of love Jesus is inviting his disciples into.

And today, on this Rogation Sunday, the church invites us to notice something important. The church invites us to notice that love is never only inward or spiritual. Love always becomes embodied - incarnational. It touches the ground beneath our feet.

Traditionally, Rogation Days were times when Christians would walk the fields and pray over the land, asking God’s blessing upon crops and labor, and remember humanity’s dependence on God and God’s creation. People prayed for rain. They prayed for healthy soil. They prayed for protection from famine and disaster. And for the work of human hands.

But Rogation Sunday is about much more than agriculture. It’s about remembering that all of life belongs to God. The earth is not merely a resource to consume. It is a creation, gifted to us, entrusted to us, and sustained by God.

And perhaps we see a need for Rogation Sunday with a particular urgency now. Because we live in a world that feels strained and exhausted. We see wars devastating lives and families. We see refugees searching for safety. We see political divisions deepening. We see systems designed to silence and exclude. We see truth treated as flexible and disposable. And creation itself groans. Storms intensify. Seasons shift. Communities face drought, floods, fires, and uncertainty. Many wonder what kind of future lies ahead for their children and grandchildren. 

In a world like this, it becomes easy to surrender our hearts little by little. To give our loyalty to fear instead of hope. To give our attention to outrage instead of mercy. To give our energy to self-protection instead of compassion.

If you love me, keep my commandments…

And so, Jesus’ words become less of an accusation and more of a gentle question, “What is shaping your heart?” Because love isn’t ever merely a feeling. Love forms, informs, and transforms us. This is why when Jesus speaks of commandments, he’s not talking about a checklist for earning grace, but as practices that teach us how to live within the life of God. 

In John’s Gospel, the commandment Jesus gives us is ultimately simple and profound. We must love one another, Jesus says, "as I have loved you, you must love one another." That kind of love is not sentimental. It is costly, patient, and forgiving. It’s truthful and steady. It looks like choosing compassion when anger would be easier. It looks like telling the truth in a culture of misinformation and distortion. It looks like refusing to let cynicism harden our hearts. It looks like noticing the overlooked person that everyone else passes by.

And the difficult part is that none of this happens overnight. It’s a slow process of us loving and being loved into a relationship with Jesus. Being disciples or followers of Jesus is not about mastering the rules… but it’s about abiding in (or living in) a relationship. 

We are transformed slowly through communion with Christ... through prayer, Scripture, worship, acts of mercy, and life together in community. Love grows through practice. Obedience to Christ in John’s Gospel is never separated from a relationship with Jesus.

Jesus doesn’t ask us for blind compliance. He invites us to follow him into a way of life grounded in trust, intimacy, and love. That’s what we need to start living and teaching as a church... because many people hear the word religion and think of it as an obligation rather than a relationship.

Because Jesus isn’t saying, “Perform well enough, and perhaps I will love you.” He is saying, “You are loved already. Remain in that love. And live from that love.”

And even when we fail, and we will fail, that love doesn’t go away. There will be days for us when fear wins. There will be days when we lose our patience. Days when we realize we have allowed other voices to shape us more deeply than the voice of Christ. But our failure is never the end of the story.

Because in the very same farewell discourse, Jesus promises that we will not be left alone. We will not be orphaned because we will receive the Spirit of Truth. He promises us that the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, the abiding presence of God, will continue to guide us, comfort us, convict us, and restore us.

Because the Christian life isn’t sustained by our perfection. It is sustained by God’s presence in our lives… By the indwelling presence of Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit. And perhaps that is what we most need to hear right now.

Because the world certainly doesn’t need more cruelty. It doesn’t need more outrage, suspicion, or fear. And it especially doesn’t need any of that being spewed from the pulpit.

It needs a people… a good faithful people, whose lives have been shaped by the love of Christ. People who forgive. People who serve quietly. People who refuse to let hatred have the final word. People who embody hope in the middle of despair. 

So perhaps the question before us today is not simply, “Do we love Jesus?” Perhaps the deeper question is, “How is that love (our love of Jesus, and Jesus’ love for us) shaping the way we live?” How is it changing the way we speak to one another? How does it influence the way we use our time… Or how we respond to suffering? How is it changing the way we care for our neighbors? Or the way we show unity, restoration, and hope to a divided world?

Because when the love of God in Christ truly takes root in our lives, it always leads somewhere. Toward mercy. Toward courage. Toward generosity. Toward a deeper compassion. Toward lives that begin, however imperfectly, to resemble Christ himself. Jesus does not demand flawless disciples. But he does invite our whole hearts.

“If you love me…” he says… And then he trusts that love… That love nurtured by grace, and sustained by the Spirit… He trusts that love, which is renewed again and again in his mercy, will slowly begin to shape everything else in the world. So may we learn, day by day, to abide in Christ’s love, not only with what we say, but in how we live.

5 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 3, 2026

• Acts 7:55-60
• 1 Peter 2:2-10
• John 14:1-14
• Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

Most of you know that I managed companies that built houses for about ten years before becoming a priest. I was responsible for building over 700 houses, but I would like to think that I was really helping build 700 homes.

And that raises a question worth asking, "What makes a house… a home?" Is it the structure?... The wood and plaster, brick and mortar? Is it a roof that shelters us from the storm? Is it a place of safety and refuge, or is it something deeper? Is it the lives lived inside the walls? Is it the love shared? The tears shed? Or the laughter that lingers in the rooms?

When you hear the word “home,” what comes to mind? For some, it’s comfort. For others, belonging. For many, it’s the place where we are known and still welcomed. We carry this longing for home deep within us. When we are lonely, we long for home. When we are afraid, we long for home. When life feels uncertain or fractured, we long for a place where we can rest.

It was St. Augustine who once wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Here is where Scripture begins to reshape what we think home really is. Because the Bible doesn’t just speak of homes as places built with wood and nails, it speaks of homes built with “stones.”

In the First Letter of Peter, we hear this: “Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” Living stones. Not cold, lifeless rock, but a people. You. Me. All of us.

God is building something, not out of bricks and mortar, but out of human lives. A spiritual home. And yet, before we get to that beautiful image, we are confronted with another kind of stone in the Book of Acts. Stones used not to build, but to destroy.

In Acts, we meet Stephen... One of the first seven deacons chosen by the church... a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit. A man who spoke truth with courage. A man who saw the glory of God even when others could not.

And what did the people do? They picked up stones. They covered their ears. They rushed at him. And they stoned him. The same object we were talking about before, a stone, becomes a weapon of fear, anger, violence, and rejection. And Stephen stands there, not retaliating, not cursing, but praying, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” Even as stones are hurled at him, Stephen entrusts himself to God.

This is a devastating scene. But, it reveals something important to us… It shows us that stones can be used to tear down or to build up. And the difference is found in the human heart.

Peter reminds us that Christ himself is the cornerstone rejected by the world, yet chosen and precious in God’s sight. Rejected… like Stephen. Rejected… like so many even now. And yet, God takes what is rejected and builds something holy.

“You are living stones,” Peter says. “Being built into a spiritual house.” That means the home we are longing for now… the home that our restless hearts seek is not just somewhere we go someday. It is something God is building right now. In us. Through us. And between us.

Every act of love is a stone laid in that house. Every moment of forgiveness is part of its foundation. And every time we choose compassion over anger, we are building. 

But, in the same light, every time we harden our hearts… every time we use our words or actions like weapons… every time we let hate and fear rule our hearts… we are throwing stones instead. So the question becomes, What kind of stones are we holding?

Are they stones of judgment? Stones of resentment? Stones we throw to protect ourselves or to wound others?

Or… 

Are they living stones… offered to God, placed carefully into something larger than ourselves? Because the truth is, home isn’t just where we feel safe. Home is where God dwells. Home is where God chooses to dwell, not in buildings alone, but in people... among people… in communities shaped by love and grace.

This is why the church matters. Not that it’s a perfect structure, because it’s not. Not that the people are flawless, because we aren’t. But because the church is how God uses us to build something. Slowly. Patiently. Stone by stone. A place where the broken are welcomed. A place where the weary find rest. A place where, even in the midst of pain, we begin to get a glimpse of what it means to belong.

Even Stephen, in his final moments, was not homeless. He looked up and saw the heavens opened and Christ standing at the right hand of God. And that was his home. And nothing, not even the stones that were being hurled at him, could take that away.

So perhaps home is not what we thought after all… Our home with God is not just a place we long for someday, but a reality we are invited to live into here and now. Every time we love as Christ loved, every time we forgive, every time we choose to build rather than destroy… we are in the process of becoming the very home our hearts have been searching for.

“Lord, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” And perhaps that rest begins when we finally place our stones in God’s hands and allow God to build.

4 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN

The Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 26, 2026

• Acts 2:42-47
• 1 Peter 2:19-25
• John 10:1-10
• Psalm 23

Today, we take a moment and step away from the familiar rhythm of resurrection appearances… Those wonderful encounters where Jesus meets his disciples in locked rooms, on dusty roads, and around shared tables. 

We know those stories too well... How Jesus is recognized in the breaking of bread... how hearts burn as he opens the scriptures... how fear slowly gives way to wonder.

Today, our focus is on the words of Jesus in Chapter 10 of the Gospel according to John. A passage that is unexpected in the Easter Season. And, if we're honest, a bit more puzzling at first hearing.

Jesus is addressing a group of folks in Jerusalem that includes both his closest followers and those who are suspicious of him. He is standing within earshot of people who have just witnessed conflict over authority… Of who has the right to interpret God, and who belongs in God's community, and who does not.

That's the scene we're in…and Jesus paints a picture for us… A sheepfold enclosed by a wall or pen. A gate that provides the proper entrance. A shepherd who enters through that gate. And other figures who try to get in by climbing over the wall. The listeners gathered there would have recognized this scene immediately. 

Sheep were often gathered into communal pens at night for protection. A gatekeeper would allow the legitimate shepherds to enter in the morning, and each shepherd would call his own sheep out of the mixed flock using his voice, and the sheep would follow because they recognized the shepherd's voice.

Here, Jesus doesn't begin with shepherding as we expect. He starts with a sheepfold, a gate, and the difference between those who enter rightly and those who do not. "Anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit." It's a striking image. There is this place where the sheep are gathered… a place of belonging, of relative safety. 

And there is a gate, a proper way in. The one who enters through the gate is the shepherd. The others… those who sneak in, who bypass the gate… come with very different intentions. Jesus is naming, right from the start, that not every voice, not every leader, not every influence that reaches the sheep is trustworthy. 

And that lands close to home. Because we live in a world full of entrances... full of voices trying to get our attention, shaping our thinking, claiming our loyalty. Some come openly, honestly, with care. Others slip in quietly, subtly, promising life but bringing something else entirely.

Jesus doesn't soften the language. He calls those who sneak in "thieves and bandits"... those who come not to care for the flock, but to take from it.

Then he says something even more intimate. Speaking about the true shepherd…He says, "The sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out." This is where the image deepens. The shepherd does not drive the sheep. He calls them by name. And they respond—not because they are forced, but because they recognize his voice. And he leads them… 

This is not about control. It's about relationship. And that's important to understand in a time like ours, when so much leadership (religious, political, and cultural leadership) relies on fear, urgency, and pressure. So many voices try to push us, to drive us, to tell us we must act now…  think this way… fear that group… and secure ourselves at all costs.

But the voice of Christ is different. It is known. It is steady. It calls rather than coerces. And, as the passage tells us, the sheep follow "because they know his voice." Not because they are naïve, but because they are familiar with the one who leads them… leads them to good pasture and still water…

That raises a hard but necessary question for us… How do we recognize that voice? Can we distinguish it from all the others? Because Jesus also says, "They will not follow a stranger… because they do not know the voice of strangers."

Yet if we're honest, we sometimes do follow strangers. We get pulled in by voices that sound convincing... voices promising security, success, or certainty. Voices that tell us we don't need one another. Voices that encourage division, suspicion, even hostility.

We see it playing out all around us… communities fractured, public trust eroded, people increasingly isolated even while we are more "connected" than ever. The noise is constant, and it becomes harder to tell which voices lead toward life and which do not.

And it's into that confusion that Jesus speaks again, with one of the clearest declarations in the Gospel: "I am the gate." Not just the shepherd, but "the gate.

"I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture." This is a shift in the image, but it's an important one. Jesus is not only the one who leads; he is also the way to life itself. He is the place of safety... He is the point of passage between danger and nourishment, between scarcity and abundance.

To say that Christ is the gate is to say that life, true life, is found in and through him. Not through the competing promises of the world, not through fear-driven self-reliance, not through systems that divide and consume... but through relationship with the one who knows us and calls us by name.

And then comes that line in the text that echoes so powerfully in our day and age… "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

There is no neutrality here. It's no secret that some voices... some paths... some ways of being in the world diminish life. They take. They erode. They isolate. They leave people more fearful, more guarded, and more alone.

But others, grounded in Christ, lead toward abundance. Not abundance as excess or accumulation of stuff, but as fullness - as enough… A life marked by connection, by purpose, by love, by a deep and steady trust that we are loved and we are held.

That kind of life is not always easy. It doesn't shield us from hardship or uncertainty. But it is real. It is sustaining. And it is shared.

Because the sheepfold is not a place for one sheep alone. It's a place where we are called together. In a moment when so many forces in our world encourage separation, drawing lines, building walls, defining who is "in" and who is "out," this passage reminds us that Christ gathers. Christ calls. Christ leads us not into isolation, but into a community shaped by his voice.

And that has implications for how we live. It means we should listen carefully... not just to what is loud or urgent, but to what is true. It means we test the voices we hear, asking whether they lead toward life or away from it. It means we resist the temptation to follow those who would exploit fear for their own purposes.

And it means we stay close to the shepherd's voice… through prayer, through scripture, through the shared life of the community… so that, over time, we learn to recognize it more clearly. Because the promise of this passage is not that we will never hear other voices. It is that we are not left to sort through them alone.

The shepherd calls. The gate stands open. Life, abundant life, is offered. And so the invitation today is both simple and demanding... To listen for the voice of Christ. To enter through the gate that leads to life. And to follow, not as isolated individuals, but as a people gathered, known, loved, and led.

For it is there, in that following, that we begin to discover what Jesus means when he says, "I came that they may have life, and have it more abundantly."

2 Easter 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Second Sunday of Easter
April 12, 2026

• Acts 2:14a,22-32
• 1 Peter 1:3-9
• John 20:19-31
• Psalm 16

The disciples are hiding. The doors are locked. The room is tense. Fear has settled in. They have seen too much. They have lost too much. And now they do not know what comes next.

They are afraid... afraid of what might happen to them because they followed Jesus, afraid of being cast out, rejected, or even worse. And in many ways, that fear is not just theirs. It reflects the experience of the early Christian community... a people trying to hold onto faith while navigating tension, uncertainty, and even exclusion.

And if we’re honest, it reflects something in us too. Moments in us when faith feels fragile. Moments around us when the world feels uncertain. Moments when we are not quite sure what comes next. 

And into that space... into the fear and uncertainty... Jesus comes. Not by opening the door. Not by removing the threat. But by standing among them and saying, “Peace be with you.”

Jesus appears in that upper room, not once, but twice. Peace... not as the absence of trouble, but as the presence of Christ there, in the middle of it. And then he shows them his hands and his side. The wounds, the marks of his crucifixion, are still there. Still there, because the resurrection doesn’t erase what happened and what he suffered. It transformed it.

And then Jesus speaks the words that change everything for them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” The story is not over. Their fear is not the end. They are being called forward. The same God who sent Jesus into the world in love now sends them into the world with that same love. And they are not sent alone.

Jesus breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” The Ruach, the very creating breath of God... the breath that gave life in the beginning, is given to them again. And there in that closed-off room, they are refreshed, renewed. Re-created. Given what they need for what lies ahead of them. And part of what lies ahead is this: They are to go out into the world and “forgive.” Jesus says, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven…”

This is not about pretending that harm doesn’t exist. It’s not a cover-up of the cruelty… It is about participating in the life of God. A life rooted in mercy, compassion, and restoration. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We extend grace because grace has been extended to us. And that kind of life is not easy. But it is the way of Christ.

Then our story from John’s gospel turns to Thomas. Thomas, who was not there the first time. Thomas, who missed the great moment when Jesus appeared to the others. Thomas heard the others say,  “We have seen the Lord.” Thomas must have felt left out because he wasn’t able to share in their experience. And still, he stays with them.

This made me ask: where was Thomas when the others were cowering in the room, hiding from the religious authorities? Where was Thomas, the one who boldly said, "Let us go too, that we may die with him," speaking of Jesus deciding to return to Judea? Where was Thomas? The scripture doesn’t tell us, but we can assume that he was bold enough to go out when the others weren’t. That he was willing to take the risk rather than hold onto his fear.

Thomas has been told that the Lord appeared to them when he wasn’t there, and this caused him to be unsure… And even in his uncertainty, Thomas remains there with them. Connected to them as part of the community.

A week later, Jesus comes to them again. “Peace be with you.” And this time, Thomas is with them. Jesus turns to Thomas and says, “Put your finger here… See my hands… Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” There is no shame in these words. Only invitation. And then Thomas responds with a confession that echoes throughout the ages: “My Lord and my God.”

Jesus then speaks to everyone who would come after those who are gathered there in that closed room, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” This is where we are – this is where we live. We have not stood in that room. We have not seen the nail scars in his hands and feet. We have not touched those wounds. And yet—we are here. We believe.

Each week… We gather. We pray. We share a sacred meal. We return. Even after the great celebration of Easter has passed. Why, because we know something in this story has claimed us. Claimed us in ways that we can’t always explain. We have encountered the living Christ in scripture, in sacrament, and in one another.

The Gospel lesson today ends by telling us why all of this has been written, “So that you may come to believe… and that through believing you may have life.” Not just any life. Abundant life. A life shaped by love and forgiveness. A life grounded in truth. A life sustained by the presence of God. But this life is not passive. It calls us to act. It calls us to follow Jesus into places we may not wish to go. It calls us to live as Jesus lived. To love as Jesus loved. And to walk in his way.

So what does that mean for us here, now? It means, like the first apostles, we are sent. Like the earliest and closest followers of Jesus gathered there in their fear, it sends us into a world that is still fearful, still divided, still searching. It sends us, not with all the answers, but with the peace of Christ. We are sent to embody love. Sent to practice forgiveness. Sent to be signs of hope in the places where hope feels pretty thin.

And when we find ourselves like Thomas, being unsure, with questions, with hesitation, with a longing for clarity... we know that we are not outside the story. We are right in the middle of it. And Christ meets us there. Speaking peace. Giving us comfort. Offering us presence. And calling us forward.

So, this season and always let us live as those who are sent. Let us love as those who are forgiven. And let us trust the presence of Christ among us, here and now. And with our lives, and with our hearts, let us proclaim: “My Lord and my God.”

Easter 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Easter: The Sunday of the Resurrection
April 5, 2026

• Acts 10:34-43
• Colossians 3:1-4
• John 20:1-18
• Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

This morning’s gospel story from John begins in the quiet of early dawn. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb while it is still dark. She carries with her the weight of grief, confusion, and loss. She is not looking for resurrection. She is simply trying to make sense of what has happened. And when she finds the stone rolled away, her first thought is not hope, it’s fear. “They have taken away my Lord…”

As we gather this morning, we come with our own burdens. We do not arrive untouched by the world. We carry with us what we have seen, what we have felt, what has unsettled us.

The last several months have been a heavy time for most people. We have witnessed violence that shakes our sense of safety...  lives lost in places meant for learning and community. We have watched divisions deepen in our public life, where disagreement too often turns into cruelty. We have seen fear take hold... fear of those who are different, fear that leads to suspicion instead of understanding. And many of us are simply exhausted... weary from trying to keep up. Weary from trying to care.

Today, that is the place where Easter meets us... Not in a world that is neat and resolved, but in a world that is hurting. Mary stands outside the tomb, weeping. Even when she sees the angels, she doesn’t yet understand. Even when Jesus stands before her, she doesn’t recognize him.

Grief has a way of overcoming us and narrowing our vision. And then it happens… Jesus says one word: “Mary.” He calls her by name. And in that moment, everything changes.

This is the heart of the resurrection. Not just that the tomb is empty, but that the risen Christ meets us personally, tenderly, right there in the middle of all our confusion and fear. Right in the middle of our deepest sorrow. Jesus calls us by name. He sees us. He knows us. He does not abandon us.

The resurrection is the turning point of the Christian faith. It is not just simply something we celebrate once a year... but it is the lens through which we are invited to see everything. Because how we see the world shapes how we live in it.

Many ways of seeing are shaped by fear. Our fears tell us to withdraw, to protect ourselves at all costs, to treat others as threats rather than neighbors. That is a way that leads us to isolation,  division, and more pain.

But resurrection offers us another way. A way shaped by life and peace. A way that trusts that love is stronger than death. A way that invites us to see the image of God in every person. A way that calls us into courage, compassion, and hope.

In our baptismal vows, we make that choice. We renounce the forces that distort and destroy... And then we turn toward Jesus. We commit ourselves to seeking and serving Christ in all persons and striving for justice and peace. Those promises are not abstract. They are meant for a world like ours... right here, right now.

St. Paul reminds us that in baptism, we are united with Christ in his death and raised with him into newness of life. That means we are no longer defined by our fears. We are not bound by the darkness we see around us. We are free. Free to love boldly. Free to stand with those who are overlooked or pushed aside. Free to be people of light.

We have walked through the story of Holy Week. We have lingered at the foot of the cross. We have felt the weight of loss, and pain, and grief. But today, we stand in a different place. We stand at the empty tomb.

And the good news for us is: Death does not have the final word. fear does not have the final word. Hatred does not have the final word. Because Christ is risen.

And because of that… We are called to live as resurrection people... to embody hope in a world that often feels hopeless... to choose compassion when it would be easier to turn away. We live as if love truly is stronger than death, because we know that it is.

As followers of the Way of Jesus, we are an Easter people. We have followed Jesus all the way to the cross and beyond. We are people who listen for the voice of Christ calling out our name. We are people who carry the light of resurrection into our homes, into our communities, and into our world.

So, my friends, as we go from this place, we are to take Easter with us. Because we know that the resurrection of Jesus is not something we keep, it’s something we carry. We carry it with us into the places where people are afraid. We carry it into conversations that need grace. We carry it into moments when it would be easier to stay silent.

We are the ones who remind the world, by how we live, that love is stronger than fear... that mercy is stronger than judgment... and that life is stronger than death. Because the risen Christ is already at work out there, and he is calling us to join him.

Alleluia. Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.