Invocation

Risen Christ,

you who meet us in the in-between,

on roads marked by uncertainty,

in moments we did not plan,

in places we did not expect,

draw near to us now.

As the light breaks over this new day,

break into our hearts again

with a hope we cannot control

and a joy we cannot contain.

Where we have given in to despair,

speak your living word.

Where fear has taken hold,

breathe your peace.

Where grief has settled deep within us,

call us again by name.

Meet us here—

not when we have it all together,

not when we have finally arrived,

but here, on the way—

and remind us

that we are not alone.

Open our eyes to your presence,

our ears to your voice,

and our hearts to your love,

that we might rise with you

to walk in newness of life.

For the dawn has come,

and still you come to us—

alive, unexpected,

and full of grace.

Amen.

Sermon

Matthew 28:1-10

Before the sun has fully risen…before certainty has returned…before the world has made sense again…two women are walking a road between grief and hope.

Mary Magdalene and the other Mary have come to a tomb carrying all the weight that comes with loving something the world has taken from you. They are not expecting resurrection. They are expecting silence. Finality. An ending.

And yet—the earth shakes, the stone rolls, and an angel speaks:

“Do not be afraid… He is not here… He has been raised… Go and tell… He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him… This is my message for you.”

It is a word meant to steady them. A word meant to give direction. A word meant to move them forward. Go to Galilee. That’s where resurrection will be.

And so, they go—afraid, yes, but also filled with great joy. Because even a trembling hope is still hope. But here is where the story surprises us. Because they don’t make it to Galilee. Somewhere on the road—before they arrive, before they figure it all out, before they get where they thought they needed to go—the Risen Christ meets them.

Not in Galilee. Not at the destination. But in the in-between. “Greetings,” he says. And suddenly the promise is no longer distant.

The hope is no longer deferred. The risen Christ is standing right in front of them. Which raises a holy, unsettling question for us this morning: What do we do with the fact that the angel said one thing…and yet, Jesus showed up somewhere else?

“You will see him in Galilee. This is my message for you,” the angel declared.

And yet, the risen Christ had his own way of arriving.

Maybe the angel wasn’t wrong. Maybe Galilee still matters. But if what this moment reveals is something deeper?

That even the messengers of God cannot map out all the places resurrection will break in. Even angels don’t get to control where new life appears. And if angels don’t know…then we certainly don’t.

Which means…hear this clearly this Easter morning: We cannot predict where Christ will show up. We cannot confine resurrection to a location. We cannot limit hope to what seems likely or reasonable.

And because of that, we can never give in to despair. Not now.

Not ever. Because despair depends on certainty.

Despair says:

“This situation is too far gone.”

“This violence will never end.”

“This division is permanent.”

“This grief will define the rest of my life.”

“This world is too broken to be redeemed.”

Despair pretends it knows the final chapter. But Easter interrupts that illusion. Because if the risen Christ can show up anywhere—on any road, in any moment, in any life—then despair loses its authority.

If the risen Christ does not even follow the directions given by angels…then there is no place left where hope cannot break in.

Not in a world at war.

Not in economies that strain and stretch families thin.

Not in communities fractured by fear and suspicion.

Not in the quiet, private griefs we carry that no one else sees.

Not even there. Especially there.

The women set out for Galilee thinking that hope was waiting for them down the road.

But they discovered that resurrection was already on the road with them. And maybe that is the word we need this morning.

We are always being told where hope is supposed to be.

“Things will get better when…”

“Peace will come if…”

“Joy will return once…”

We keep placing resurrection somewhere out ahead of us—

in Galilee.

But Easter says: Lift your eyes. Because Christ is not only waiting at the destination. Christ is meeting you in the middle.

On the road of uncertainty. On the road of grief. On the road between what has been and what will be.

“Greetings,” he says. And notice what the women do. They don’t analyze. They don’t debate. They don’t question whether this fits their expectations.

They fall at his feet. They take hold of him. They worship.

Because when resurrection meets you on the road, the only appropriate response is to cling to it. To trust it. To let it reorder what you thought you knew about what is possible.

And then Jesus says something that echoes the angel, but deepens it: “Do not be afraid… Go and tell my brothers…” Do not be afraid. Because fear and despair are close cousins.

Fear says: “We don’t know what’s coming.”

Despair says: “And whatever it is, it won’t be good.”

But resurrection says: You don’t know what’s coming—and that is precisely why you can hope. Because God is not limited to the outcomes you can imagine.

If Christ can appear where he was not expected, then new life can emerge where we have already given up looking.

If Christ can meet them on the road, then Christ can meet us here.

Here, in this fragile morning light, in this aching and beautiful world, in this moment that feels both heavy and holy.

And so, we go on. Like those women—with a strange mixture of fear and great joy.

We go on without having all the answers.

We go on without knowing exactly where resurrection will appear next.

We go on without the certainty we often crave.

But we also go on with this unshakable truth: Christ is risen. And because he is risen, hope is no longer confined.

It is loose in the world. Unpredictable. Uncontainable. Showing up where it shouldn’t, breaking in where it wasn’t planned, meeting us on roads we never expected to be holy.

So, we can never give in to despair. Not because everything is already fixed—but because resurrection refuses to stay where we put it.

Not because the world is easy—but because Christ is alive within it.

Not because we know what comes next—but because we don’t.

And somewhere—on some road you are walking even now—

the risen Christ is already drawing near. “Greetings,” he says.

Do not be afraid. Christ is risen. And he is already on the way.

 

Invitation to Communion

This is not a table for those who have it all figured out.

This is not a meal for those who know exactly where Christ will appear.

This is a table for travelers:

for those on the road between fear and hope,

for those who are still making their way to Galilee,

for those who have known grief, and yet dare to move forward.

Because the good news of Easter is this:

Christ does not wait only at the destination.

Christ meets us along the way.

So, partake.

Not because you are certain,

but because you are hungry.

Not because you have arrived,

but because Christ is already here.

Communion Prayer

Risen Christ,

we give you thanks this morning

for meeting us where we are—

not where we thought we needed to be.

You met the women on the road,

in their fear and their joy,

in their uncertainty and their hope.

And you meet us here.

In bread and cup,

in simple elements,

you come close again—

not distant, not delayed,

but present.

Pour out your Spirit upon us

and upon these gifts of bread and cup,

that they may be for us your life,

your love,

your resurrection.

And make us your body in the world—

a people who do not give in to despair,

a people who look for you

not only in the expected places,

but in every road we walk.

When we leave this table,

send us out with courage—

to trust that you are already ahead of us,

and already beside us,

and somehow, always still surprising us.

We pray in the name of the risen Christ,

who meets us and calls us forward.

Amen.

Easter Proclamation

One: When fear tells us the story is over—

Many: Resurrection is already on the move.

One: When grief convinces us all is lost—

Many: Christ meets us on the road.

One: When we do not know where hope will come from—

Many: We trust the God who surprises us.

One: When despair claims the final word—

Many: We proclaim life stronger than death.

One: Christ is not confined to where we expect—

Many: Christ is alive and already among us!

One: Christ is risen!

Many: Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Benediction

Go now into this Easter morning—

not with all the answers,

but with a living hope.

Go knowing that Christ is not confined

to where you expect to find him.

Go trusting that on every road you walk,

in every place you fear hope cannot reach,

the risen Christ is already drawing near.

So do not be afraid.

And do not give in to despair.

For Christ is risen—

not only at the destination,

but all along the way.

And wherever you go,

he will meet you there.

Amen.