 |
| The strangeness of Easter Evening gives me hope that even with all our scars God is still resurrecting us. |
©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson
This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Easter at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles, Hoover, AL. A video of the message may be found here.
Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same.
In today’s Gospel lesson, it’s the evening of the very first Easter day, and the disciples are hiding behind locked doors. They’ve heard the rumors from Mary. Some have seen the empty tomb. But they’re not shouting alleluias or organizing a celebratory, Paschal potluck just yet.
They are afraid. The world remains dangerous. Jesus may be risen, but Rome is still in charge. The pain is fresh. The wounds of crucifixion aren’t just his—they are theirs as well.
And then, Jesus shows up. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t scold. He doesn’t wait for them to muster up more faith or get it together.
He just… comes. Through locked doors. Through fear. Through confusion. And what does he say?
“Peace be with you.” We love to exchange the peace of Christ at Holy Apostles—it’s long, luxurious, and extensive enough to greet lots of neighbors, but this peace of Christ from today’s Gospel account is on another level of magnitude.
Soon after sharing peace, Jesus does something even stranger. And, if we weren’t so used to hearing this story, every year on the Second Sunday of Easter, this detail would startle us: Jesus shows them his hands and his side. He doesn’t hide the wounds. He doesn’t erase the evidence. He leads with his scars.
It’s the wounded Jesus who brings peace. It’s the scarred Savior who breathes new life. And I wonder—if this is what resurrection looks like for Jesus, might it look this way for us too?
Because here’s the truth we often miss in our pastel-hued, chocolate-covered, alleluia-infused Easter celebrations: Resurrection doesn’t mean pretending the pain never happened. It simply means that the pain does NOT get the final word.
We get another glimpse of this in our reading from Revelation, where from the Island of Patmos, John writes to seven struggling churches. You may recall, John is not writing from a mountaintop retreat, he’s having an often-misinterpreted heavenly vision while being banished for his beliefs. He’s writing in exile, as he endures isolation on this isle, all because he believed in Christ. And yet, from these mystical margins, he gives us this breathtaking proclamation from God:
“I am the Alpha and the Omega… who is and who was and who is to come.”
In other words:
God was not just in the beginning.
God is not just waiting until the end.
God is right here in the middle with us.
Right here in the mess. In the wounds. In the doubts. In the uncertain future.
Right here in the lives of people like Thomas, who need to touch the pain in order to believe the promise.
Right here in communities like ours, who are trying to figure out what it means to be resurrection people in a Good Friday world. Which may lead us to wonder, where does faith meet practice? Because being a resurrection person doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine or turning away from grief, fear, or burnout.
In the world of behavioral health, there’s a concept called post-traumatic growth. It’s the idea that while trauma can shake us, it also can open us. That we don’t just bounce back—we bounce forward. With deeper empathy. With clearer priorities. With renewed purpose.
Now, this doesn’t happen instantly, and it is in no way guaranteed. But when people reflect, stay connected in community, and let themselves be transformed—not by the trauma itself, but by their response to it—growth becomes possible. As strange as it sounds, our woundings have the power to bless us with new gifts, skills, and perspectives.
Sounds a lot like Easter, doesn’t it?
Jesus didn’t rise with a brand-new body. He rose with wounds still visible. And yet, something in him—and in those around him—had changed. We, too, are invited to be people of growth. Not by avoiding our pain, but by abiding in the One who still shows up in the middle of it.
The question for us, my beloved, Holy Apostles, is: where do we go from here? Or perhaps, where do we grow from here?
Easter is not a one-day celebration. It’s a 50 day season—and more than that, it’s a way of life.
But it’s a strange way of life. Because it asks us to trust a God who still bears wounds. The Resurrection invites us to grow—even when we’re afraid. It calls us to serve—even when we feel unqualified. It beckons us to believe—not in certainty, but in God’s presence, for the One who was and is to come… is with us now.
So maybe our job this Easter season isn’t to have the answers. Maybe our job is to breathe deeply of the Spirit Jesus gives us. To be honest about our wounds and the wounds of the world. To show up behind locked doors and whisper peace. To walk with each other into a future we can’t see but believe is held by God.
Because, friends, Christ is still wounded… but he is also still risen. And so are we.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment