Life on the Other Side of Easter in 2020

You don’t have to be a super human or a super Christian in this Eastertide 2020. Just be human, a beloved child of God. 

Holy Week was about three weeks ago so we are definitely on the other side of Easter. In this so-called Eastertide season in the church, it does not feel any different from pre-Easter days. The COVID-19 crisis is still wreaking havoc and not going away as fast as we want. To be honest these days, every week seems like a Holy Week—a week from hell—as we remember Christ’s own descent and live lament. At the same time, we hear of the hell for many seeking unemployment benefits, grieving over the death of a loved one whom they could not touch one last time, and receiving news that they will be furloughed. Even news from universities like Duke are sobering as they put a ‘pause’ on salary increases and some other expenses while other colleges have to permanently lay off staff.

On Maundy Thursday, I spoke with the head chaplain of Duke Hospital and learned about the Duke Hospital chaplains—those frontline pandemic pastors—putting their lives on the line to care for the sick and dying. Later that same evening, because I am on sabbatical, I tuned into the online evening service from Duke Chapel and watched as my dear colleagues wore masks for the first time as they led worship. The image of these ministers with masks made me say with Jeremiah, “my heart is sick” (Jeremiah 8:18). It was as if they were sick patients in a holy hospital, waiting on the Great Physician to touch them even though there was a governmental order for social distancing. Visually, it reminded me again of how the church is indeed a hospital for the sick.

At the end of Holy Week, there was the horror of Good Friday through the silence of Holy Saturday to the glory of Easter Sunday to the other side of Easter. And now here we are on the other side, still carrying the burden of the backside of Easter. I don’t know about you, but it feels pretty much as it has been. Yet I’m reminded that Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, doesn’t erase our pain or trouble, just as the wounds of the crucifixion on Jesus’ body are not erased by the resurrection. This is the Christian Easter life—a mix of the gory and glory, of sorrow and joy, a sorrowful joy, even as we live into the future God has for us. We live the resurrection by carrying a cross. This is life—COVID-19 or not—on the other side of Easter.

A few weeks into Eastertide, there is still sorrow and there is still joy. Even in the gospel accounts of the resurrection, after the resurrection, on the other side of Easter, some of the followers of Jesus experience fear, doubt, confusion, sadness, uncertainty, and more. Some weep in the face of resurrection, even as global human tears have flowed during this pandemic. But some disciples are amazed. Some do worship. Some experience joy too, but it’s amid sorrow and fear and other emotions. There’s a full range of responses to that first Easter and that breadth of responses is not erased, so we are in good company with the saints, regardless of where we may be right now in our own lives.

During this pandemic, I know there have been days when you’ve been down and days when you’ve been up, days full of hope for the future, and then other times when your cup of hope has felt empty. I’ve been there and this is real life. But I want to encourage you to embrace the wide spectrum of what it means to be on the other side of Easter. You don’t have to be a super human or a super Christian. Just be human, a beloved child of God. Just be.

On the other side of this Easter, even if we don’t expect Jesus or recognize him, as it was with his followers post-resurrection, Jesus shows up anyway in our lives and in our work. As Episcopal Bishop Michael Curry preached on Easter, “Easter comes anyway” regardless of our reactions or circumstances. Christ’s presence isn’t dependent on our belief or disbelief, our fear or joy. His presence is dependent on his promise to never leave us nor forsake us and to be with us till the very end (Matthew 28:20; Hebrews 13:5). Easter is a sign of this promise for us all. A new hymn composition, "Christ Still Rises," by Ben Brody and David Bjorlin, speaks to our reality:

Christ still rises when fear grips our city,
when death takes no pity,
when much is unknown.
Christ still rises when friends are divided,
when joy feels misguided,
when we are alone.
Christ still rises when churches are shuttered
when praises are muttered
when prayers go unsaid.
Christ still rises when peace has all faded.
when we are most jaded,
when faith turns to dread,
when faith turns to dread.

Christ still rises, Easter has come—COVID-19 or not—and I’m grateful to God that we are not alone. Christ still rises. God is with us as we walk or Zoom this uncertain road with our full range of human responses.

On the other side of Easter, we may not always sense a resurrection reality, but something new is being born in us, through us, and around us, even as we wait for what is to come.  May we have the faith to see it and possess the strength and courage to embrace it.

Luke A. Powery

Luke A. Powery is the Dean of Duke University Chapel and Associate Professor of Homiletics at Duke Divinity School. His most recent book is Were You There? Lenten Reflections on the Spirituals and he also serves as a general editor of the nine-volume lectionary commentary series for preaching and worship titled Connections: A Lectionary Commentary for Preaching and Worship.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.

A Poem for the Season of Easter

A reminder of the wondrous mystery of a “zoomed” Easter season, inspired by a beloved hymn.

Crown him with many crowns;
behold his hands and side:
rich wounds, yet visible above,
in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky
can fully bear that sight,
but downward bends his burning eye
at mysteries so bright!
(Matthew Bridges, 1851)

Easter has literally “zoomed” past us.
It was not an Easter like any other.
This year, like many others, we went through Lent

looking forward to the promise of resurrection.
Fasting would soon give way to feasting.
Pain would be overcome by joy.
The empty tomb would help us forget the painful cross.

But it was not to be.

Instead of new dresses, we went to church in our pajamas.
Instead of a joint cup of blessing, we each sat there, sipping at our private cups of coffee.
Instead of a joyful song we raised mournful plain.

Yes, we sang the old hymns about joy, and victory, and the end of death.

But joy was far. Victory was doubtful. Death was still prowling…

Years ago, the disciples gathered behind closed doors because they were afraid.

Our fear is such that we cannot even gather.

We heard, yes, the witness of those who said that He Is Risen.
We believed, yes; but, did we really?

Thomas, doubting Thomas, lurked inside each one of us.

Unless I see the marks of the nails in his hands…
Unless I put my hand in his side…

And he came!

And we cried: “My Lord and my God!”

But this time it was different.

We did not cry simply because we could now believe that he is risen.
Our cry was not just because he had conquered the tomb.

We cried in awe because…

… because he still bore the mark of the nails on his hands and the wound on his side!

Even after Easter he still bears the scars of the cross.
Even after Easter he still bears the memory and the anguish of pain.
Even after Easter he is still the one who cried: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Even after Easter he is still one of us.

One of us in our pain.
One of us in our anguish.
One of us in our forlornness.
One who can still cry with us: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We have now zoomed through Easter,

and are zooming toward Ascension.
When we will celebrate his rising to the highest power in heaven.
When we will once again sing: “Crown him with many crowns.”

But this time we must remember.

We must remember that he still bears the marks of the crown of thorns;
that his hands still bear the mark of the nails,
and his side the wound of the lance.

He did not just zoom through earth,

and life,
and pain,
and injustice,
and death.

He experienced the abandonment of friends.

(which was more than social distancing).
One of them betrayed him for economic gain.
Another denied him out of fear for himself.
Most others simply fled.

He experienced the frustration of religious leaders bending to the will of the powerful

– elders, experts in Scripture, priests, theologians – kneeling before the Baal of power.

He experienced the consequences of political leaders claiming no responsibility,

washing their hands, passing the buck.

He experienced the frivolous cruelty of political leaders taking his name in vain, giving him mock allegiance:

“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”

All this he experienced.

And he still does!

As he rose from the dead, he took his wounds with him.
As he ascended, he took his wounds with him.

The marks of the nails. The wound on his side.
He took them with him, for these are part of who he is.

As he ascended, he took our wounds with him.

He took our doubts, our rebellions, and our fears.
He took our frustrations with governments that tell us to wash our hands, while they wash their own hands of all responsibility.
He took our yearning for the message of empty tombs and empty morgues.

He ascended, but he is still with us.

He is crowned with many crowns.
But he still wears our crowns of thorns.

He is still crowned with our crowns of pain, and doubt, and grief.
He is still crowned with every crown that we may fear

– even with this corona that presses on the world’s brows.
For this too he still takes upon him.

He is still crowned in those who risk their lives for the health of others.
He is still crowned in those who collect our garbage, grow our food, keep society moving.

All of these:

our dead, our heroes, our clowns;
our pain, our grief, our anger, our folly;
our deaths and our lives;
our hopes and our frustrations;
our faith and our doubts;

all of these he took with himself.

He did not leave them here on earth
He took them to heaven with himself.
He took them into the very heart of the Godhead.

So that now, even as we live under the sign of the cross,

We still know – wondrous mystery! –

that our pain reaches into the very heart of God!

Crown him with many crowns;
behold his hands and side:
rich wounds, yet visible above,
in beauty glorified.
No angel in the sky
can fully bear that sight,
but downward bends his burning eye
at mysteries so bright!

Justo L. González

Justo L. González, retired professor of historical theology and author of the highly praised three-volume History of Christian Thought, attended United Seminary in Cuba and was the youngest person to be awarded a Ph. D in historical theology at Yale University. Over the past thirty years he has focused on developing programs for the theological education of Hispanics, and he has received four honorary doctorates.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.

The Sunday After Easter: A Blessing for Thomas

How are we connected to the disciple Thomas this Easter season during COVID-19? (John 20:29)

This week I offer a blessing for Thomas and for those who need to see to believe — not because their faith is weak, but because they feel dismembered by the [COVID-19] situation and cannot bear it all alone.

Honestly I spend the first few days of each week thinking about the characters in the Biblical text I am preaching on the following Sunday (John 20:19-31). My relationship with words requires a blessing to form before a sermon will. It grounds my process in empathy and curiosity for what their story reveals about God, my own faith, and the community in which I am preaching.

When I begin with blessing, I get the sense that the blessing is mutual and the character is with me in the process of finding a sermon. It makes the writing a little less lonely, especially during a global pandemic and church from home. My faith and leadership lean hard on the mysterious and spiritual elements of our tradition. I find comfort and courage in teaming up with characters across time and space.

The communion of saints is alive and well. Perhaps you are rediscovering this while we worship apart/together, discern whether and how to share sacraments from a distance, and how to connect and care as church both quarantined and unleashed.

It helps to remember we are not new to this. We have stories from Acts and the Epistles. We believe in the God who was, who is, and who is to come. We celebrate Jesus begotten from the beginning, in human flesh on earth, and seated forever on the Throne. The cast of characters stretches just as far — and every week I am blessed by a few who remind me we do not bear these things all alone.

For Thomas

They won’t stop talking,
remembering, celebrating
what they have seen —
the grand miracle I missed.

We are all on lockdown,
but I alone am lonely.
They are one living body
and too much to bear.

So I do not bear it at all.

Out of faithful solitude
and sore defiance,
I announce what I need
to mend and live:
my eyes on his wounds,
my hands in his side.

It is a single breath
and a lifetime but then
he appears, reaching for me.

I see his wounds,
our tender stories tangled
together, affirming
my quiet and achy hope.

His suffering contains mine.
His body remembers and
re-members my whole life.
And still I touch them to feel
what I already know is true:

There is no bearing it alone,
though I may try,
for now my story is written
in the hands and side of
the One who bears all things,
the One who Lives.

Meta Herrick Carlson

Meta Herrick Carlson (she/her/hers) is a pastor and writer living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She serves a two campus congregation all learning how to let go and lean in for the sake of a shared future. At this time, Meta is safe at home with three children who cannot ration snacks. Meta’s first book Ordinary Blessings: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations for Everyday Life proves a worthy gift in these uncertain times. Her second book Speak It Plain: Words for Worship and Life Together with more ordinary blessings and resources for church nerds and liturgical communities is scheduled for publication fall, 2020.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.

Not a Pastel Easter: A Conversation with Kate Bowler

The Rev. Dr. Eric D. Barreto interviews Dr. Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved, about the story of Easter in a new light due to this COVID-19 moment in time.

Eric:  Many clergy may be reading this, and it feels like we are ministering to what you have called, “a community of affliction” right now. That image is really sticking with me: a community of affliction, headed towards the cross and the resurrection. I'm wondering about Easter morning when a bunch of Christians are gathered around their screens and devices in their homes for worship:

What do you hope they and we hear?
What Easter message?
What message about the resurrection?

Kate: For so many years, we have used Lent to play at death. We go through the motions. And now we're not playing. We're not going to feel Easter in the same way. I mean, most of us won't, because we're not messing around anymore. And so I think we just have to do what the early church did, which is we say something like,

“Hey, did you see what happened?”

And then we just ask each other,

“Show me . . . were there any witnesses?”

Then we look, and we ask for hope. We trade little secrets of what hope feels like, and we do that until it feels “real-er” and “real-er” and “real-er”. I know I just made up a word! More and more real. But we do it until we find it. We're searching until we get there, and we trade with one another. We trade the little glimpses that we see because we're not going to see it for a while. I think that's our job.

It's just that the kingdom of God is so . . . sneaky. I mean, when I was really, really sick, I used to feel really angry about it. I was, like, God, I know you’re here and everything, but, like, not quite enough.

And then, a year later, I can see daffodils popping up. And I think, oh, you're already here. So in times of deep despair, I think that's when we need one another to act as witnesses. So we know what to look for.

Eric: It’s striking to me that in this moment, when we're supposed to be physically distant, this is the moment we most need to bear witness to one another to the resurrection. In the middle of so much loss, so much illness, and so much death.

Eric: When we think about the story of Easter, the story that we hear year after year, I wonder if there are aspects of that story that we might see in a new light due to this moment in time:

What small details will loom large in this moment?
What neglected characters might come to the fore?

Kate: Can I ask you that question first? What do you think about? I promise I'll answer, but I really do want to know your answer.

Eric: First, I wonder if we'll notice the length of the days. I think often Good Friday to Sunday feels fast because we're preparing, and we’ve got family and we're doing all that stuff, right?

Kate: Yeah.

Eric: And now I wonder if the time between Good Friday and Easter will feel different this time. In this moment, there are days that feel like weeks and weekends that feel like a month. So, maybe the three days in the tomb will feel different now.

I’m reminded that the disciples on the road to Emmaus say something like, “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” Had hoped. That hope was gone. And it was three days of darkness and loss that brought them to that moment. So I wonder if we'll know a little more what it feels like to not know that Sunday is coming.

Kate (chuckling): I'm so sorry that I'm like a garbage American religion historian, and I forget the biblical text. But isn’t there a phrase “while it was yet dark?” Is that the phrase?

Eric: Yes, when Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb?

Kate: I like your answer then. I think we will be thinking about Easter as a story of “while it was yet dark.”

Eric: That's really good.

Kate: We’re good. We love this story.

Eric: Yeah, it's really powerful.

Kate: And we will fumble around, and we won't recognize Jesus from the gardener. We won’t. The things that look beautiful will not be beautiful to us. The feeling that we won't know what is what – what will sparkle. You know, like when the light hits it, you get a little glimpse of the thing that's beautiful. And then you spend the rest of your life trying not to forget that. And I think that when things are really the worst, and you see these gorgeous moments of people — nurses, first responders, people sheltering homeless people — saving each other. Now, that is the time when I understand that there's a thing that is good and beautiful.

We might miss it. If we're not looking for Easter.

Eric: I wonder too. I think for a long time I was holding on to this hope that, you know,  whenever we get back we're going to have like second Easter, no matter what Sunday it is.

But more and more it seems clear that it's not going to be a moment –  but a trickle. That there will be these stages of going back to a place that won't be what it was but whatever the new normal is going to be, we'll slowly go back to that. And I wonder if that's what Easter felt like for those first disciples. That it wasn't just this moment, “Jesus is with us. We get it. We're celebrating.” But that Jesus had to keep coming back. He had to keep appearing for forty days. And even then, the community had to figure out, “Wait, what do we do now?

Kate: I think it's kind of magical that we are going to have the least sentimental, least pastel Easter in living memory. I think that might be good for us.

From all of us at Church Anew:

During global pandemic and global crisis. This least sentimental and least pastel Easter in living memory. May this Easter bless you and those you serve in new ways:
May you wonder about that first Easter.
May you notice the length of the days between Good Friday and Sunday.
May you see daffodils popping.
May you trade little secrets of what hope looks like.
May you know and celebrate Jesus is with us!
And be communities of faith figuring out, “Wait, what do we do now?”

Kate Bowler

Dr. Kate Bowler is an associate professor of the history of Christianity in North America at Duke Divinity School. Her first book, Blessed: A History of the American Prosperity Gospel, received praise as the first history of the movement based on divine promises of health, wealth, and happiness. In 2015, she was unexpectedly diagnosed with Stage IV cancer at age 35. In her viral New York Times op-ed, she wrote about the irony of being an expert in health, wealth and happiness while being ill. Her subsequent memoir, Everything Happens for a Reason (and other lies I’ve loved), tells the story of her struggle to understand the personal and intellectual dimensions of the American belief that all tragedies are tests of character.

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Church Anew is dedicated to igniting faithful imagination and sustaining inspired innovation by offering transformative learning opportunities for church leaders and faithful people.

As an ecumenical and inclusive ministry of St. Andrew Lutheran Church, the content of each Church Anew blog represents the voice of the individual writer and does not necessarily reflect the position of Church Anew or St. Andrew Lutheran Church on any specific topic.