This sanctuary feels so full on Easter Sunday.
The smell of fragrant lilies and the sound of alleluia choruses overwhelm the air. The faith community packs the pews, dressed in the spring hues of its “Sunday best,” and the familiar faces of visiting family and friends charge the atmosphere with good holiday energy. Easter Sunday intends to be jubilant, joyful – a festive opportunity for a weary world to begin again.
Yet, for many, grief tugs at the heart with cast-iron weight. For far too many, shame and guilt encroach upon soul and spirit when finding or feeling glad tidings of comfort and joy proves elusive or down-right impossible. So let’s make space this Easter morning for grief and joy, mourning and hope, for all these things can and do coexist in close proximity.
Feelings of grief are a healthy response to Jesus’s death on Good Friday. Lingering heartache and sorrow are valid emotions to bring to a tomb. Which is precisely the state of mind for the women of this morning’s Scripture lesson.
They have been with Jesus for the long haul – soaking up his teaching, learning from his example, and witnessing the relief and wonder of his healings. And, on Good Friday, from a safe distance, the women watch his agonizing death – until the time is right to do what their faith instructs: The anointing of Jesus’s breathless clay with oils and spices. Thus, when dawn breaks, they arrive at the tomb steeped in grief but well prepared to fulfill all righteousness.
May the Good News of the Easter story be this: No matter how you arrive this morning – whether immersed in grief, stunned in disbelief, or running in the direction of hope – resurrection is for you. Grief doesn’t have to stifle hope. And hope compels healing when grief overwhelms your moment.
Listen to the Word that God has spoken – to the voice of Creation and Resurrection that is close at hand – even if you don’t fully understand.
You remember, don’t you?
“Then they remembered his words,” Luke says of the women staring aghast into the empty tomb. Their recall isn’t instantaneous; their remembering takes some time – and some outside help from none other than angels. First comes terror, because it’s not every day that otherworldly visitors come calling. But then they receive a gentle word: Remember.
You remember, don’t you? That Jesus told you the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again? That spark of remembering gives the apostle Peter just enough hope to get up, run to the tomb, and seek more for himself. But the majority left behind dub such remembering “an idle tale,” sheer nonsense, delirious muttering.
Such assessment feels relatable in the context of our contemporary living. In a world beset by so much sorrow, so much suffering, and so much heartbreak, a glimmer of good news struggles to break through the gloom. A glimpse of beauty, a flash of loveliness, feels like foolishness amid so much chaos and bad news. Grief often clouds judgment, resists truth, and stirs distrust.
Let’s be clear: It is not wrong to sit or wrestle with one’s grief. Grief deserves our attention, because mourning is a bittersweet memento of love for another. And grief need not be ranked as “right” or “wrong,” worthy or unworthy, justifiable or ludicrous. Even when it comes to loss of the pettiest, tiniest, most-seemingly-insignificant things, grieving makes space for healing, for the better to blossom and flourish.
For the last few years, my own paltry grief lay – of all ridiculous places – in a stuffed animal of my daughter’s childhood.
At her birth nearly a quarter century ago, Mary received as gifts any number of stuffed animals that provided her crib-time comfort. And by Mary’s choice, one furry creature – a soft, pale-yellow lamb – became a nearly constant childhood companion. Just as the familiar stanzas proclaim, “Everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.” Thus “Lamby,” as she came to be known, was ever-present around the house, clutched tightly by the scruff of her fuzzy neck in Mary’s tiny fist, snuggled warmly under Mary’s chin come bedtime on cold winter nights.
Lamby even logged thousands of miles on family adventures in our blue Toyota minivan. When re-boarding the van after a roadside stop of whatever reason, both Julie and I shared responsibility for making doubly sure that Mary and her brothers were back in their seats – and that Lamby hadn’t been accidently left behind in the bathroom at Casey’s or in the reptile house at the zoo. No child left behind, no Lamby left behind! That was both goal and mantra! And woe be to the parent who’d allow that to happen!
Over the years, though, time and the elements began to take their toll. Lamby was looking more than a little road-weary. Her fur was mangy; her eyes were missing. Frankly, Lamby had been loved to death, and she had the scars to prove it. Then came last Christmas, and I had a gift-giving idea for Mary. A Google search connected me with a woman in Omaha whose restorative skills bring dolls and stuffed animals back to life. So, when Santa came sliding down the chimney at our house, his sack of goodies included a promise to pay the cost of Lamby’s refurbishing.
She’s now back from her “spa day” and looking mighty fine. And somehow, someway, as silly as it sounds, the world feels just a little less fearful, a little less broken.
With Lamby’s decay came a certain sadness. Indeed, her demise signaled that tender, precious years have passed in the blink of an eye: Mary grew up and moved out; the blue van got sold for parts and scrap. Julie and I had joined AARP, and our days of shepherding “littles” faded to specks in the rear-view mirror of parenting. Perhaps it really was time for everyone to move on, to let go of Lamby and release our death-grip on the past, and to slog ahead into a future of uncertain days. Even so, in the shadow of loss – which these days seems to envelop like a constricting snake, everything – even the small and obscure – suddenly becomes agonizingly precious, even as we pray – as we did last Sunday – for divine help in accepting the partings that must come from friends who go away; from children leaving home; from parents, grandparents, and siblings getting older; and most of all, from dear ones called to God’s self.
And from heaven comes the Lord’s response to our fervent prayer: Do not let your grief become your everything.
Grief is not terminal – a hopeless condition leading only to death. Grief is liminal – an uncomfortable space between past and present. And grief need not crowd out other truths: That you have loved and been loved; that you are loved and do love. That you are not alone. That there still is hope in the land of the living. That resurrection is for you, too! Even as you pray and wait – at the gaping mouth of your own empty tomb – for Easter to happen again.
You remember, don’t you?
Oftentimes it’s a memory that flares a glowing ember of hope into a rejuvenating fire: It is what it is – until, by grace, it isn’t. The Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God!
Pastor Grant M. VanderVelden shared this message during worship on the Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025, at First Presbyterian Church in Waukon, Iowa, USA. Scholarship, commentary, and reflection by Jeff Chu, Lisle Gwynn Garrity, Amy-Jill Levine, Lauren Wright Pittman, and Ben Witherington III inform the message. It is the conclusion of Pastor Grant’s Lenten series, “Everything in Between: Meeting God in the Midst of Extremes.” The video clip is from Lumo’s Gospel of Luke.