My college advisor was a giant. The late E.P. Sanders

was legendary among twentieth-century Biblical

scholars. He was brilliant and rigorous. His classes were

demanding. A very tough “A.” His lectures brought the

New Testament world from the page all the way into the

classroom. Professor Sanders was raised a Methodist in

small-town Texas but described himself as a secularized

Protestant. A historian, not a theologian. He insisted that

we, who were his students, read the texts as academics,

not disciples.

On sabbatical last summer, looking for something

else—isn’t that the way it always happens—I found his

lecture on the resurrection. It was the last class of the

semester. Here’s what my brilliant professor said:

“That Jesus’ followers had resurrection experiences

is, in my judgment, a fact. What reality gave rise to

these experiences I do not know. Nothing is more

mysterious than the stories of his resurrection, which

attempt to portray an event the authors could not

themselves comprehend.”

I love that. The great scholar and seasoned skeptic

stands before the empty tomb and sets down his tools.

I have no category for this. Knowledge and history can

take you all the way to the door of this mystery, but

they will not lead you through it.

This morning, in pulpits everywhere, earnest preachers

will attempt—using the very best skills they have—to

explain what happened on Easter morning. They will

try to make it sensible, to make it manageable, to make

it reasonable. And I understand that impulse. This is

the Super Bowl of the church year. And on any Sunday,

preaching is part persuasion. I would love to give you

proof. I would love to offer evidence. I would love to

close this message with the words “case closed.”

But I fear those messages will fail. If we reduce Easter

to an equation we can solve, we miss it. The impulse is

backward. We do not explain Easter. Easter explains us.

It explains me.

When I was seventeen years old, seated in Dr. Sanders’

class, I had a map. That map took me to law school. To

Washington D.C. To public office. To a career I could

manage and measure. I wanted to be someone who

mattered, to do something that felt big, significant,

important. And then—not once, but many times, over

and again—that plan was interrupted. A campus

minister whose faith rekindled mine. A tiny church way

out in the country where I watched a seasoned pastor

sit with a dying man and somehow knew I wanted to

be in that room. I wanted to be that person. A professor

who saw something in me I couldn’t yet see. I turned

away many times. I wasn’t looking for this. The light

found me anyway.

And so, while I cannot explain the truth that lies at the

heart of Easter, I do believe it. I believe it with all my

heart. I trust it with everything I have. I believe that in

Jesus Christ, God has defeated death and is making all

things new, including us.

Professor Sanders taught me to read the text as a

scholar, but this morning I stand before you as a witness.

On Easter morning, the women got there first. They

show up at the tomb with their spices and their grief, a

crushing weight on their backs. You may not be able to

fix death, but at least you can perfume it. You can make

it decent. Please note that they were not seeking the

living. They came to preserve a decaying body. They

came at deep dawn, that thin, trembling hour between

darkness and light when you are not sure what kind of

world you live in, when people are just shapes on the

horizon. In that dim light, the graveyard was the one

place that made sense to them. Dead people stay dead.

That’s the rule.

And there, in that place of grief and certainty, they get

hit with a staggering question. Why do you look for the

living among the dead?

The irony is biting here. They weren’t looking at all.

They were hiding. They were the ones being found that

morning. But before they can even gather themselves

to answer, those dazzling messengers press on. Not

here. Risen. Remember. He told you. And they do

remember. They remember, and in that moment, the

world is reconfigured. Their lives are transformed.

Before they are preachers, they are witnesses. They

trust the promise enough to run and tell the others.

The scholar stands at the door of the tomb and stops.

The women stand at the door and believe. They stake

their lives on it. This is the grammar of resurrection:

we don’t find Easter; Easter finds us. Let me show you

how I know.

Last Sunday, after church, some of the kids here at

Second did what they do lots of Sundays after church.

They played a great big game of hide-and-seek here in

the sanctuary. Someone told me after the early worship

service this morning that he tried to start a professional

hide-and-seek team, but good players are hard to find…

Watching those kids in this sanctuary took me way,

way back. When I was eight years old, my dad served

a small two-hundred-year-old church in rural North

Carolina farm country. On Sunday nights, the most

faithful members of that church would gather in the

sanctuary for a prayer meeting. And while the adults

prayed in the sanctuary, all the kids who belonged to

those adults played hide-and-seek all over the church

building. As the pastor’s kid, I had an unfair advantage. I

knew the perfect hiding space. Up in the balcony of that

sanctuary, there was a long, pitch-black hallway that led

nowhere. To get into the hallway, you had to go through

a tiny door, just a hole in the wall, off the balcony. So, one

Sunday night, I crawled down that hallway, deep into the

darkness, and there I waited.

I relished in the hushed laughter I heard as all of the

others were found one by one. And I remember thinking

to myself, “They will never find me here. They will never

find me here.”

And then it hit me. They will never find me here.

And suddenly that darkness, that once protected me,

closed in around me. The silence grew heavy, and I

realized the perfect hiding place was a self-made prison.

And so, after what felt like a very long time (sure I had

won the game), I crept back toward the door. I cracked

the door open. Then I opened it wider, and just before

I began to stamp my feet, there he was. My best friend

Jonathan Williams (“it”). I found you, Chris.

I pretended to be disappointed. I was not disappointed.

I was relieved. I was elated. Hiding was fun for a little

while, but then I wanted nothing more than to be found.

I wanted to be sought out. I wanted to be called by

name. I found you, Chris.

I think you know that feeling. On Easter Sunday, we

come here because something stubborn and resilient in

our souls wants to be found. I see you. I see you. Some

of you came in carrying grief so heavy it has started to

feel like your permanent address—a person, a marriage,

a future you had counted on that simply is not coming.

A goal, a plan that has slipped through your hands. You

have learned to carry that grief quietly. And you’re pretty

good at it. But it’s there. I see you.

I see you. Some of you are frightened in ways you

struggle to name. The world feels untethered. The

institutions you trusted are crumbling or captured. And

there’s something more menacing than that, something

we must name. You hear the name of Jesus Christ

invoked to justify cruelty—to the refugee, the poor,

the vulnerable, the enemy—and it is doing something

to us. It’s doing something to our faith. Not just our

politics. Our faith. Because when the gospel language

is weaponized against those Jesus spent his life

embracing, some part of us breaks. We hide our hope

because it feels too fragile to expose. We conceal our

faith because we simply don’t want to be associated

with such hatred. We wonder if God has stopped paying

attention. I see you.

I see you. Some of you came here today because you

were invited, and to be honest, you are not sure you

believe any of this. You’re just stopping by, just looking

in, just trying it out, just this once, just one more chance.

You are sitting in that pew right now wondering what

you are doing here. Maybe you’ve never really believed

and aren’t even sure you want to. Maybe Easter brunch

starts in an hour, and this came first. Maybe you’re here

because something in you needed to sit in this space.

Just in case. You are not alone in that hiding place.

Remember, when Easter arrived, the whole world was

hiding. The disciples: scattered, fearful, hiding behind

locked doors. The city: quiet, deserted. Everyone’s doing

what we do when hope dies: head down, heart closed.

That’s not just your story. It is the human story. We are

not the first people to stand at this threshold wondering

if the word of life is nothing more than an idle tale.

Easter dares to breathe a promise into that darkness.

The promise is this: You are not lost beyond finding.

Resurrection. You know, the early Christians had a word

for it. Anastasis: an uprising, the refusal to stay buried,

the refusal to keep quiet. Yes, the cross was supposed

to be the end because dead people stay dead. And

the empire always kills. But God raises, and in raising

Jesus Christ, he begins the undoing of death itself. An

uprising. That’s what the women ran to tell the others,

breathless and terrified and the gospel’s first preachers.

An uprising had begun. They ran to tell the disciples.

And I am here to tell you it has not ended yet.

It is funny what you remember from when your kids

were little. When he was three years old, our son

Benjamin loved hide-and-seek. But the truth is, he

was terrible at it. Probably the worst hider I’ve ever

played with. And you know why. He could not wait to

be found. Here’s how it would happen. I would start

counting, and he would run and hide behind the couch,

obvious place. I would finish counting, and as soon as

I declared I was looking, he would start squealing with

delight, completely giving himself away. But what I

remember is scooping him up, both of us laughing until

tears were flowing. For Ben, hiding was just the setup.

Being found was the whole point.

There is a reason I remember that. It is what I want.

It’s what we all want, underneath everything. And so, I

cannot explain it, and I will not try. But, by God, I have

seen it.

Listen. The uprising begins again today. Because he is

coming out of that tomb, and he is coming for you. He

has been coming for you since before you knew you

needed him, and he is not stopping, and he will not stop.

The one who transforms every ending is still writing your

story. He will not leave you in the darkness where he

found you. He is closer than you think. He knows your

name. He loves you.

The scholar stands at the door and stops—that’s

where he leaves us. The women stand at the door and

something in them says yes. The college kid sets down

the perfect plan and steps through. And you—here you

are. In a room like this. On a morning like this.

The story says the tomb is empty. The map is useless.

You no longer need to hide. Ready or not.