This is the night we tell the stories.

Reflection based on these wonderings + [some of] the readings assigned for the Easter Vigil in our Lectionary.
Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea]
Isaiah 55:1-11 [Salvation offered freely to all]
Ezekiel 36:24-28 [A new heart and a new spirit]
Romans 6:3-11
Matthew 28:1-10


Let us speak, and listen, held in the presence of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God. Amen.

This is the night we tell the stories. The stories that tell us who we are and whose we are. The stories that beckon us deeper into the mystery of God’s life and love. They are old stories, strange stories. 

This is the night we sing of a God who is liberator and life-giver; a God who keeps giving Godself away. Who creates us in God’s own image and gives us the freedom to make our own choices, who promises that when we mess up, we can be forgiven. 

We sing of the God who hears the cry of the Israelites in bondage and leads them through the Red Sea on dry land; who makes an everlasting covenant with God’s people; who gives us new hearts to receive God’s love, and to love one another. A God who loves us so much that God empties Godself and becomes a vulnerable human being, teaching, healing, feeding; breaking down every barrier that divides the human family, proclaiming good news to the poor and release to the captives, proclaiming love as the first and final word of the entire universe. And who, for that, is stripped and scourged, and mocked, and spit upon, and crucified. Who suffers and dies for us to show us that nothing—nothing—can ever separate us from the love of God. 

And—did you feel that? Just then—was that an earthquake? Did you hear the rumor, that the tomb is empty? Did you hear the women when they said that Jesus has been raised from the dead, and goes ahead of us? Did you hear that crazy talk?

As Christians, we inherit a story in which the life of God is rooted deeper than evil and death; and the love of God shakes the foundations of the world. And this is not just a story for us to hear and tell. It is the story we are drawn into, body, mind and spirit. It is the story we live inside. 

So with the first disciples, we feel “fear and great joy.” Fear and great joy. As Paul writes to the church in Rome, “all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into his death.” In other words, in a few minutes, when we baptize James, we are going to bury him. Or, even better—we are going to drown him. In our baptism we all join Jesus in emptying ourselves of all that is not tethered to our true identity as beloved children of God.

The self that has to prove its specialness to belong, to be a success. Drowned.

The self that was deformed when someone important to us told us our worth was conditional. Drowned.

The self defined by the worst thing we’ve ever done. Drowned.

The self defined by the best thing we’ve done, that we will never again live up to. Drowned.

The self that is mired in shame and cannot show itself to anyone. Drowned. 

It is only natural to feel afraid in these deep waters. What an honor it is to witness the courage of Allison, Lou, Mari, and Yvonne as they reaffirm their baptismal vows, made long ago and under other very different circumstances, as the people they have become. As they wade out again into the waves, and feel the pull of the tide, and go under.

“All of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus have been baptized into his death.” This is the night we die. But this is also the night when we surface, and our lungs are filled with the breath of life. “For if we have been united with Christ in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” 

This is the night we affirm our faith that a death in fidelity to love is only a door: a door that opens into new life. This is the night we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by this wild joy, that the story that defines us and defines all of creation is a story of surprise, of grace, of resurrection. 

Jesus goes on ahead of us. To heal, to reconcile, to liberate. How can we not follow? 

Amen.