Barbara pointed out to me Christ is ascending but is looking out over the people instead of up to heaven. It is a good reminder when I go to church for services, Baptisms, Rite 13, Conformation, Ordination, Weddings and Funerals that I look up to remind me why Christ died for us and was Resurrected to save the people of this world.

Trust in the Lord, trust that with Christ living inside me the light that I bring to my family, friends and my work is nourished by him. It is freedom.

I’m so far from being a biblical scholar and expect most of you have much more valuable insights on these subjects. But even before losing my ability to speak, I never want to turn down a request or an opportunity to simply be heard.

Resurrection is not simply a promise to us, it requires our own participation. God doesn’t happen to us, God happens through us.

When your cross is too great to bear, when the glory of the resurrection has faded into the daily grind, go back there again to be with Him. Spend some stormy July night keeping watch with Him in Gethsemane.Take a moment to kneel at the foot of the cross with His mother and weep.

I find a lot of comfort, but also unease, in the week after Holy Week; yes, there is resurrection, and the alleluia has returned, but it's hard to keep from looking over my shoulder.

The pandemic has caused us to “search for our better angels”. Slowing down our world has forced us to become more attune to nature - those endless walks have been a catharsis for staying inside.

“For there is always a light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.”

The slow gathering of community, many strangers, some feeling anxious and cautious about others washing their bare feet, but taking the risk. It is a beautiful scene to watch, even if you choose not to participate.

Now I cannot speak for you, gentle reader, but the Sunday school boy in me has always thought of Judas Iscariot as the quintessential villainous traitor. But John’s wording in this brief passage awakened my ears and eyes to a surprising possibility that Judas Iscariot of all Jesus’ beloved disciples had just been tasked with perhaps THE MOST DIFFICULT MISSION OF ALL: to betray his Lord and Master so that all that had been prophesied would be set into inexorable motion and the scriptures would be fulfilled. “Thy will be done”.

This past Sunday we were shouting “hosanna hosanna” and singing “All glory laud and honor to thee redeemer king”. And then just five days later we were shouting “crucify him!” What’s going in here?

As perversely logical as their plan for Lazarus was, it simply hadn’t dawned on me that they would deem it politically necessary to kill him, too. So that very fact heightened my understanding of how truly great a threat they perceived Jesus to be.

As we move toward herd immunity via vaccination and the end of Lent, there is cause for joy and hope. In the words of the psalmist, “You have been gracious to your land, O Lord, you have restored the good fortune of Jacob. You have forgiven the iniquity of your people and blotted out all their sins.”

He would much rather have kept his mouth shut, and he tried to, but the truth burned inside him until he had to let it out. He had to refute the falsehoods that were being spread by others.

I would venture to say that God has moved in mysterious ways in all our lives at one point or another, although we may not always recognize it at the time or even afterwards. Sometimes these “mysterious” things are obvious and life-altering, and many involve name changes of one kind or another.

I can recall times in my life when I longed to tell someone the truth.

How can this story or tradition guide me as I work my way from my head down to my heart-home? Lent, especially, is a time where I find myself wandering along with Israel in its journey from captivity to freedom; and with the early followers of Jesus in death to life, from despair to triumph. And sometimes back again.

What door are you looking at that might have you missing the light? What light can you let in as the world wakes up from the cold dark winter, and slowly from this year of being apart.