(Or: The Resurrection Is Magnificent… but the Recycling Still Needs to Go Out)
Easter morning arrives with great enthusiasm.
Trumpets sound.
Flowers bloom.
Alleluia returns with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend who has finally been released from liturgical quarantine.
Churches fill with light and music.
The sanctuary smells faintly of lilies and triumph.
Christ is risen.
Death is defeated.
The stone is rolled away.
It is, by all accounts, a magnificent moment.
And then… something curious happens.
By Easter Tuesday, the world has quietly gone back to work.
The lilies are still standing proudly in the church, but the choir robes have been hung up again. The chocolate eggs are disappearing at an alarming rate. The parish office is open. Emails begin to accumulate. Bulletins must be prepared.
Laundry happens.
Coffee refills occur.
And somewhere in the quiet dignity of an ordinary Tuesday morning, one discovers that the recycling bin must be taken out.
It is at this point that the thoughtful Christian may pause and observe:
The Resurrection is magnificent… but the recycling still needs to go out.
The Quiet Days After the Miracle
The Gospels, interestingly enough, understand this rhythm quite well.
After the earthquake of Easter morning, life does not simply remain in a constant state of trumpet blasts and shining angels.
Instead, the risen Christ appears in very ordinary places.
On a dusty road to Emmaus.
In a quiet room where frightened disciples are gathered.
On a lakeshore where fishermen have returned to their nets.
And perhaps most delightfully of all, beside a charcoal fire where Jesus is cooking breakfast.
The resurrection does not remove the disciples from ordinary life.
Instead, it meets them right in the middle of it.
Which is both comforting and slightly inconvenient.
Because while we might prefer the resurrection to remain permanently surrounded by lilies and choirs, it seems Jesus is quite content to meet us among grocery lists, kitchen tables, and the occasional overfull recycling bin.
The Holiness of Ordinary Tuesdays
The Church gives us fifty days of Easter, and I suspect one of the reasons for this is that it takes a little time for resurrection joy to settle into our everyday lives.
Easter Sunday is glorious.
But Easter Tuesday is where resurrection begins to take root.
It is where we begin to discover that the risen Christ walks quietly beside us through the ordinary rhythms of life.
Through commutes.
Through meetings.
Through small conversations.
Through the preparation of parish bulletins that stubbornly refuse to format correctly.
Through the slow, sacred ritual of the morning coffee refill.
If we are paying attention, we may even discover that the resurrection has quietly followed us home.
Resurrection in the Everyday
One of the most beautiful truths of the Christian faith is this:
The resurrection does not belong only to churches.
It belongs to kitchens.
To sidewalks.
To offices.
To gardens.
To long walks along river trails.
To neighbours greeting one another across the fence.
The risen Christ seems remarkably fond of appearing in places where people are simply living their lives.
Perhaps that is because the resurrection is not meant to remove us from the world.
It is meant to renew the world from within.
And that renewal often begins in very small ways.
A kindness offered.
A moment of patience.
A word of encouragement.
A shared meal.
A quiet prayer in the middle of an ordinary afternoon.
The Joy That Continues
Easter joy does not vanish when the trumpets fade.
It simply becomes quieter.
Deeper.
More woven into the fabric of daily life.
It becomes the quiet confidence that love is stronger than death.
That hope is stronger than despair.
That grace is stronger than our mistakes.
And that somewhere, even on an unremarkable Tuesday morning, the risen Christ is still walking beside us.
A Small Easter Prayer
Risen Christ,
you meet us not only in moments of glory
but in the quiet rhythms of ordinary life.
Walk beside us in our work and rest,
in our conversations and our silences,
in our joys and in our small frustrations.
Teach us to recognize your presence
in kitchens and offices,
in sidewalks and gardens,
in every ordinary Tuesday we are given.
And when the recycling needs to go out,
remind us that even there
your resurrection light still shines.
Alleluia.
Amen.