By Wednesday in Easter Week, something very important has happened.
We are still saying Alleluia…
…but we are no longer shouting it quite as loudly as we did on Sunday morning.
The lilies are still standing — though a few are beginning to look like they have given everything they had for the glory of God and could now use a small nap.
The chocolate supply has been… reduced.
And the Church finds itself in that delightful and slightly bewildering place where resurrection is no longer brand new…
…but it is not yet entirely understood.
Which, if you think about it, is exactly where the disciples were.
Because Easter did not arrive for them as a tidy theological conclusion.
It arrived as a series of astonishing interruptions.
Jesus appears in a garden.
Jesus appears in a locked room.
Jesus appears while people are walking along a road having what they thought was a perfectly ordinary conversation.
Resurrection, it turns out, has a habit of showing up where it is least expected.
And by Wednesday, that is precisely the point.
Because Easter is not meant to remain safely contained within Sunday morning.
It is meant to start leaking.
Into kitchens.
Into conversations.
Into parish offices where someone is trying to remember where they put the bulletin draft.
Into the ordinary.
This is where Easter becomes particularly interesting.
Because dramatic moments are one thing. Trumpets, hymns, blazing candles — all very well and entirely appropriate.
But what does resurrection look like on a Wednesday?
It looks like hope showing up in small ways.
A conversation that goes better than expected.
A moment of patience where irritation had previously made itself quite comfortable.
A quiet sense that perhaps things are not as stuck as they once seemed.
Resurrection rarely begins by rearranging everything at once.
It begins by changing how we see.
And once you begin to see resurrection…
…you start to notice it everywhere.
In forgiveness that arrives unexpectedly.
In courage that seems to come from nowhere.
In joy that feels slightly disproportionate to the circumstances — the sort of joy that makes people say, “You seem unusually cheerful for a Wednesday.”
Which is, of course, entirely the point.
Because if Christ is risen — truly risen — then Wednesday is no longer just Wednesday.
It is Wednesday in a resurrected world.
And that changes things.
Not always dramatically. Not always all at once.
But steadily. Quietly. Joyfully.
The early Church did not spend fifty days celebrating Easter because they enjoyed extended liturgical enthusiasm — though they did seem to have a certain talent for it.
They did it because resurrection takes time to sink in.
Time to move from astonishment to understanding.
Time to discover that Easter joy is not fragile.
It is persistent.
It keeps showing up.
Even on Wednesdays.
So if today feels ordinary — if the grand celebration of Sunday has softened into the steady rhythm of daily life — take heart.
This is exactly where Easter wants to be.
Right here.
In the middle of things.
Quietly turning the world inside out.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Risen Christ,
You meet us
not only in celebration
but in the ordinary days that follow.
Open our eyes
to the small signs of your life among us.
Let your resurrection
take root in our habits,
our conversations,
and our quiet moments.
And fill even our Wednesdays
with the steady joy
of your living presence.
Alleluia. Amen.