Happy Easter

He is risen.

Not metaphorically. Not in a spiritual sense that sounds nice on Sunday but doesn’t touch Tuesday morning. Actually, physically, bodily risen — and reigning. Today. Over your kitchen table and your inbox and the thing you’re worried about in the quiet hours of the night.

This is the part we forget by Monday. Easter becomes a feeling that fades, a service we attended, a nice brunch. But the claim is wilder than that. The tomb is empty and the King is not waiting in the wings. He’s on the throne. Here. Now. Over everything you’re carrying and everything you’re afraid to set down.

Since that’s true — he’s actually reigning — then nothing you’ve been entrusted with is random. None of it. Not the hard year, not the ordinary Wednesday, not the thing you’re still grieving. You’re not carrying it alone, and you’re not carrying it for nothing. You’re carrying it under a King who is alive and present and working.

Happy Easter.