Hallelujah! Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
We moved a lot when I was a kid. For a time, home was a mobile home parked on my cousin’s dairy farm. To help offset the cost of rent, my mother worked in the milk parlor. And since I lived there too, I had to help out as well. I was on the schedule just like everyone else.
It was a small operation, just eleven stalls in the parlor. The cows would file in, lining up shoulder to shoulder. Many had their favorite stalls. They’d take their places as their heads disappeared into the feeding trough while we worked. Metal piping stretched along the ceiling, carrying the milk from the udders to the bulk tank. The milkers—the mechanical pumps that did the real work—were constantly chugging and humming.
My job was simple: feed the cows. A scoop of grain in the trough kept them content while they were being milked. It helped them relax, which made everything go smoother. After that, I’d spray each cow’s teats with iodine solution and clean everything up up a paper towel before my mother or one of the others attached the milkers. Then we’d do it all over again with the next group. A good milking took about two hours.
At the time, it all seemed perfectly normal. My life. But looking back, I was only eight or nine years old. I wasn’t a farm kid—I was just the son of someone working off the rent. And yet, there I was, doing the work right alongside everyone else. Now, years later, thinking about it, I realize what I actually was.
Child labor on a dairy farm.
Which, now that I think about it, is just utter nonsense.
And yet, that’s the thing about nonsense. Sometimes, what seems ridiculous—what doesn’t fit the way we think the world works—turns out to be true after all.
Early in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise, a group of women made their way to the tomb where Jesus had been buried. They carried spices—one last act of love, one last chance to care for him, even in death. But when they arrived, the stone was already rolled away. And when they stepped inside, the body wasn’t there.
Instead, they saw two figures in dazzling clothes, standing beside them. The figures spoke: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen.”
The women stood there, totally pericombobulated. None of it made sense. But then they remembered what Jesus had told them—about suffering, about rising again. And suddenly, it all clicked. So they ran back to tell the others. They told the disciples everything—about the empty tomb, about the angels, about the words they had heard. But the disciples didn’t believe them.
Because to them, it sounded like an idle tale.
Nonsense.
Utter nonsense, in fact.
It didn’t fit the way the world was supposed to work. The dead don’t rise. Hope doesn’t get a second chance. And yet, the women kept telling the story. Because they knew what they had seen. And in time, the others would see it too.
Think about the times when everything seemed lost, when hope felt like a distant memory. Maybe it was the morning after a loved one passed, when you thought nothing could ever feel whole again. Or perhaps it was after a job loss, when the future looked uncertain and the weight of failure felt unbearable. Maybe it was in the middle of a struggle with illness, when each day seemed like a battle you weren’t sure you could win. These are the moments when the resurrection of Jesus sounds like utter nonsense—when we wonder how any hope can truly break through.
But then something shifts. A small act of kindness, a simple word of encouragement, a community of friends who show up when you least expect it. Maybe it’s a phone call from an old friend just when you needed to hear from someone who understands. Maybe it’s a decision to forgive someone, even when it feels impossible. In those moments, the resurrection isn’t just a story from long ago—it’s a living reality breaking through. It’s the power of life conquering death, of hope arising even when everything feels dark.
You’ve seen it in the faces of people who’ve weathered storms of loss and still show up, still keep going. You’ve seen it in the parents who, after facing hardship, continue to love and guide their children with resilience. You’ve seen it in those who carry grief yet still laugh, still love, still live as if each day is a gift. You’ve seen it in the places where people rebuild after tragedy—whether it’s a neighborhood after a natural disaster or a congregation coming together in times of deep need.
This is the utter nonsense of the resurrection: the fact that, even in a world that seems filled with endings, life continues to break in, surprising us with hope, with renewal, with joy. It may seem foolish, but it’s the very thing that transforms us, that pulls us through the hardest moments of life and gives us the strength to face the next day with a little more hope, a little more love. It’s the resurrection power that doesn’t just stay in a tomb, but shows up in the most unlikely places, in the lives of people like you and me.
Like the women that morning, it’s not enough for us to simply witness the resurrection, to stand in awe of it and keep it to ourselves. The resurrection isn’t just something crazy we experienced that we can tuck away in our hearts—it’s something we are called to share. We, too, are called to utter nonsense. To speak boldly about the hope, the renewal, the life that Jesus’ rising brings, even when the world might dismiss it as absurd.
The resurrection is about more than just a celebration of something that happened once upon a time. It’s about the difference it makes today, in our lives, in our world. We are called to be witnesses, just like those women at the tomb, to go out and tell others that life has conquered death. That love has won. And that, no matter how crazy it may sound, the truth of the resurrection has the power to change everything.
We are not just called to believe it for ourselves—we are called to utter nonsense, to share it, to let others hear it, so they too might experience the life and hope that Jesus’ rising brings. It may sound foolish, but in that foolishness, there is power. There is transformation. There is salvation. And that is what the resurrection is all about.
We can’t stand silent at the empty tomb. We can’t keep this news to ourselves. The world needs to hear it. So we go, like the women that morning, with hearts pounding and voices strong. We speak hope where others see despair. We proclaim life where death still lingers. We tell the truth, even when it sounds like nonsense.
This is our calling. This is our charge. The stone is rolled away. The grave is empty. Christ is risen. So let’s not hesitate. Let’s not hold back. Let’s step forward, open our mouths, and utter the greatest nonsense of all—
Hallelujah! Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
The Rev'd Daniel W. Spigelmyer, Jr. 