Sermon transcript:
Sometimes I read Scripture and it’s just one simple word or phrase that sticks with me—like a burr on a dog’s fur. “So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy…” Does that resonate with you? Fear and joy at the same time? I thought about this, and three moments from my own life came rushing back: the birth of our first child, my call to ministry, and—you’re going to laugh at this one—getting married. You’re overwhelmed by love and happiness, yet terrified of everything that could go wrong. Especially, in my case anyway, terrified about my ability to be a good father, a good minister, a good husband.
I especially remember the collision of joy and fear around the birth of our first child. Andrea’s sister had come to stay with us to help us ease into those first few days of parenting. She stayed about five days. Now, I’m one who subscribes to the maxim that guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days—but not this time. I remember the low-key panic rushing through my body when she finally needed to leave. “How can you leave us here with this little life?!” There’s a trembling in the body when something beautiful is breaking through, but the path ahead is uncertain. That’s exactly where we find the two Marys this Easter morning—running from the tomb, hearts pounding, holding both fear and great joy.
Early on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary come to the tomb, still heavy with grief. The world they knew has collapsed. Jesus is dead. Hope seems buried. Then—earthquake. Stone rolled away. An angel’s voice: “He is not here; he has been raised.” Good news, yes—but it’s terrifying.
The women flee with “fear and great joy.” Something astounding is happening. Their world, their lives, are about to change dramatically. Resurrection breaks in, but their humanity trembles. This is the tension of the first resurrection morning—not steady faith, but holy confusion. Not certainty, but wonder laced with fear.
To their credit? They keep going.
Like those women, we know what it means to glimpse life stirring again—in a struggling relationship that starts to heal, in a fresh idea that invigorates an organization, in out-of-the-box thinking that finally solves a long-standing problem. We see signs of resurrection. And yet, fear whispers: “Don’t get your hopes up.” “That’s unrealistic.” “Don’t be the fool.” One of the places in our world longing most desperately for glimpses of life stirring again is Israel and Palestine. Recently, I listened to an interview with Rabbi and biblical scholar Shai Held, who talked about one of his heroes: Moshe Unna. Unna was a committed Zionist and, at the same time, the founder of the religious Zionist peace movement. He was an educator. And shortly before Israel’s founding in 1948, he gave this speech to a group of future teachers in the new country: “One of the things Jewish education is about is teaching our children how much they love this place—how their ancestors lived there and worshiped there, how God’s commandments can be fulfilled there, how Israel is the place they love. But there’s another aspect, too. We must teach our children that there is another people who feels exactly the same way.” Shai Held, finishing his story about his mentor, said simply: “That’s it.” Now, some people will say, “Well, that’s Pollyannaish…” You can call it whatever you want. It is the only path forward. And the truth is, we are farther away from that being a path forward than we have ever been. That is the tragedy of where we live right now.1
Resurrection possibilities confront us—but we hesitate. We stay safe. We keep our distance from the dazzling light of renewed life because the path is uncertain and we can’t see where it will lead.
Resurrection invites us forward, but fear convinces us to stay still.
Not the two Marys in our faith story, though. As the women run—probably gasping, hearts racing—Jesus appears. No judgment. No demand for perfection. Just presence. “Greetings,” he says. Then: “Do not be afraid.” Those words aren’t just comfort; they’re invitation. Jesus honors their humanity—the fear, the joy, the trembling faith—and points them toward the next faithful step: “Go and tell my brothers.” He doesn’t ask them to understand everything. He doesn’t ask them to erase their fear. He doesn’t ask them to be instantly whole. He simply gives them the next thing. Cooperating with resurrection doesn’t demand mastery; it begins with movement. Take the next step. Cooperating with resurrection calls for faith, not certainty.
That same grace reaches into our lives. The resurrected Jesus meets us in our fear and tells us the same thing: “Don’t be afraid. Just take the next step.” Resurrection is rarely one shining moment that fixes everything. It’s the culmination of countless small acts of faith and courage—showing up again, forgiving again, believing again when the outcome isn’t certain.
Recently, I was sent a video about The Barefoot Walk, a global movement of Israeli and Palestinian mothers standing together to ignite hope and end the cycle of violence. It is led by Reem Al-Hajajreh and Dr. Yael Admi, and their Nobel Peace Prize–nominated organizations: Women of the Sun, based in Palestine, and Women Wage Peace, based in Israel. They walked barefoot—deliberately vulnerable—through the streets of Rome. They want to see an end to violence. They want the full inclusion of women in negotiations aimed at reaching agreements to end the conflict. Dr. Admi said:
“We are trapped in an endless cycle of violence…As women, and as mothers, our ambition is to build a movement…No decision about our children’s future should be made without women at the table…” They were joined that day by Monica McWilliams, a Northern Ireland peace activist, who shared: “Three decades ago, women walked into a peace process that had tried to shut them out—and changed it forever. We refused to leave until the voices of communities, of mothers, of those who bear the cost of conflict, were part of the agreement. That peace has held. The brave women walking today have the same courage. The same persistence. We proved what is possible.”2
These mothers see resurrection possibilities—peace, dignity, a future for their children. They see the giftedness and blessings of life calling to them—and they move toward that joy. They do not wait for fear to disappear. They walk anyway. Faith means moving toward joy even when fear is still in the room, in our bodies. This Easter, perhaps resurrection looks less like instant triumph and more like trembling joy—like choosing to heed resurrection’s call while fear and uncertainty are still realities. Because Jesus meets us there, just as he met the women: assuring, empowering, sending us on to the next faithful step in the direction of resurrection—whether it’s toward fatherhood, a new vocation, or a lasting peace for our children. We are never alone in the trembling that comes when fear and joy take up residence in our bodies. Christ is risen, so keep an eye out for the love that meets us on the road.
Rev. Joe Gaspar
1 On Being with Krista Tippett: Shai Held On Love, and Judaism, March 26, 2026, https://onbeing.org/programs/shai-held-on-love-and-judaism/#transcript
2 Isabella McRae, Striking photos show Israeli and Palestinian mothers walking barefoot through Rome to call for peace, The Big Issue, 27 Mar 2026, https://www.bigissue.com/news/activism/mothers-israel-palestine-walk-peace/