Lectionary Commentaries for April 20, 2025
Resurrection of Our Lord

Having grown up in churches that sang vigorous hymns about the cross’s redemptive power, I have always been prone to see a bit of Easter in Calvary. It has taken me longer to recognize Calvary in the empty tomb. Easter is purportedly about unclouded joy, clear victories, and hope that does not disappoint (Romans 5:5). But Luke’s depiction of the resurrection, much like his depiction of the incarnation, has a decidedly cruciform tone. There is doubt and terror (verses 4–5). There is division among God’s people (verse 11). And there is a Jesus that seems nowhere to be found (verses 5, 12).

This surprises us, perhaps, because we think of Christian affirmations of Jesus’ enfleshed life—whether pre- or post-resurrection—as the warm, winsome aspects of the gospel message. Immanence, rather than transcendence. Presence, rather than absence. Clarity, rather than mystery. We forget how complicated enfleshed life can be. Flesh is “particular, permeable, and provisional”¹—meaning that flesh is limited and localized, it is marked by the world it inhabits, and it is very difficult to control or even interpret. All throughout Luke’s gospel, Jesus’ body has been misunderstood, misused, and even misplaced (Luke 2:41–52).² The cost of revelation that embraces the material world is of great significance to Luke. So it is no wonder Luke’s gospel should emphasize the cost of a resurrection that embraces that same materiality.

The risen Jesus is particular. Unlike some all-encompassing, cosmic force—the resurrected Jesus is not everywhere, all at once. He has gone missing from the place one expects him to be. “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” the two lightning-clad men ask the women. “He is not here” (verse 5). The weighty corollary to Easter faith is that, if our Savior lives, the tombs of certainty, finality, and respectability that we have gifted him will no longer be his dwelling. To encounter a living God, embodied and active in the world, requires that we face something more profound than a happy end. It requires that we face a Love stronger than death, particular in its commitment to lives lost and witnesses disregarded.

From 1976–1983, an Argentinian human-rights organization named Mothers of Plaza de Mayo (Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo) gave stalwart witness to the kidnapping of their children by the military dictatorship that ruled the nation during those years. To this day, on March 24, thousands share in these women’s suffering by protesting this bloody period of the nation’s history. There is something in Jesus’ absent body that binds itself to this grief. It marks these women’s struggle and hallows it—even as their witness marks and interprets Christ’s own. It is no surprise that the women in Luke are not believed when they tell the disciples the stone has been rolled away and Jesus’ body is gone. Nor is it a surprise that Argentina’s right-wing, populist president, Javier Milei, discounts the claims of the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo, dismissing as false their witness to 30,000 disappearances during the dictatorship.³ Jesus’ witness was also dismissed and assumed false (22:66–71). The mockery of the women’s witness in Luke 24 resonates with the derision leveled at Christ’s own. And this is the second cost of an enfleshed resurrection. Jesus’ risen life is not only particular; it is also permeable—impacted by and impacting our witnesses. Indeed, his resurrection calls us to tell the truth about his person and those lives to whom he has bound his own, regardless of whether we are believed.

Living bodies are also provisional. They change, even as they are remembered over time. Memory plays a crucial role in Luke 24:1–12. “Remember his words,” the men tell the women (verses 6–7). And the women do remember—a memory that testifies to their presence in Jesus’ inner circle of disciples. But Jesus’ words are not only remembered; they are reframed in light of the passion and the empty tomb. Luke’s Jesus does not speak of being “crucified” earlier in the gospel, for all he tells his disciples he will be killed (9:21–22, 43–45; 18:31–33). The Jesus in Luke’s Easter appearances bears wounds that his disciples never thought he would bear (24:39–40), and he inhabits the world in new ways. He is not always immediately recognizable (24:13–35)—even as he is re-membered in the breaking of bread and in the breaking open of the scriptures. And this is the third cost of an embodied resurrection. It requires that continuity and change be held together, one in each hand. The risen Jesus confronts the false comforts of memories leveraged for stasis or despair. Memory is meant to empower God’s new creation, not petrify it. In grace’s dark dawn, Easter resurrection breaks open histories and mistakes frozen in time and asks those whose hearts have grown accustomed to stony resignation: What if the stone was rolled away? What if hope was risked again? What if forgiveness was real? What would it mean to live—not shut inside tombs of all we cannot change, but alive in a world that can?

There is an alternate translation of verse 12—a reading where Peter does not simply “go home,” but wonders “to himself” or “with himself” at what he has seen. I like that reading. It echoes the pondering of Jesus’ mother Mary—but it also underscores all that is at stake for this denying disciple. The resurrection will require Peter to face his failure, remembered in the face of Love. Stooping low (verse 12), Peter wonders at Love’s costly call to face God’s future. So may we all.

Notes

1. I describe these aspects of embodied life in the first chapter of The Overshadowed Preacher: Mary, the Spirit, and the Labor of Proclamation (WJK, 2020).
2. Brittany Wilson’s careful study of Jesus’ enfleshed continuity and fluidity in Luke-Acts awakens readers to the gospel’s complex treatment of corporeality: The Embodied God: Seeing the Divine in Luke-Acts and in the Early Church (Oxford, 2021).
3. Associated Press, “Their Children Disappeared in Argentina’s Dictatorship. These Mothers Have Looked for Them Since,” News Tribune, March 22, 2024, https://www.newstribune.com/news/2024/mar/22/their-children-disappeared-in-argentinas/.

Taken all together, the resurrection passages in the Gospels are a dizzying and confusing array. The spotlighted role of Mary Magdalene in John is crucial, for Paul omits women altogether, and none of the Synoptics, though mentioning Mary Magdalene, narrates a full scene around her such as we find in John 20.

This singular focus on Mary (who is often still wrongly identified as a prostitute) gives some narrative support to the recent scholarship that suggests that “Magdalene” is not the name of her home (typically understood as Magdala, a location otherwise unaffiliated with her until the fifth and sixth centuries CE; the recent archaeological explorations at “Magdala” by the Sea of Galilee are of the ancient Jewish town Tarichea). Instead, scholars argue that “Magdalene” is her title, identifying her as “the Tower,” which is the meaning of the root word migdol (see also Peter “the Rock” [Matthew 16:18]—a title omitted in John!).

John uniquely describes the place of Jesus’ burial as a garden (19:41), a subtle evocation of “Paradise Found” and the renewal of the garden of Eden from Genesis 2–3 (see also John 20:15). Mary Magdalene arrives there early, on the first day of the week (Sunday), again a gentle gesture toward the “new creation” of the resurrection. Unlike the Synoptics, no other women are mentioned with her, placing full emphasis on her (and her subsequent testimony) alone. 

The timing reflects both the honoring of the sabbath (Saturday) and the eagerness of Mary to visit the tomb. Since Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, both “hidden” disciples, had prepared Jesus’ body with spices previously after his crucifixion (John 19:38–42), and since the perfume of pure nard for Jesus’ burial had been used by Mary in Bethany to anoint Jesus the previous week (John 12:1–7), the reason for Mary’s early arrival remains unstated (see also Mark 16:1–2, where the women bring spices to anoint the body early on Sunday morning). Without tasks to complete, she is seemingly drawn solely by her love to be near Jesus as soon as possible.

Mary here is the centerpiece of discipleship, the showcase of what it means to be a child of God and sibling of Jesus. This resurrection scene is bracketed and interwoven with examples of incomplete discipleship. 

We have Joseph and Nicodemus, who remain hidden as followers due to their fear. In the midst of Mary’s arrival we have Peter, who, after his denial of Jesus (John 18:15–27), goes Absent WithOut Leave from the cross and has to be roused to visit the tomb. The mysterious “disciple whom Jesus loved” also has to be summoned, and while he outruns Peter to the tomb (why wasn’t he there in the first place?), the final comment on him (and Peter) regards their lack of understanding about the necessity of Jesus’ resurrection—hardly a ringing endorsement. That they return to separate homes shows that they are nowhere close to approximating (let alone achieving) the unity that Jesus desired for them in John 17:21. The subsequent episode portrays the remainder of the disciples cowering in fear behind locked doors, with Thomas noticeably absent. 

No threefold affirmations of love (21:15–17), reversing Peter’s threefold denial (18:15–27), are needed of Mary—the abundance of her love has already arrived upon the first fingers of dawn, and it runs down her cheeks before angels and Jesus, much like the water from Jesus’ side on the cross.

Mary’s comments in this passage focus on the body of Jesus, and she seems to have been intent on caring for and protecting it. This divine tabernacle, the tangible flesh of the incarnate Logos (John 1:14) that was shamed and mutilated in the crucifixion, appears to Mary to have undergone the further humiliation of being stolen from the grave. Oh, that the bodies of all of God’s creation would be treated with such love, such care, such respect, not least the innocent victims of state violence and those “disappeared” dissidents whose bodies are never found.

The narrator draws attention to Mary’s weeping, mentioned twice in 20:11 and emphasized in the question both the angels and Jesus ask: “Woman, why are you weeping?” Though perhaps at first coming off as a criticism veiled as a question, the question may simply focus our attention on her behavior, especially in contrast to the other disciples. Why wasn’t Peter weeping? Why wasn’t the Beloved Disciple? 

Indeed, weeping as an expression of love is especially associated with Mary of Bethany, who wept profusely at the death of Lazarus, even moving Jesus deeply enough to weep himself out of love (11:33–36, the only recorded incidence of Jesus weeping in the Gospels). And then, in a vivid recapitulation of Martha’s statement in John 11:28 (“The Teacher is here and is calling for you”), Jesus calls this Mary by name, and Mary turns and exuberantly responds, “Rabbouni!” (Teacher). 

She is apparently so intent on finding and protecting the body of Jesus that she is not even looking at the angels or the “gardener” directly. It should be no surprise, then, that she desires to hold onto it now that Jesus has revealed himself to her directly. However, Jesus replies, “Do not hold on to me.” This command has been taken in all sorts of ways, many misogynistic and anti-material, but the reason given emphasizes something altogether different: “because I have not yet ascended to the Father.” 

Jesus doesn’t say “Do not hold onto me” because faith is spiritual and not bodily, or Platonic and not Stoic, but rather because his journey (which is also our journey) back to the Father is not yet complete. The story of Jesus’ life does not end with the desecration of his body—there is more. More for Jesus, to return to his Father, and more for Mary. As promised in John 16, her pain has been transformed into joy, and she is then commissioned as the apostle to the apostles, a “pillar” in the household of God.

Unlike Mark’s account, where the women at the tomb fled in fear, saying nothing to anyone (16:8), in John Mary directly goes and announces to the disciples (here called “brothers”), “I have seen the Lord” (20:18). The message of Jesus that she conveys is powerfully transformative: “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” 

Not only is the grave overcome, but so too is the fear that isolates and separates us from God and each other. No longer servants, and even more than friends (John 15:15), we are proclaimed to be brothers and sisters of Christ, fully and completely children of God. As God fashioned humanity from dust in the garden of Genesis 2, the “gardener” molds Mary’s tears and testimony to fashion a new creation in God’s family. Mary’s gospel rings as hopeful and transformative today as it did at first!

From early in life we are encouraged to make choices and develop preferences; we begin to identify our favorite toy, color, food, book, or movie.¹

In and of themselves, preferences are just that—preferences. Yet all too often these choices are recast as a hierarchy; that is, my favorite is also the best. When a value is assigned to our choices, it becomes clear that choosing favorites can be problematic.

I have seen the devastating effects of favoritism—what it can do to one’s sense of belonging and sense of being. It often creates a competition for affection or attention (even if the struggle is an internal one). The struggle is seen in classrooms and within families, but it can also be witnessed in professional settings as a worker vying for the attention of their boss.

Parents are recipients of endless advice. One of the most memorable pieces of advice I have received was from a woman who said that all of her children think they are her favorite child. What an amazing feat! To make each child feel so individually special that they feel like the favorite is the ultimate parent accomplishment. Frankly, I have adopted it as a personal goal with my own children, and I think we find this exhibited in the scriptures. As a middle child who was/is overly concerned with parity, I must admit I am comforted by the fact that God doesn’t have favorites.

The book of Acts is an epic tale of the evolution of a movement into an establishment. In this book we learn how a small group of Jesus-followers develops into “the church.” In a book that describes miracle after miracle and takes its readers on adventure after adventure, it is in these few verses that Peter declares the complete gospel: Jesus of Nazareth was anointed and chosen by God. He received the Holy Spirit, and with its power he went around doing good and healing those who were oppressed. He was put to death, dying on a tree. God raised him on the third day, and he appeared to a chosen few. Everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins.

This is the gospel! The good news of Jesus the Christ leads us into the presence of a loving and accepting God. The gospel is simple: It is the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. However, the context of Peter’s message is more complex.

Peter begins his homily by saying, “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to God.” If we read this declaration within the context of Acts 10, it becomes evident that Peter needed to be reminded that God does not play favorites.

A man in Caesarea named Cornelius, an Italian centurion, is described as devout and God-fearing (10:1–2). Based on a vision that he has received from the Lord, Cornelius summons Peter. Meanwhile, Peter was receiving a vision of his own concerning what he could and could not lawfully eat (10:9–16). Peter arrives at Cornelius’s home and informs him, “You yourself know that it is unlawful for a Jewish man to associate with or to visit an allophylo [a foreigner], but God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean” (10:28). Although this is often translated as “Gentile,” the word is best understood as “stranger” or “foreigner” or someone from another race.²

Peter did not want to associate with the foreigner, with someone who was different. However, in front of Cornelius and the family and friends that he had gathered in his home, Peter declared God to be impartial. Although Peter may have had his prejudices, God did not.

Like Peter, it seems that we, too, can lose sight of this important attribute of God—God shows no partiality. All too often I have heard Christians declare things like “Favor ain’t fair.” We Christians can too quickly deem ourselves “chosen by God” or “God’s anointed” while marginalizing others. On the surface these statements can be benign, simply descriptive; yet when they are employed to distinguish our particular group as special to the exclusion of others, we, quite frankly, miss the mark.

Likewise, when our actions reject the foreigner and the stranger, when we put our nation or our people over any other, or when we support policies that do so, we are acting outside of accordance with a God who accepts anyone who fears God and does what is right. God has no favorites.

Because God has no favorites, Peter is compelled to share the good news with Cornelius and his friends and family. Like prophets past, present, and future, Peter testifies about Jesus. It is through this testimony that those who come to believe will know that their sins are forgiven in his name. The gospel went ahead of Peter; it goes ahead of us, revealing a God who cares for us all. We join a cloud of witnesses who can declare the goodness of the Lord.

As we celebrate the most holy of our religious observances, the Resurrection of Our Lord, let us be reminded that his salvific act was for everyone. Let us remember that the path Jesus created for us brings us to the presence of a loving God who accepts us all. Let us join with the prophets and testify about the one God, and emulate Jesus by living a life in which we can be described by others as going about doing good and healing those around us because God is with us. He is not only our Lord; he is the Lord of all.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for April 21, 2019.
2. The Greek word ethnos is more commonly translated as “Gentiles” but can be rendered as “the nations.” That is not the word we find here.

Psalm 118 is the psalm of psalms for the Easter season.¹

The early church found in Psalm 118 the words of Jesus, who remembered his suffering and persecution during Holy Week and who gave thanks for deliverance from the grave on Easter.

Psalm 118 concludes a run of psalms (Psalms 113–118) known as the Egyptian Hallel (Hallel, after the word hallelujah, “Praise the Lord,” that appears prominently in these psalms and helps tie them together). These psalms were central to the Passover liturgy. Jewish tradition holds that the Israelites recited the words of the Hallel when they came out of Egypt (b. Pesahim 117a).

Themes related to the exodus (Psalm 114), including allusions to the third commandment (Exodus 20:4–6; Psalm 115:3–8), as well as references to the house of Aaron (Psalms 115:10, 12; 118:3), solidify the association with the events the festival celebrates. Psalm 118 concludes this section of psalms by giving thanks for God’s deliverance. Thus, the language of the psalm fits Passover (verses 10–14), but early Christians saw in it language and themes that spoke most directly about God’s vindication of Jesus.

All four Gospels report that the crowd at Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem recited Psalm 118:25–26 (Matthew 21:1–11; Mark 11:1–11; Luke 19:28–40; John 12:12–19). That portion of the psalm is part of the reading for Palm Sunday (Psalm 118:1–2, 19–29), and another division is a reading for the second Sunday of Easter (Psalm 118:14–29). The verses of our reading for Resurrection of Our Lord fit particularly well the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus.

One of the most difficult questions about this psalm regards its genre. What type of poem is it, and what type of occasion likely gave rise to it? Psalm 118:1–2, 14–24 contains elements of several psalm genres, each of which is appropriate for this day in the church year. The reading begins with and is dominated by thanksgiving.

The opening of the psalm has language common in thanksgiving prayers: “O give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever!” (verse 1; see also Psalm 30:4, 12). Verse 21 again expresses thanks in first-person style, like the thanks Israelites gave when they brought their thanksgiving offerings to the temple (Jeremiah 33:11). Hence, the opening verses set the tone for the lectionary reading, and for the Easter celebration, by offering thanks to God for God’s “steadfast love” (verses 1–2).

Verse 14, again in first-person style, echoes the expressions of confidence in God that appear in individual prayers for help: “The LORD is my strength and my might; he has become my salvation” (see also Psalms 3:3; 13:5). As in other such prayers, this expression of confidence assumes there was trouble in the past, but God has delivered the one who speaks. The verses prior to this one describe the trouble (verses 5–13).

The early church read all the prayers for help in first-person style as the prayers of Jesus. These psalms were especially important for understanding Jesus’ suffering and death. For example, the writers of Matthew and Mark used Psalm 22 to frame the passion narrative (see, for example, Mark 15:24/Psalm 22:18; Mark 15:34/Psalm 22:1). Early Christians likewise read numerous elements of Psalm 118 as expressions of confidence and praise for God’s salvation of Jesus from the dead.

The invitation to praise in verse 24 is like the calls to worship in hymns of praise (Psalm 100:1–2), and this element of the psalm may be most suited to Easter. Originally, the reference to “the day” likely referred to the climactic day of a festival in the Jerusalem temple. Verse 27 speaks of a procession to the altar of the temple with worshippers carrying festal branches. This reflects the practice during the Feast of Booths, in which participants cut branches as part of the celebration (Leviticus 23:40). Christians came to understand all these festive images as evocative of Jesus’ life, and “the day” became the day of resurrection, the Lord’s day.

Perhaps the most vexing question about Psalm 118 is, Who is the individual who speaks? Whose voice recalls past trouble and celebrates God’s salvation? Specifically, who professes, “The LORD is my strength and my might; he has become my salvation” (verse 14); declares, “I shall not die, but I shall live” (verse 17); and says, “I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation” (verse 21)?

Some scholars believe the king of Judah was the original voice who prayed in Psalm 118. It seems likely that the king played an important role in public worship, and that much communal worship engaged issues in the life of the king (2 Samuel 6). His appointment to office, along with his victory or defeat in battle, was a matter of prayer, concern, or celebration.

The psalm does not identify the speaker, however, and that leaves the psalm open to interpretation and to apply its words to new situations. The early church naturally connected the psalm’s prayer and claims of faith to the resurrected Jesus. The messianic reading drew from numerous parts of the psalm. Jesus was “the stone that the builders rejected” who had become “the chief cornerstone” (verse 22; Matthew 21:42; Mark 12:10; Luke 20:17; 1 Peter 2:7). His resurrection was “the day” God had made (verse 24). He was the one who came in the name of the Lord (verse 26). In these ways the psalm expounds on Jesus’ identity as the son of David (Matthew 21:9), the king of Israel (John 12:13).

Some modern readers have balked at the association of Jesus with the one who prays in Psalm 118 because it was not the psalm’s “original intent.” The connection between the psalm and Jesus, however, is not a claim that the author spoke about Jesus, as much as it is recognition that the way God provided salvation to the speaker in the psalm fits perfectly the circumstances of the risen Christ.

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for April 21, 2019.

For the joyous, celebratory day of Easter, the lectionary returns us to Paul’s letter to believers in Corinth. Remember that among them was an irritating group with an attitude of spiritual superiority (see the commentary for Maundy Thursday). The good news for us is that as Paul addresses one of the issues they raised, we get to “overhear” his reminders of the enormous impact of Jesus’ resurrection, which is the focus of all of 1 Corinthians 15. The lectionary directs our attention to the middle of his discussion.

Context: Trouble over “resurrection of the dead”

Let’s first note that Paul’s concern in this chapter is the “resurrection of the dead.” In the verses prior to today’s reading we discover Paul asserting that the Corinthians believed in Jesus’ resurrection (15:1–11). Even so, some of them claimed there was “no resurrection of the dead” (15:12), suggesting that the issue was their own resurrections. The important context to know is that in the first-century Greco-Roman world, there was little hope of life after death.¹

In such a context, some Corinthian Christ-followers may have accepted Jesus’ resurrection since he was the Son of God, but not their own. Perhaps they believed instead that Jesus’ resurrection enabled them somehow to be already resurrected spiritually, which contributed to their sense of spiritual superiority. Paul responds to them by expounding on the key importance of resurrection from the dead, his understanding of God as the one who raised Jesus from the dead, what God is doing in creation via Jesus, and what is possible for believers as a result.

Just prior to our text, Paul links Christ’s resurrection and ours. If Corinthian believers accepted that Christ is resurrected, then how can they say there is no resurrection of the dead (verse 12)? For if there’s no resurrection of the dead, then Christ can’t have been resurrected (verse 16). And if Christ isn’t resurrected, then our faith is futile, according to Paul (verse 17). Let’s be clear: Paul’s understanding of the renewal God had launched via Jesus centers on resurrection.

First fruits

Our text begins in verse 19 with Paul declaring: “If for this life only” he has hoped in Christ, then he is pitiable. That is, if the life he’s currently living is all he has, then he should be doing everything possible to prolong it rather than putting it at risk by getting into the same kind of trouble that got Jesus killed (see, for example, 2 Corinthians 4:7–12). “But now,” Paul says as verse 20 begins, “Christ has been raised from the dead,” which he’s already said the Corinthians believe. That’s not the end of the story, as some Corinthian believers may have insisted, however, because Christ wasn’t raised only for himself or only because he is God’s Son.

Instead, Christ’s resurrection is the “first fruits” of the resurrection of all of us (verse 20). In Jewish tradition, the “first fruits” of every harvest were offered to God in recognition that the whole harvest comes from God (see Exodus 23:16, 19). So the first fruits represent the whole. Jesus’ resurrection as first fruits thus affirms the coming resurrection from the dead of all of us, a point he reiterates in verses 21–22 by comparing Adam (through whom death came) and Christ (through whom resurrection came).

Resurrection as a revolutionary claim

This emphasis on resurrection from the dead for all of us because of Jesus’ resurrection was a revolutionary hope in Paul’s time, for it enabled Paul and all believers to live as those who belonged to God’s kingdom, not Caesar’s. Here’s why.

In Caesar’s empire people were ranked and evaluated according to Roman standards, creating a hierarchical order in which a privileged few ruled over everyone else. As a result, groups competed with each other for place and status in the Roman hierarchy and treated each other as adversaries, creating hatred and fear of anyone “not like us.” Rome’s interests were served since people fighting each other weren’t likely to unite to resist Roman oppression.

By contrast, in God’s realm all people are welcomed and valued as beloved children (see 1 Corinthians 12:12–13) because love is the enlivening power at work (see 1 Corinthians 13). Consequently, believers need not be concerned about superiority or inferiority, for those concepts are irrelevant in a realm where all are beloved and everyone serves as Jesus served (see the commentary on Maundy Thursday and also Mark 10:35–45).

As Jesus demonstrated, living in and belonging to God’s kingdom threatens the order created by Rome. Their greatest weapon for forcing conformity to their order was “We will kill you if you don’t.” If this life is all one has, then the threat of death is huge. No wonder that in Paul’s apocalyptic timetable, death is “the last enemy” to be destroyed (verse 26), but destroyed it will be (verses 26–28).

Thus, trust in the God who raised Christ Jesus from the dead (a favorite way for Paul to refer to God; see, for example, Romans 8:11; Galatians 1:1) and hope for resurrection enable believers to belong to God’s kingdom, live in God’s love with one another, participate in God’s renewal despite Rome’s threat, and share in the ultimate fulfillment of God’s purposes when “God will be all in all” (verse 28). While I can’t explain Paul’s poetic language precisely, I am clear that Paul would have understood God as “all in all” to include living in faith, hope, and love (see 1 Corinthians 13:13). Revolutionary vision indeed!

Some Corinthian believers, however, had not yet realized the renewal of life via God’s love and the power of the resurrection as Jesus had revealed and demonstrated for us. They continued to elevate themselves, denigrate others, and create discord, a scenario that likely sounds familiar to many of us. In our time we often treat resurrection as only relevant when we die. On this Resurrection Day, may we see more clearly Paul’s revolutionary vision of resurrection as the power that can renew our living as beloved children of God even now, and also when we die.

Notes

1. If you’re interested, see N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Fortress Press, 2003), for detailed discussion of the lack of hope for life after death in the first-century Greco-Roman world.