Easter Sunday
Alleluia! Christ is risen!
Easter Sunday: The Wild Messiah Walks Among the Wounded
Night does not leave all at once.
It lingers on the streets,
in hospital corridors,
in the smoke
that still hangs over cities at war.
The world wakes bruised.
Sirens somewhere far off.
A helicopter circling above sleeping roofs.
A man pulling a thin blanket tighter
in the church porch.
Empire still stands.
Missiles still tear the dark apart.
Children still wake
to the sound of walls giving way.
Mothers still wait
for footsteps that will not come.
And yet—
morning.
Not bright.
Not all at once.
Just a line of light
slipping under the door of the world.
The women come early.
Too early for certainty.
Too early for anything except love.
Spices in their hands.
Friday still in their bones.
They come to where hope was buried.
A garden.
A stone.
And the stone—moved.
Not shattered.
Just moved.
As if death itself has been told:
step aside.
Inside—
linen.
Cold rock.
Empty space.
An opening
where there should have been
an ending.
Death could not hold the Wild Messiah.
No tomb could cage that fierce mercy.
No empire could keep love underground.
The wild one rises.
Still bearing Friday in his hands.
Still marked by nails.
Still wounded.
The risen one is still the crucified one.
Nothing erased. Nothing denied.
The wounds remain.
And somehow they shine.
The torn side a doorway.
The scars where light gets in.
This is Easter.
Not the denial of grief.
Not the lie that the world is mended.
The world is not mended.
The bombs still fall.
The markets still open.
The poor still wait.
The earth still groans.
And yet—
violence did not
and will not
have the last word.
Not the bomb.
Not the grave.
Not the empire.
Love speaks last.
Mercy speaks last.
Morning speaks last.
The future has slipped into the present—
like dawn through cracked glass,
like green shoots through broken concrete,
like breath returning to lungs
that had forgotten how to hope.
The Wild Goose moves again.
Low over the waters.
Over chaos.
Over ruins.
Over a Church still wounded,
still tired,
still beloved.
Let hope indwell our wounded body.
Let it make a home
in our scars,
in our trembling hands,
in our cracked voices,
in our bread and our tears.
Church—go now.
To the ward.
The prison.
The shelter.
The street corner.
The grieving kitchen.
The camp.
The places that still smell of death.
Carry morning there.
Carry bread.
Carry mercy.
Carry the dangerous news
that another world
is already breaking in.
The world is still broken.
And still—
the bells ring out.
Let them ring over roof
tops and tower blocks,
over sirens and sorrow,
over hospital wards and prison cells,
over streets still wet with grief.
Alleluia.
He is risen.
The Wild Messiah walks among the wounded.
And violence will not have the last word.
Amen.
And amen again.
Rev’d Jon Swales