So, tomorrow is Sunday.
The Sunday after Easter Sunday.
And I’ve been thinking…..because that’s what I do. And what I’ve been thinking about is this: What should the Sunday after Easter look like?
Last week was good and right. It was good to celebrate Resurrection Sunday with my church family at Seaford Baptist. It was a very good Sunday—so good to see the church full, so good to worship together, so good to immerse ourselves in the atmosphere, the anticipation, the acknowledgement of my Jesus’ resurrection.
And it was good and right to spend the day with my crew doing Easter things, including dyeing Easter Eggs Sunday night. We had a great Easter Sunday together.
But now, it’s a week later, and it’s time to turn our minds toward corporate worship again tomorrow morning. And so I’ve found myself thinking today, asking the question “What does the Sunday after Easter look like?”
Sure, I’ve read plenty of things about how “Every Sunday is Resurrection Sunday.” And it’s true, metaphorically speaking. But what would it look like, if one were to really think that way? What would it look like if I were to really think that way?
Is the Sunday post-Easter not as important? Is it not as crucial to our understanding of what church, what resurrection, what grace and mercy and salvation and repentance and sacrifice are all about?
I don’t ask these questions to be critical of the practice of emphasizing, celebrating, focusing on the death and resurrection of Jesus on Easter Sunday. How good and right it is, to set aside that day and to hold it high in celebratory nature, reminding ourselves of what took place on the third day after that abominable Friday.
But I am asking, should tomorrow look tremendously different? I’m not talking necessarily about appearances–crowd size, Easter Dresses and new ties, etc, though there is all of that. No, I’m thinking more internally–should tomorrow look tremendously different in my own soul, in the way that I approach corporate worship?
In some ways, the answer is yes–yes it should look tremendously different. Because I do not treat each Sunday as resurrection Sunday. Not like I should. Not by a long shot. And maybe I should.
I’ve just reviewed the music for our services tomorrow—You are Holy, listing out a litany of the names of my Jesus. That’s not nothing. Lord I Run to You? (Psalm 121) 1 I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? 2 My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. Also not nothing. Will I sing these songs with the same passion as the worship music on Easter Sunday Morning?
23 Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. 24 And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, 25 not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.
What would this look like? I don’t often hold fast to the confession of my hope, without wavering. Without wavering. And do I approach worship tomorrow, looking to stir up one another to love and good works? Not neglecting to meet together with my church family, to encourage my church family all the more, as I see the Day drawing near?
I am preaching to myself, hard.