Birth

Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection. A mini-Easter moment that gives birth to something new, and transformational.

Easter is a special day here. Eight years ago, we gathered as New Church Sherman Oaks, for the very first time.
 
We had no idea what we were doing when we planted this church. But we imagined what it could grow into. And step out boldly to produce its fruit.

We didn’t have funding. But we had faith. And we had each other.
 
Since that first Easter, our little church has weathered storms, navigated uncertainties— and yes, even a global pandemic. We’re still here. Still showing up. Still holding on.

​Still daring to believe - clinging to this gentle, persistent hope that God’s quietly crafting something beautiful, even if it's beyond our seeing or understanding right now.

But that’s Easter, isn't it? That great, beautiful mystery wrapped in awe, that not even Jesus’ closest friends saw coming. In the quiet darkness, God was already at work, breaking through sorrow. Giving birth to new life.

For nearly 2,000 years, we’ve talked about this day. We’ve argued over it, debated it, and some still deny it ever happened. I can’t even imagine how many sermons Easter has inspired. Today will be my 14th attempt to make sense of how God transforms our sorrow into new life. Our reading today comes from the Gospel of Mark.

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, “Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?” When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed. But he said to them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  

Of the four gospel accounts, Mark is the only one that comes to a screeching halt. No heavenly choir, no seaside breakfast, no grand entrance shouting “Here I am!” Just an empty tomb, three bewildered women, and a powerful invitation: Go and let the others know.
 
For Mark, that’s enough. Resurrection doesn’t need fanfare. It just needs to be lived. That’s exactly what Mary, Mary, and Salome do. Before the sun rises, they make their way through the dark to prepare Jesus' body for his final burial. Finding an open tomb and no body inside, they react just like any of us might. “They fled, trembling and bewildered, and said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”
 
That’s Mark’s big finish. His story doesn’t end with clarity or certainty. But with the author pushing his pen our way as if to say, “Go and finish the story.”

 Because here’s the thing: Easter isn’t the end of the story. It’s the birth of something radically new. Resurrection is a birth announcement. A new life, a new way of living, born in the space between our messy, ordinary, sacred lives.
 
I’ve been fortunate enough to have witnessed the birth of each one of our kids. I've also been called to sit by bedsides at the end of life. Neither events are neat and tidy. They’re full of sweat and tears. Grit and groaning. Both deeply human, deeply holy. Painful in their own ways.
 
And that’s Easter – life conceived from death. Profound love born out of deep, raw anguish. It turns everything we know upside down. Leaving us to make sense of it.

This is how John Chrysostom, the great preacher of the early church, describes it: “Hell took a body, and met God face to face. It took earth and encountered heaven. It took what it saw and was overcome by what it did not see.”
 
While disciples locked themselves away in fear and despair, death desperately strained for the last word. But God spoke louder. And love won. Because, you see, in God’s kingdom, love wins every single time. This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
 
How then, do we rejoice in a world that still honors death? And perceives love as a weakness.

St. Augustine gently reminds us, “We are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song.” You see, we don’t just come together to celebrate Easter—we are called to embody it.

We are resurrection people, called out of the tombs and hidden spaces to be the good news, to quote St. Francis, “using words only when necessary.”
 
We are called to walk gently through confusion and fear, bringing the light of Christ into the darkness. That’s the call of the church. That’s Anamesa. To take what God has given to us and do likewise to one another in every space we enter.
 
My favorite 13th Century German mystic, Meister Eckhart teaches us that “We are all meant to be mothers of God… for God is always waiting to be born.”
 
Again, Easter is the birth of something new. Something holy, something beautiful, something brimming and bursting with life.

God is always waiting to be born. And we, the Church, are the midwives. A community brave enough to sit in the messiness, breathing deeply, pushing bravely, delivering love into the world that tries to destroy it.
 
I call this resurrection work. The quiet, unfinished story of God’s endless love that transforms the world around us moving us closer and closer to God’s Kingdom. This is the work we are called to do in the space between us and them, me and you, life and death.
 
You see, with every offer of love given to someone, the Easter story continues. Like Howard Thurman wrote, “There must always remain in every life some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful.”

That place, for me, is Anamesa.
 
I can’t promise you we will ever be polished or perfect, or if we’ll ever sing like angels. But in the last eight years, we’ve become a breathless and beautiful space. A place where love outshines fear. Hope overwhelms in welcome and joy.

We aren't here to fix yesterday, but to simply show up to bear witness to what God is doing now. Because Easter isn’t confined to the past. It’s unfolding right now. In you. In me. In Anamesa.

Each act of quiet kindness, gentle forgiveness, simple compassion, is Christ coming alive.Each time we feed someone who’s hungry, resurrection happens. Each time we comfort someone grieving, or listen to someone who’s hurting, or welcome someone who’s lonely Christ is born again and again. And so are we.
 
Every act of love, whether intentional or not, is a tiny resurrection – a mini-Easter moment. It gives birth to something new, and transformational.
 
Which is why I think Marks ends his gospel so abruptly. There’s no time to linger around an empty tomb. We have to go, picking up where Jesus left off, stepping into the mystery and being the presence of his awe.
 
Jesus doesn’t just call us to the cross he sends us out beyond it, into new life marked by grace and love. His destiny is our destiny. His mission, now ours. We are his body. Easter is our birth.
 
Eight years ago, we asked, “What if we built a community rooted not in doctrine, but delight? A community that isn’t seeking power, but presence? One that’s not about perfection, but people?”
 
Today, we affirm it’s possible. We are building a community of love in the space between. It’s happening here. Right now. Every time we show up in awe…trusting love…becoming midwives of resurrection.
 
So let’s not tame this Easter story. Or rush past the trembling and tears. Instead, let's live joyously, fearlessly, knowing the tomb is empty. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. Over and over again, in all that we do.
 
This is the day the Lord has made. Life endures. Hope prevails. Love wins. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.