On Wednesday, February 28, 2001, this region suffered an earthquake of magnitude 6.8. It lasted about thirty or forty seconds. It was severe. The epicenter was in the Nisqually area northeast of Olympia. Several hundred people were injured, and one person died of a heart attack attributed to the upsetting event.
That particular day in 2001 was Ash Wednesday. I know this because I was working as the organist at Queen Anne Lutheran Church, up the hill, and we were finishing up our morning Ash Wednesday liturgy. I was standing next to a small portable organ — small by the standards of a pipe organ, that is. The hulk of pipes in their casing rose above my head. We were in a little chapel, and everyone had received Communion except me.
I told myself. “Eh, I can just go up for Communion tonight.” I stayed by the organ and did not receive the sacrament.
And then the earth shook.
I am from the Midwest. I did not know how to behave in earthquakes, and this was my first one. Someone later said to me, “You were just standing there, and you were ghostly white.” If this were an earthquake at the tomb of Jesus Christ, I would resemble the devastated guards more than anyone else. I had nothing to say. I was breathless. For a few moments, I felt closer to death than life.
Some animals are aware sooner than humans that an earthquake is coming. Your dog is a prophet, able to perceive approaching calamities: she will start to whine. Birds will suddenly take flight. Nothing seems to be happening. And then the earth shakes. Resurrection is like that. The women rise early, taking flight to see the tomb, to be there well ahead of time. But — it’s a tomb. What’s the hurry? Somehow they sensed more, somehow they knew more, than the sleeping men in their community.
Maybe — like your dog, and like the birds of the air — maybe the women can feel the slightest tremor of good news; maybe they can perceive the tiniest reason for hope. They’re keenly intelligent and highly sensitive. They get to the tomb in time for the earthquake. Then, like native Californians, they are unfazed by the shaking, even as the imperial guards fall to the ground in fear.
I wonder where you enter the scene. Are you among the wise, discerning women, up and alert because you sensed an early sign of trouble? Or are you next to me, slack-jawed and ashen, frozen in fear by everything shaking and collapsing around you? Maybe you’re still home in bed, unaware that the world is about to change, in the space of about thirty or forty seconds.
Of course the most unfazed person of all is the Risen One himself, who comes upon the faithful women and says, in what sounds like a bizarre non sequitur, “Greetings!” The original Greek doesn’t punctuate the word with a chipper exclamation mark, but there’s one in our English version. The earth shakes; the worldly powers and principalities, personified by the guards, fall unconscious to the ground; and the women, as savvy and skillful as they are, need to be told not to be afraid. And then: “Greetings!”
It seems to be such a flip, hammy, English expression. Did the risen Christ really say something so light and airy, and if so, did he have an absurd smile on his face? No. There is nothing saccharine or silly in this robust word of cheerful exhortation. It’s better to translate the Greek word as Rejoice. And it’s helpful to remember that “Rejoice” shows up in other serious places in our holy book.
Earlier in Matthew’s Gospel, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus uses the same word when he tells us that we will be reviled and persecuted on his account, and that people will say false things about us because we follow him. “Rejoice and be glad,” Jesus says at that time, “for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
“Rejoice,” Jesus says, not because terrible things are going to happen to us, but because the mission will make a difference.
It is definitely odd, this coupling of the encouraging command to “Rejoice” with bracing realism about how hard it will be to be prophets of justice in this world. But then, I doubt you would trust the Risen One if he gave you an uncomplicated announcement of good news, if he barked a glib “Greetings! Everything is great!” at you. His cheerfulness would ring hollow, what with the whole world breaking apart, with war tearing allegiances into pieces, with innocent lives perishing under the boot of injustice and oppression. We need a few answers. We need authentic hope. We need someone to make sense of the earthquakes rocking around us, someone to tell us what’s next, someone to interpret to us the meaning of all this suffering, and the way forward. We need a Savior, not a pollyanna.
That’s the great value of the strange one-word greeting of the risen Christ to the faithful women. There is not the tiniest fiber of silliness in his Easter greeting. “Rejoice” is a world-wise challenge as well as a reassuring encouragement.
With that in mind, here are a few “Rejoice” greetings to consider on this bright morning:
Rejoice, good people of God: now is when you hear the startling but wondrous news that everything you thought you knew has been disrupted, including your sad despair that all was lost.
Rejoice, good people of God: you are welcome in this faith community, where children are loved and kept safe, and where young people rise in our midst as our teachers and guides, sending us out to protect so many other children whose lives and safety are under continual threat.
Rejoice, good people of God: you are welcome in this faith community, where elders are affirmed and honored, and where we learn how to notice and care for so many other elders who live at risk of destitution and despair in an economic culture that ignores or even abuses them.
Rejoice, good people of God: now is when you search your hearts for strength to meet this moment, and discover that the Risen One rises to life within you, filling you with confidence to advocate for all in peril.
Rejoice, good people of God: now is when you join the movement that disrupts the powers of sin and death, creating even more prophetic earthquakes that topple thrones and liberate the captives.
Rejoice, good people of God: you have a mission of mercy, advocacy, and solidarity that refuses to cast aside those at our doorstep who starve for food and healthcare in this nation of preposterous wealth and atrocious inequity.
Rejoice, good people of God: we fiercely advocate for those among us who are undocumented in this time of jingoistic violence, and we are not disillusioned.
Rejoice, good people of God: you know well the sting of death and you yourselves will die, but through Jesus Christ, the firstborn of the dead, in death our lives are changed, not ended, and whether we live or die, we belong to the risen Lord.
Rejoice. Greetings! Take heart. Be of good cheer. Don’t you worry. Do not be afraid. The earthquake of resurrection routs the forces of evil, even if we can’t yet see all ends, even if it takes all of human history. The seismic disruption of our expectations fills us not only with fear, but also with bracing joy, for even now, gathered at this Easter feast, even here, on this very morning, we already have been sent on God’s mission: to proclaim to a world aching for good news that we who care for children are kneeling in service to the vulnerable; that we who honor our elders are drawing alongside all who are lonely or anxious; that we who share food and clothing with our neighbors have good news for those in need; that we who protest government oppression stand in strong solidarity with our undocumented partners in ministry, that we who weep as we bury our friends also know that in dying, Christ destroyed death, and to those in the tombs bestowed life.
In short, Rejoice, for alleluia, Christ is risen. The Lord is risen indeed, alleluia.
Preached on the Principal Mass of Easter, April 5, 2026, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Acts 10:34-43
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
Colossians 3:1-4
Matthew 28:1-10