Leonard Sweet writes that Easter gives us the ability to see the world differently. Not to deny its brokenness — but to refuse to let the brokenness have the last word.

He puts it this way. Because of the resurrection, Christians can expectantly dream:

- of abundance, even in the midst of poverty. 

- of compassion, even in the midst of divisiveness. 

- of justice, even in the midst of inequity. 

- of love, even in the midst of hate.

I keep coming back to that word — dream. Because our dreams shape us. They tell us where we're headed, what we're living for, what we believe is actually possible. If we have no dreams, life goes flat. If our dreams are only about ourselves, life goes small. But if our dreams are rooted in the promise of Easter — that God can and does turn despair to hope, hatred to love, death to life — then everything opens up.

A few years ago I asked my congregation to share their Easter dreams. Here is what some of them said:

That my family would continue their journey of faith even after I am gone.

That we would find a way to address systemic poverty and racism.

That God would heal my children from the pain they carry.

That our nation would be healed from hatred. That we would experience revival.

That I would practice humility in all things — and that God would remove whatever pride gets in the way.

Peace. Inner peace. Peace among all people.

Those are bold dreams. But then again, Easter is a bold claim.

It is the claim that the same Power that raised Jesus from the dead is still at work. In you. In the church. In the world. Right now.

That's not wishful thinking. That's the ground we stand on.

So — what is your Easter dream?

Prayer: God of new and abundant life, may the power of the Risen Christ work in us and through us — to bring about what we cannot bring about on our own. To make real what we can only, for now, dream. In his name we pray. Amen.

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Today’s message was written by Rev. Roger Kunkel.

Friend of Dial Hope, do you sometimes feel like your problems are so overwhelming that you can barely keep your head above water? In the Bible, God tells you to cast "all your care upon him," knowing he cares for you. (1 Peter 5:7) 

One of the most dramatic examples in the Bible of casting yourself upon God is Peter's attempt to walk on water. It was liquid pavement beneath his feet. When Jesus bid Peter to come to him, Peter quickly stepped out of the boat and, with his eyes on the Lord, he began to walk. But then he looked around at the heavy seas. Terrified, he began to sink. "Save me, Lord!" he shouted. Immediately, Jesus was beside Peter. And, arm in arm, they walked on the water to the boat. Like Peter, if you get your eyes off your source and onto your impossible situation, you're sunk. But, if you keep your eyes on Jesus and walk arm in arm with him, you'll be safe...because Jesus specializes in meeting human needs. Whatever is over your head in the way of problems is already under his feet. It's in his control! Remember: "Cast all your anxiety, your care on him, because he cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7) 

Prayer: God of love, who came into the world clothed in our garment of flesh and who willingly gave yourself to the cross, clothe us in your Spirit that persons will recognize you in us and receive your great gift of unconditional love and amazing grace. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Holy Saturday is a strange and often overlooked day.

Not the devastation of Good Friday. Not the joy of Easter. Just… the day in between. The waiting. The silence. The not yet.

I think it may be the most honest day in the Christian calendar. Because most of us know what it feels like to live in between. Between the diagnosis and the outcome. Between the loss and the healing. Between the way things were and whatever comes next. Between the darkness and the dawn we are not yet sure is coming.

The disciples didn't know what we know. They had no idea what Sunday morning would bring. They were simply in the grief. In the silence. In the wreckage of everything they had believed and hoped for.

And yet.

Even on that day — in the stillness, in the darkness, in the sealed tomb — something was already at work that no one could see. The story was not over. The last word had not yet been spoken.

It never is.

That is the quiet, stubborn promise of Holy Saturday. Not yet joy — but not without hope. The darkness is real. And so is the dawn that is coming.

Prayer: God of Hope, meet us in the in-between places today. Where we are waiting, give us patience. Where we are grieving, give us comfort. Where we have lost our way, remind us that the story is not over. May we trust, even in the deepest part of the night, that the morning is coming. In Jesus' name. Amen.

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There is a story I have carried with me for a long time.

The physician Richard Selzer wrote about standing at the bedside of a young woman after surgery. To remove a tumor from her cheek, he had to cut a small nerve. Her mouth would be twisted from that day forward. Her husband was in the room.

Selzer watched them together in the lamplight — the way they looked at each other, the way they touched. And then the young woman asked the question that was really the only question: Will my mouth always be like this?

Yes, Selzer told her. The nerve was cut.

Her husband smiled. "I like it," he said. "Kind of cute."

And then he bent down and kissed her. And Selzer noticed — he was close enough to see — that the young man twisted his own lips to meet hers. To show her that their kiss still worked.

I don't know a better picture of what love actually looks like.

Not love as sentiment. Not love as feeling. But love as a choice to bend toward another person — whatever it costs — and say: I'm not going anywhere.

On the night he was betrayed, Jesus gathered with his closest friends. He knew what was coming. And what did he do? He got down on his knees and washed their feet. He took the bread and broke it. He took the cup and poured it. He said: This is my body, given for you.

This is what love looks like. This love is not just spoken—it is lived, given, and poured out.

Later, Jesus said to them: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

Not: I will be with you when you have it together. Not: I will be with you when you deserve it. Always. To the end.

This is the love at the heart of this day. A love that bends toward us — whatever it costs — and refuses to let go.

Prayer: Loving God, we thank you that we don't have to earn your love. That there is nothing in life or death that can separate us from you. We think today of those who are in really hard places — who need to know you have not forgotten them. Surround each of us with your grace. And may we know, right here and right now, that you are with us. Through Christ, who gave himself for us. Amen.

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Years ago, at First Presbyterian Church in Sarasota, we would occasionally celebrate a Passover Seder together as a congregation. A dear friend of mine, Cy Wofsy, who was Jewish, would help me lead it. It was one of the most meaningful things we did all year.

What Cy helped us see was something easy to miss: that the Last Supper — the night Jesus gathered with his disciples before he was arrested — was itself a Passover Seder. Jesus was not creating something entirely new that night. He was standing inside a story his people had been telling for over a thousand years. And he was saying: this story is about me. And now it is about you.

The connections between Passover and communion run deep — too many to trace here. But one thread connects them both at the root.

Remember.

In both, the people of God are invited not merely to know what happened, but to enact it. To tell the story again. To sing the songs. To say the prayers. To taste the bread and the cup and let the body remember what the mind sometimes forgets.

There is profound wisdom in this. Because in the hardest moments of life — when we are frightened, or grieving, or lost — it is easy to forget. To lose the thread. To wonder whether God has been present at all.

And the ritual says: look back. Remember how you got here. Remember who has carried you.

The story of God's faithfulness does not begin today. It stretches back further than we can see. And we are standing inside it.

Prayer: Holy God, on this night we remember. We remember the Passover — your people delivered from bondage, carried through the wilderness, brought home. We remember Jesus at the table with his friends, taking the bread and the cup and giving himself. We remember the ways you have carried us through our own hard places — though we do not always stop to name them. Today we name them. We are grateful. And we trust that the grace that has carried us this far will carry us still. Amen.

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