Easter Message 2025

I struggle with Easter. I always have, at least since I became a pastor. It’s not the bonnets, or the chocolate eggs, or even the plastic ones. I’m pro-bonnet, pro-patent leather, and pro-seersucker. Honestly, after living in Dallas, I affirm all of that. 

Despite the prices this year, I’m still pro-egg—chocolate, hunted, rolled, or deviled. All the eggs, I’m fine with them. And if dyeing potatoes or marshmallows saves a buck or two, well, I’m all for that too.

I’m pro-tulip, pro-daffodil, and I’m fine with Easter lilies—though I do find them a bit aggressive, like Red Bull, or trumpets, or Texas fans. I’m pro-bunnies, rabbits, chicks, and ducks. Heck, I’m even pro the sweet infusion of the pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon Spring Goddess Oestra/Ēostre/Ôstara into this whole day, because there’s always room for a little more feminine divine in Christianity and eggs and bunnies really are a great metaphor for this holy day. 

But I struggle with Easter. Not because of the symbols or the tradition—but because of the theology this holy day invites. Easter brings us face-to-face with something both beautiful and staggering. It’s the worst of Christian history laid bare. It’s this incredible story of Easter’s Resurrection, and yet we’re often fixated on the violent suffering of Good Friday.

The folks who followed Jesus had every reason to fixate on crucifixion, but they did not. 

The people who followed Jesus—people who loved him—had walked with him, worked with him, and learned from him. They knew about crucifixion but they told the stories of Jesus breaking bread, confronting religious and political leaders, bringing healing and inviting whole hillsides of people to share. And then, they watched their beloved friend die at the hands of the Roman Empire. They must have felt such despair—how could this happen to such a just and good man, killed without due process, without mercy, in a sham trial? What could they have done? They were left in a state of grief, fear, and utter hopelessness—just as Rome intended with this public execution.

And yet... it doesn’t work. They witnessed death, but they began to speak of life—abundant life…For Everyone. They witnessed death, but they see Jesus everywhere. They faced the trauma, pain, and grief of Crucifixion and yet they preach Resurrection. 

So why can’t we?

We love suffering and fixate on the violent and gruesome death. There are churches that will tell the story of Jesus alone at the table, there are famous reenactments, bloody statues, paintings with faces contorted in pain, there is a history of self-harm in medieval monasticism; and all of that was way before Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ. 

We love suffering and violence so much, it’s like we’ve objectified it—commodified it, sensationalized it, even marketed it. We’ve packaged the pain of the cross, made it beautiful and gold; stripped it of its complexity, and turned it into a spectacle. Into performance. It’s gross. And it’s weird. It’s like we’re watching the death and resurrection of Jesus—but not really witnessing it. Not really letting it change us.

This year, Donald Trump shared a Holy Week message. That’s right—Donald Trump wrote you and me a note about Easter. The same man is surrounded by gold-cross-wearing Christians who defend his blatant disregard for due process, for basic decency, and who treat the act of sending people to a notorious prison camp in El Salvador as essential to making us safer. The same man who eagerly slashed public health, medical research, and social support for the most vulnerable—both here at home and around the world. The dealmaker who belittles, dehumanizes, and traffics in hate, sowing division wherever he goes. The man who cares so much about families celebrating Easter that he demands 30,000 real eggs for an Easter party, while families across the country face shortages and rising prices. That man—the very embodiment of what is broken in American Christianity—wrote an Easter message.

He is not the first U.S. president to issue such a message. In 1996, Bill Clinton wrote: “In this age of great challenge and even greater possibility, Easter's timeless message strengthens us for the tasks before us. As we celebrate in churches and cathedrals, at sunrise services and in family gatherings, we remember that our lives have great purpose and value. We recognize that the life and words of Jesus call us to works of caring and compassion.” 

In 2003, George W. Bush closed his Easter message with this plea: “This Easter season, join me in praying for peace, wisdom, and resolve. During this holy time, may Christ’s example of love and sacrifice compel us towards justice and compassion, and renew us with an assurance of hope and everlasting joy.”

Trump, rather than calling us to compassion or justice—as his predecessors once did—used his Holy Week platform to praise his own victories. At White House gatherings, he gave himself glowing reviews for "defending Christianity from the woke." And his official Easter message? It hardly reads as his own. At one point, he references the “Paschal Triduum”—a phrase I had to look up —a phrase so out of place, it reads more like a staffer using AI trying to prove he knows something about the faith he's claimed to defend.

He goes on to explore Jesus more through the lens of suffering than any other message from any other president. “During this sacred week, we acknowledge that the glory of Easter Sunday cannot come without the sacrifice Jesus Christ made on the cross.  In His final hours on Earth, Christ willingly endured excruciating pain, torture, and execution on the cross out of a deep and abiding love for all His creation.  Through His suffering, we have redemption.  Through His death, we are forgiven of our sins…This Holy Week, my Administration renews its promise to defend the Christian faith in our schools, military, workplaces, hospitals, and halls of government.  We will never waver in safeguarding the right to religious liberty, upholding the dignity of life, and protecting God in our public square.”

Trump is not the first leader to speak of Christ’s suffering while inflicting suffering on others. He is not the first to invoke the Crucifixion while creating crosses for others to bear.

Three hundred years after Jesus’ death, Constantine fought in Jesus’ name, won a war, and then made it legal to be Christian. He even joined the movement himself.

Four hundred years after Jesus’ death, Augustine—wrestling with his own struggles—wrote the doctrine of Original Sin, defining humanity through the lens of brokenness. In his theology, Christ’s suffering became necessary for reconciliation with God. Atonement—“at-one-ment” with God—shifted from baptism and belonging to suffering, and not just any suffering, but Christ suffering in our place.

A hundred years after that, men would gather in a church council in southern France to debate this doctrine—and while they were at it, they banned women’s leadership and ordination.

Eight hundred years after Jesus’ death, Charlemagne was crowned Holy Roman Emperor. In his cathedral in Aachen, Germany, Christ is depicted enthroned—just above Charlemagne’s own throne. The chairs are almost identical, “twinsies,” you might say. Like other Germanic and Celtic rulers, Charlemagne was offered Christianity as a tool for empire, a divine seal for earthly power. Priests who supported this arrangement were rewarded. Those who resisted? Silenced. Charlemagne conquered cities in the name of Christ, demanding conversion—or execution. In one city alone, he beheaded 800 people in Jesus’ name. Suddenly, the suffering of Christ became holy because others suffered, too.

In 1095, Pope Urban II called for the First Crusade. Europe’s Christians were fighting one another, and the Pope saw an opportunity. He preached:

“Let those who are accustomed to wantonly wage private war against the faithful march upon the infidels.  Let those who have long been robbers now be soldiers of Christ.  Let those who have been hirelings for a few pieces of silver attain an eternal reward.  Let nothing delay those who are willing to go!” (- “A Reading from Pope Urban’s Sermon and Deeds of the Franks and Other Pilgrims”, From Saving Paradise by Rita Nakashima Brock.) And so they went—destroying Jewish communities across Europe, killing one-third of the Jewish population before even reaching the Holy Land. Christ’s suffering now justified the suffering of others. Homicide became malacide—the killing of evil. When the Crusaders finally reached Jerusalem, they sacked the city on Good Friday. They wrote, with pride, that the streets ran red with blood, ankle-deep. They relished every detail. Maybe by repeating it over and over, it started to feel righteous. It wasn’t a sin, they believed—it was a sacrament.

And now, 2025 years after Jesus’ death, we find ourselves here:
Christians choosing guns over school safety. Choosing to mandate Ten Commandment posters rather than pay for school lunches. Cutting diversity, equity, and inclusion programs across universities and institutions—and calling that justice. Preaching that these policies, these cuts, this disregard for due process are somehow for the greater good. We are living through an epidemic of white Christian nationalism, and this Easter, it feels like we are once again surrounded by crucifixions.

And so—we gather to do the only thing we can do: 

We look for resurrection.

See I believe Easter happens because of practice. Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb, in her grief and loss but then she hears her name in a voice of love and she sees Christ. Walking to Emmaus, the disciples welcome a stranger to walk alongside, they invite him in for a meal (just like they learned from Jesus and then the stranger breaks the bread and they see Christ. They see him and feel him, perhaps from deep within. And they can see him because they have practiced looking for resurrection with him. They have walked alongside Jesus, day by day and surely saw the worst of humanity but they also saw bright shining moments of love. 

They saw a bent-over woman stand up. They saw a woman, hemorrhaging and excluded, healed and brought back into her community. They saw a man, tormented by a legion of demons, sitting clothed and in his right mind. Even Mary Magdalene—faithful, fierce—worked through seven demons of her own.

Now, we may not use the word demons today. We may not practice healing the same way. But we do know what it means to do the self-work—to heal from ego, from hidden agendas, from trauma, from mental and physical pain.

They saw grief and hunger, pain and loss. And they saw Jesus respond by gathering thousands and helping them share what little food they had. They saw him eat with tax collectors and so-called sinners. They saw Zacchaeus, the wee little, very rich man, give away half of everything he owned—and if that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

So we gather—to tell these stories and to write our own. We gather each week to practice looking for life. That’s what makes us Easter people.
We gather to learn each other’s names and faces, to know who we can call when we need help, to be present and sensitive to the weight of the world.
We gather to be filled with purpose instead of despair. We gather to practice seeing new life emerge—and to become a part of it.

We can see resurrection in park rangers, in filibusters, in whistleblowers.
We see it in those who provide emergency contraception and healthcare supplies. We see it in the lawyers who take the hard cases, and in the teachers who turn ICE away. We see it when people gather to make posters and crafts and community. We saw it in Montana’s refusal to pass an anti-trans bathroom ban. We see it right here, in our own little blue dot. We see it in New Mexico’s commitment to universal childcare—not because the economy is thriving, but because it’s right and good.

We tell the stories of resurrection—and we live into new ones.
We gather so we are not alone.

We are an Easter faith in a world that loves crucifixion.

Jesus did not die for human sinfulness—he died because of it.
He died so we might bear witness and end crucifixions—not create more of them.

Easter says no.
No to death-dealing, power-hungry oppressors.
And yes—yes to life, and life abundant, for all.

So we must claim it.
We must look for new life—and be part of it.
May we have the courage.

Amen.