Risen indeed

When religious dogma becomes personal experience, we are no longer the same

It is Resurrection Sunday, and once again, for the fortieth or more time I will preach the power of Love’s triumph. This central doctrine of the Christian faith — that Christ is risen — is one I have faithfully preached throughout the years, because I trust it is true. But this year I will preach it because I know it is true. My own life continues to be resurrected day by day, and I will preach more confidently today than I ever have.

After Claudia’s death in March 2025, I took a few weeks’ bereavement leave, and then decided I should return back to the pulpit on Easter Sunday. And so it was a year ago that I awakened early in my absolutely empty six-bedroom, three-and-a-half bathroom home, prepared myself for the day, stepped into my Hyundai Sonata (I could not yet bear to drive Claudia’s Kona) and drove the seventy-five minutes for the first Easter service (and the last, sadly) I would lead in that congregation.

It was the loneliest drive of my life. I had never driven to Roanoke on Sunday morning without Claudia in the car with me, and I had never preached a service in nearly thirty years in which she was not sitting somewhere near the front of the sanctuary. I knew it would be one of the most difficult Sundays of my life, but I also was convinced that if a grieving preacher could not return to the pulpit on the most glorious day of the entire Christian year, it might say something about my own faith journey.¹

As I parked my car in the yet-to-be-filled church parking lot, I anticipated the kindness and support I would receive, for I had already been bathed in the compassion of a congregation who were just getting to know Claudia and me; I had become their pastor only nine months earlier. Love’s power to redeem pain was offered to me that morning through the hugs, cheek kisses (yes, in the South women may kiss their pastors on the cheek) and shared tears of God’s people.

As the acolytes stepped forward to light candles, I followed behind them to step on to the altar area, taking my place in the pew near the pulpit. My faithful lay liturgist (she and her husband were becoming good friends of Claudia’s and mine) welcomed me, her eyes communicating welcome mixed with pain. As the choir made their way to the loft behind me there were handshakes, words of comfort and clasps to my shoulder. Love’s good work was already afoot, and minute by minute I was refueled to preach of resurrection in a moment when my soul could only trust what it could not see.

The Scriptures were read, the affirmation shared (“The Word of God for the people of God. Thanks be to God!”), and I stepped into the pulpit with shaky voice and tear-misted eyes and began to preach hope from a broken heart. I’m not even sure what I said, although I could probably access the service on the church’s very well kept website archives. (I’m not quite ready to do that yet, even a year later). But I do know that resurrection power flowed through my grief-stricken heart, preaching first to myself and then to those who were listening. Death could not conquer the glories of Resurrection’s possibility.

I am filled with such love and overwhelmed to this day by the kindness my congregation showed me. My choice to return to Minnesota and leave what would have been a delightful pastoral tenure with them was a heartbreak second only to the loss of my wife. To this day, I receive texts and Substack comments and emails from many of these people who understand what Christian community is.

I left the service and began the drive home to Lynchburg, alone with my thoughts. For the first time in many years I would not be preparing a family meal for us to share together, and for the first time I ate Easter dinner with no one else. (This was a choice I made; I had invitations from others to join their families, but I was simply not prepared to do so). If I recall correctly, I drove through Bojangle’s (IYKYK) and ordered a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit with a Diet Coke, Claudia’s favorite meal. By the time I arrived home my biscuit was consumed, my drink finished, and I crumpled the wrapper dropping it into the trash as I walked into my echoey, empty home.

That was a year ago. Just a year ago. And my life has been absolutely transformed with moments of resurrection each day since. My new, unasked-for life is not yet fully revealed (likely it will never be fully revealed until I, too, leave behind this physical shell), but the reconstruction has been breathtaking for me with its up’s and down’s. Love continually breathes into my soul that her work is not finished in my life, and I listen like never before to her whispers in my ear.

Last night Claudia visited me in a dream again. It’s been some time now since I’ve “heard from” her, and I’ve been wondering if that part of my grief journey had come to a close. As always, there were no words exchanged, and the circumstances of our “conversation” are now blurred by the passage of night into morning, but I awoke with a start, tears in my eyes. I looked at my watch: it was nearly midnight, so I eased myself back into sleep, but before slipping into dark somnolescence, I could see her smile-filled face and sparkling, intelligent blue eyes looking into mine.

Her dream presence was from my final Sunday with her more than a year ago in my pastor’s office just before worship. At the time she was being light-hearted with me, joking that she couldn’t wait “to get me home” after prodding me to preach, “Go get ‘em tiger.”

Last night it was the same, but different. I sensed her encouragement to preach with power this Easter morning, but I heard the other part differently. Her contented smile was telling me, “I can’t wait to get you Home. But not yet, you’ve got work to do.”

1. My statement carries no judgment at all for those in similar situations who make different choices. I speak here only of my own existential situation and my own response to it, based on my own convictions.