Two kinds of time run through this Gospel. Chronos, which counts every loss and draws its conclusions. And kairos, which speaks the word of the risen Christ into the middle of those losses and names them for what they are: labor pains, not graves.
The Bridegroom gives you new wineskins. He gave them to you at the font, where He drowned the old garment and clothed you in His own. The robe you wear before God is His obedience, His death, His resurrection. He does not repair what you bring. He replaces it. This is the grace that cannot be patched onto anything — it must be received whole, given whole, or it is lost.
The hireling runs. That is the only fact Jesus gives you about him. He sees the wolf coming, and he runs. The sheep scatter, the wolf takes what it wants, and the hireling is already down the road. Jesus does not tell you the hireling’s reasons. He does not need to. The man ran. That is his whole character, stated in a single act. Set that figure next to the Good Shepherd, and you have the entirety of the Gospel for this Sunday: He stayed.
You want joy without the terror of standing before the God who raises the dead. Or you settle for dread with no hope of mercy. The women leave the tomb with both, and Matthew does not apologize. He tells you: this is what the resurrection does. It gives you fear and joy together, because the One you meet at the empty tomb is both Judge and Savior, both Holy God and your Brother.
Faith is born from the breath of God. The pneuma of Christ fills us. We live. We believe. We are blessed, because we have not seen and yet we have believed. The Spirit has breathed. The word has raised us. We stand. We confess. We live in His name.
The risen Christ opens what we cannot. Christ opens Scripture. He opens understanding. He opens His hands and His feet to show the wounds. He opens His mouth to eat broiled fish. Through all this opening—this unveiling, this unlocking—He opens heaven itself and seats us there with Him. We cannot open our own eyes to see Him. We cannot unlock the meaning of Scripture on our own. We cannot break down the door that separates earth from glory. The risen Lamb who was slain has won the keys, and He opens what no man can shut.
This is the day the Lord has made. This is the day death lost its grip. This is the day the storm of God’s wrath was stilled. This is the day the Father raised Christ, the new Jonah, from the grave to preach repentance and forgiveness to you. He is risen! He is not here! See the place where they laid Him. It is empty, because He is alive, and because He is alive, you will live also.
The tomb is empty. Christ is risen. He has called you by name. He has reconciled you to Himself and to one another. His Father is your Father. His God is your God. And in His presence there is fullness of joy forevermore.
John lays the old story of David over the Passion like one transparency laid on another, so that you see the pattern. The parallels are deliberate. Absalom gathered Israel against its rightful king, stealing the hearts of the people. The chief priests and the Pharisees did the same — they turned the crowds against the One whom the Father had anointed. Absalom’s rebellion was the rebellion of a son against his father. The Passion is the rebellion of the creature against the Creator, of the children of Israel against the God who had carried them out of Egypt in His arms.
You are here this afternoon because the Holy Spirit has not finished building. He still calls by the Gospel. He still places stones. The cornerstone holds. The building rises. The Church endures — not by your effort, not by any human strategy, not by the wisdom of her architects — but by the blood of the Lamb laid into the earth’s foundation, and raised again on the third day.
