It’s not Easter time, so no this post has no particular liturgical significance. I don’t plan on writing a long post on recent theological musings, thoughts or things I’ve read or had discussions about.
This post is to speak to something I think is far more profound, and deeply more important. Jesus lives. This simple proclamation says so much, but far too often in my own life I don’t move in the world as though Jesus lives. I confess it creedally, I confess it in song, I confess it in prayer, and theologically. But that Jesus lives is often distant, a theological principle and idea, rather than a vibrant reality that turns the world–and me–upside down.
Jesus lives. No, really, He’s alive. He’s not dead anymore, and I don’t mean that in some esoteric super nifty secret Gnostic way either. Jesus lives.
Yeah, that Jesus. Not some “cosmic Christ” or spiritual entity. That guy whose mom was named Mary, yeah, that’s the one. He’s who I’m taking about. He’s alive, He died, but then He stopped being dead, and He’s alive. In fact He’s so alive that He killed death. You heard me, He killed death. He’s not dead, death is dead.
I just thought it was important enough to bear repeating.
