Easter Day - April 20, 2025

Easter Day

Acts 10:34–43

The Rev’d Charles Everson

Church of the Atonement, Chicago

April 20, 2025

You may be here this morning with family, or out of habit, or because something deep within you whispered, “Go.” Perhaps you’re uncertain what you believe, or you’re aching for something greater than yourself. If that’s you, you are in the right place.

Perhaps it has been some time. Perhaps you have been wounded by the Church, or wearied by the world. Or perhaps you have never set foot in a place like this before, and something—a memory, a longing, a nagging grandmother—drew you here.

Whatever the reason, I am so very glad you came. You are welcome here—not merely tolerated, not politely humored, but truly welcome.

So here we are, each of us carrying whatever measure of faith—or doubt—we hold. And the Church, in her wisdom, gathers us together and places on our lips the ancient proclamation that has outlasted every empire and broken through every silence: Christ is risen. And that changes everything.

In our first reading this morning, we encounter the apostle Peter standing in the home of a man named Cornelius. Cornelius is a Roman centurion—not a Jew, not someone anyone would have expected to host Peter, the first among the disciples. He is a Gentile. In Peter’s world, Cornelius stands firmly outside the covenant—ritually impure, spiritually suspect.

And yet, the Holy Spirit sends Peter directly to his door.

When Peter opens his mouth, he begins not with triumph but with confession: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality.”

That might not sound particularly radical to us, but for Peter—a faithful, observant Jew—this was a seismic shift. He had been shaped by a worldview with clearly marked boundaries: clean and unclean, insider and outsider. Suddenly, the Holy Spirit disrupts that framework. Peter realizes he is witnessing something far larger than his categories could contain: God is not bound by our distinctions. God shows no partiality.

Peter goes on: “In every nation, anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to him.” And then he tells the story the Church proclaims on Easter Day: Jesus Christ, anointed with the Holy Spirit and power, who went about doing good, healing and restoring; who was put to death; and whom God raised on the third day.

And then he says it plainly: “He is Lord of all.” Not Lord of the devout. Not Lord of the doctrinally sound or the socially acceptable. Not Lord of the straight or the sober or the neatly put-together. He is Lord of all.

Friends, I do not need to tell you that the world is heavy. We live in a time of deep division, injustice that seems insurmountable, violence that repeats itself, and systems that grind the vulnerable down. Hope can feel naïve, even foolish. But Easter does not deny the darkness—it declares that light has entered into it. The resurrection does not erase suffering; it speaks into it and says: This is not the end.

This is the scandal of Easter: the risen Jesus is not content to remain with the faithful few. The stone was not rolled away to keep the curious out—it was rolled away so that God’s grace might pour forth into the world.

What does this mean for us, gathered here in the beauty of holiness on this Easter morning?

It means you do not need to audition for God’s love. You do not need to pretend. You do not need to arrive here with a faith that is polished and complete. You can bring your grief, your mess, your fear, your questions. You can bring your whole self.

You might be recently divorced, or battling depression. You might be queer, or questioning. You might feel distant from God. And perhaps you arrived today with nothing more than a whisper: “Please, God… let this mean something.”

That kind of whisper—that ache for something real—is one I’ve known myself. When I was a teenager, growing up Southern Baptist in Texas, I was taught that faith was mostly about certainty and control. Memorizing Bible verses was practically a rite of passage. We were taught that Scripture was a kind of spiritual weapon: if temptation came, you quoted the right verse, and it would all go away. It was neat and tidy.

But life does not work that way. Temptation does not dissolve on command. Pain does not vanish with a slogan. Grace, I have come to learn, is not a transaction.

What Peter discovers at Cornelius’s house—and what I’ve come to believe—is that God’s love is not a reward for good behavior. It is a free gift that arrives where we least expect it, not because we have earned it, but because we need it.

The Resurrection of Jesus from the dead is not simply a doctrine to be believed or a holiday to be marked. It is an invitation. An open door. It is the assurance that no one is beyond the reach of God’s grace.

Peter says, “We are witnesses.” Witnesses to what? To a man who was dead and is now alive. To a Savior who bore our wounds and still bears them. To a love that reaches into Roman households, into Galilean fishing boats, and into Chicago church pews—and says, “You belong.”

Peter also says: “We ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead.”

The risen Jesus does not merely appear and vanish. He eats. He drinks. He blesses bread. He breaks it for the hungry. He sits at the table with friends. And he does the same today. In the bread and wine of this Eucharist, Jesus Christ comes among us—not as reward for the righteous, but as food for the journey.

Here at this altar, there is no partiality. No spiritual résumé required. No hierarchy of holiness. All we bring is our hunger. The Church does not distribute gold stars for good behavior. We distribute grace. We distribute Jesus. And Jesus, thank God, does not show partiality.

So come. Come with your doubts and your longing. Come if you are weary or grieving. Come if you are joyful or uncertain or quietly desperate. Come if your life feels joyful like Easter morning, and come if it still feels like the pain and despair of Good Friday. You do not have to have it all together. You just have to be hungry.

And if you are not baptized, please speak with me after the service. I would be honored to walk with you—to answer your questions, to pray with you, to welcome you into the household of God through the waters of baptism. And if you’ve been baptized and are unsure whether you should receive communion, the same invitation applies: please come speak with me after the service, and we can schedule time to talk.

If you have ever been made to feel unwelcome in the Church—because of your identity, your doubts, your wounds—I want to say this plainly: I am sorry. That is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And it is not who we are at the Church of the Atonement.

Today, dear friends, we proclaim a Savior who died with arms outstretched and rose with the scars still visible. A Savior who returns to us again and again, not to chastise, but to feed. To heal. And to send us out in love.

The tomb stands empty, not only as a sign of what happened, but of what is still unfolding. The Risen Christ walks beside you—even now—and nothing in heaven or on earth can separate you from his love.  Amen.