"Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road,
while he was opening the scriptures to us?" – Luke 24:32

The lilies are still blooming, the hallelujahs are still fresh on our lips, but life begins to settle on Easter Tuesday. The resurrection has come and gone in liturgical time, but the story is still unfolding in our personal lives. What do we do with resurrection when the confetti is swept up and Monday’s routine returns with anxieties and obligations?

This is where trust steps in.

Trusting God in the days after the miracle is one of the significant spiritual challenges of the faithful. Easter Tuesday invites us into the holy tension of believing before seeing, walking while wondering, and trusting when life still resembles Saturday’s silence.

The story in Luke 24 tells of two disciples walking to Emmaus. It’s a day like today—after the resurrection, after the angelic announcements, after the women had told what they saw. And yet, these two are walking in confusion, sadness, and disbelief. They had hoped, they said, that Jesus was the one. Now, hope was buried.

They are us.

Easter doesn’t always eliminate our doubts. Sometimes resurrection comes so unexpectedly that we don’t recognize it at first. Jesus meets them on the road, not at the temple, not in a blaze of glory, but in the dust of their disappointment. And he walks with them. That’s the heart of trust: walking even when unsure, because Jesus is near, even if unrecognized.

One of the hardest things to admit as people of faith is that sometimes, we don’t understand what God is doing. We know the promises. We’ve read the scriptures. And yet, the timing or the outcome doesn’t make sense.

The Emmaus travelers didn’t know they were walking with the risen Christ until he broke bread with them. Only then were their eyes open.

We may not see clearly, but God is still at work. Easter Tuesday is the invitation to keep walking. Trusting. Listening. Even in confusion, because understanding often follows obedience.

Let’s be honest. Trusting God doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine.
 
The beauty of Easter is not in the absence of pain, but in its transformation.

What if today you offered God your fears, questions, anger, and even silence—not to be shamed, but to be held? That, too, is trust.

Trusting God is not just a mindset; it’s a practice. Jesus doesn’t rush the Emmaus travelers. He walks at their pace.
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Let that be a word for you, too. You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t need to understand everything. Your job is walking. Jesus will meet you there.

In the stillness of this early hour—not unlike Mary Magdalene did that first Easter morning--while it was still dark. The world had not yet awakened. The birds had not yet begun to sing. The shadows still clung to the earth. It was in that darkness that Mary made her way to the tomb.

And what did she expect to find? A sealed grave. A still body. More sorrow. Like many of us, she carried grief. Like many of us, she went looking for something that made sense in a world that had stopped making sense. Jesus, her Teacher, her Lord, had died. All hope seemed lost.

But—praise God—Easter doesn’t wait for the sun to rise. Resurrection power doesn’t wait for everything to be perfect or well-lit. God moves in the dark. It was in the darkness that the stone was already rolled away. It was in the shadows that death was defeated. Jesus had already risen.

By the time Mary reached the tomb, the miracle had already happened.
And that’s the message for us today. Sometimes, while we are still in our darkest moments… God is already at work. Before we understand it, before we even pray for it, Jesus is alive. Victory is already ours—even if we’re still weeping at the tomb.

This morning, as light slowly pushes back the night, we are reminded: the dawn always comes. Christ’s resurrection is not just a historical event; it is a present power. A living promise. Because Jesus lives, our sins are forgiven. Because Jesus lives, death has lost its sting. Because Jesus lives, we can rise—with hope, with courage, with joy.

So, come out of the shadows. Come with your doubts, your fear, your tired heart. The tomb is empty. Christ is risen. He calls us by name, just as He did Mary. He is not behind us in the grave. He is ahead of us in glory.

Let us walk forward into the light, into this new day, and into resurrection life.
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Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Thirteen friends gather for dinner. The atmosphere is intimate, maybe a little tense. They’ve been through so much together—miracles, storms, crowds, confrontations. Now, as they sit down to share a meal, something unexpected happens.
The guest of honor—Jesus—gets up from the table.
He kneels.
He pours water into a basin.
And he begins washing their feet.
Can you imagine that today? Picture a president or a CEO dropping to their knees to scrub dirty feet. It feels almost absurd. But that’s exactly the point.

The Night We RememberMaundy Thursday calls us back to that Upper Room. We remember three powerful movements from that night:

• The washing of the disciples' feet
• The breaking of the bread (Holy Communion)
• The new commandment: "Love one another."
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It’s easy to rush past the foot washing as some ancient custom. But it was deeply practical—and deeply humiliating. In the first century, feet weren’t just dirty. They were disgusting, caked with mud and manure. Foot washing was reserved for slaves.
No slave was present that night.
No servant waiting at the door.
So Jesus—the Son of God—picks up the towel.
And while the disciples are arguing about who among them is the greatest, Jesus interrupts their chest-thumping with an act of radical humility.

More Than Dirty FeetJohn’s Gospel, full of layers and meaning, wants us to see that the foot washing is not just about cleanliness. It’s about incarnation—God stooping down into the dirt of the world to lift us up.
Every move Jesus makes that night tells a deeper story:

• He gets up from the table—leaving the heavenly feast.
• He lays aside his robe—setting aside divine glory.
• He wraps a towel around his waist—taking on the form of a servant.
• He washes their feet—bringing humanity face-to-face with grace.
• He puts the robe back on and returns to the table—signifying his coming resurrection.

Jesus knew his hour had come.
Three days later, he would be nailed to a cross.
Yet that night, he chose to demonstrate love with basin and towel.
"He loved them to the end." (John 13:1)

The Kingdom Starts LowAfterward, Jesus says something shocking:
“I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” (John 13:15)
In other words: Get low. Serve one another. Love without limits.
The world tells us to climb higher—to chase recognition, status, power.
Jesus invites us to step lower—to seek brokenness, service, humility.
This is what real love looks like:
It’s not performative.
It’s not self-protective.
It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sacred.
This is love at ground level.

How We RememberMaundy Thursday invites us not just to remember with our minds but to step into the story with our bodies.
Think about your most meaningful meals—the ones where laughter, tears, and vulnerability were all shared around the table. The lighting was probably low. The conversations were real. There was something sacred in the atmosphere.
That’s what Jesus created in the Upper Room.
When we gather tonight, maybe we dim the lights. Maybe we pass around a single loaf of bread, tearing pieces from it. Maybe we taste the story and feel the vulnerability. Maybe we set aside our polished traditions for something a little more raw, a little more real—just like Jesus did.
It doesn’t have to be fancy to be holy.

Living the Towel LifeAt the end of the night, the question isn’t just "Do we remember?"
It’s "Will we live differently?"
Will we pick up the towel in a world obsessed with thrones?
Will we choose downward mobility in a culture addicted to upward success?
Will we love at ground level?
Because Jesus’ hands may have been nailed to a cross,
but our hands are still free.
Free to serve.
Free to kneel.
Free to love.
Tonight, Maundy Thursday, isn’t the end of the story.
It’s the beginning of the kind of love that can change the world.

Prayer to End the Reflection:
Lord Jesus,
You stooped when we expected you to reign.
You served when we expected you to rule.
You washed our feet when we didn’t even know they were dirty.
Teach us to love like you.
To kneel, to serve, to risk vulnerability.
And in this moment of remembrance,
Lead us into resurrection hope.
Amen.