Lent 2025 Easter Sunday: What Rises in Us

Flannel Diaries
Apr 20
3 min read

“He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.” — Matthew 28:6 (NIV)

When I was 21, I had this vision—if you could even call it that—where I imagined the great Divine in the sky looked like 70s Elvis. You know the one: bloated, sweating, red sequin jumpsuit. And in this weird spiritual daydream, I'm pondering the meaning of life, and Elvis just appears out of nowhere, smacks me upside the head, and says,

“Vangie, there’s no Big Picture. It’s just life. Deal.”

And for whatever reason, in this vision, he’s holding a sandwich. And while he’s talking, this piece of lettuce flies out of his mouth and smacks against my glasses. And I’m just standing there, scraping lettuce off my lenses, thinking:

“Seriously? This is it? I spent all this time searching for meaning and I get pot-bellied Elvis telling me nothing matters?”

But the truth is—I wanted to believe something mattered. I needed to believe there was a bigger purpose. A reason. A rhythm. A soul-level why.

I still do.

I want to feel good on the inside, not just look put together on the outside. I want to walk out the door without fear. I want to believe in something that stretches beyond this moment, beyond this pain, beyond the headlines and the cynicism and the nonsense.

And that's why I believe in something bigger than myself. In science. In the universe. In faith.

In justice. In grace. In good people doing good things when nobody’s watching.

Lots of people say they’re “spiritual but not religious.” I get that. Religious institutions have weaponized belief, turned sacred texts into exclusionary rulebooks, and used faith as a way to oppress instead of liberate. The Bible has been twisted to condemn the very people Jesus would’ve been out here breaking bread with.

People like me. People like you.

It took me decades to figure out what faith looks like for me. And spoiler alert:

It’s not Elvis with a turkey sandwich.

It’s Social Justice Jesus.

Brown-skinned, sandal-wearing, table-flipping Jesus.

Jesus who washed feet.

Who fed the hungry.

Who forgave the unforgivable.

Who loved outcasts without question.

Who rose again—so we could rise too.

Every day, I try to be a better version of myself. Most days I fail.

But each morning I wake up, I get another chance.

Another sunrise. Another breath. Another beginning.

Easter is the Super Bowl of Christianity. It’s the big show—the resurrection.

But for a lot of folks, Easter just means coloring eggs and hiding them in the yard (which, let’s be real, is a flex with egg prices these days). Plastic grass. Chocolate bunnies. Sugar overload. Zombie Jesus memes.

Because let’s face it—capitalism has commodified the resurrection.

But the real story of Easter?

It’s this:

Hope refused to stay buried.

Love broke the tomb wide open.

And the Divine looked at a broken world and said:

“You still matter. You are still worthy. You still get to rise.”

So today, if you’re not sure what you believe, if you're hanging on by a thread, if you feel like your life’s been stitched together with duct tape and stubbornness—know this:

Resurrection is for you, too.

You are not too late.

You are not too broken.

You are not beyond repair.

You are here.

And you get to start again.