To the gospel writer Matthew, the resurrection of Jesus is earthshaking. The Greek word is seismos, and means shaking, shock, earthquake. In seismic events, nothing is certain. Nothing is the same. Nothing is stable. 

A brilliant, terrifying angel rolls back the stone and sits on it. As if to mock the empire that rolled the stone there in the first place. As if to mock the power of death itself.

Today truth is elusive. What to believe? Was it generated by AI? Is it a downright lie? Is it fake news? If it’s on the internet, if it’s shared on social media, can you trust it? If you keep telling people an untruth, are they cajoled into finally accepting it?  

In tonight’s Gospel, Jesus lays aside his garments, wraps a towel around his waist, pours water into a basin, and begins to wash the disciples’ feet. I wonder what the disciples thought when they saw their teacher kneeling down like a servant, preparing to wash their dusty, worn, calloused feet. Foot washing with Jesus wasn’t like a luxurious pedicure at the spa. It was dirty work. A messy act of love.

A baby’s first cry isn’t sadness, but life. After nine months in the womb’s warm fluid, air rushes into the baby’s lungs as it is born. Crying helps oxygen circulate through the body. Breath. Birth. A holy moment.