November 9, 2025
Gospel: Luke 20: 27-38

The Sadducees come to Jesus with a question that sounds like theology but feels more like a trap. They spin this elaborate story about a woman who marries seven brothers, one after another, each dying before her, and then they ask, “So, in the resurrection, whose wife will she be?” They think they’re being clever. They think they’ve backed Jesus into a corner, that they can expose how ridiculous the idea of resurrection is. But Jesus doesn’t bite. He doesn’t give them the tidy, logical answer they want. He just reminds them that they’re asking the wrong kind of question. They’re imagining life after death as an extension of this one — same rules, same relationships, same limitations. But resurrection, he says, doesn’t work that way. Resurrection is about being transformed, not recycled.

That’s the thing about Jesus — he never argues on the terms people try to trap him in. He’s not interested in proving he’s right. He’s interested in helping people see differently. And in this moment, what he wants them to see — what he wants us to see — is that resurrection isn’t some distant, future event waiting for us at the end of time. Resurrection is about who God is, right now. A living God. A God who refuses to let death have the final word, not just in some cosmic sense but in our daily, ordinary, sometimes boring, sometimes heartbreaking lives.

We hear that word “resurrection,” and it’s easy to jump to the big, dramatic images — tombs opening, angels singing, light bursting out of darkness. But more often, resurrection looks small. It looks like something stirring where you thought nothing could grow. It’s a pulse returning where everything seemed numb. It’s laughter breaking through in a room where people have been crying. It’s the quiet, defiant insistence that even when everything feels lost, it isn’t over yet.

And honestly, that’s the kind of resurrection I’ve been clinging to lately. Because if we’re paying any attention to the world, it’s hard not to feel like things are falling apart. The wars, the violence, the politics that feel like a never-ending shouting match where everyone’s angry and no one’s listening. The exhaustion so many of us carry from just trying to hold it together. The way everything feels so fragile — the planet, our democracy, even our sense of what’s true anymore. It’s like the air itself is full of anxiety.

And yet, the living God keeps showing up. Resurrection hope doesn’t erase the grief or the rage or the mess. It just refuses to let them be the end of the story.

Every time people choose connection over cynicism, forgiveness over revenge, curiosity over fear — that’s resurrection. Not in theory, but in flesh and blood, right now. It’s God still creating in the middle of chaos.

And I think that’s what Jesus is trying to pull the Sadducees toward. They want to debate abstractions; he wants to talk about reality. They’re arguing about what happens after death; he’s trying to show them what it means to be truly alive. He wants them — and us — to realize that God’s life isn’t something that begins later. It’s happening already, right here, right now.

That’s something I see in this community all the time. Yesterday, the Vestry had it’s fall retreat and we had a really wonderful discussion about the nature of change and what that has meant for St. Mary’s. St. Mary’s is full of resurrection stories. If you’ve been here long enough, you’ve seen them — ministries that had their season and ended, and others that rose up in their place. We’ve said goodbye to things that were meaningful, that mattered, but that had done what they were meant to do. And we’ve watched other things come to life — new partnerships, new ways of serving, new faces showing up in worship or leadership or mission. Some of it looks totally different than it used to, and sometimes that’s hard. Change always is. But change isn’t death. Change is a sign of life.

Because the essence of who we are hasn’t changed. At our core, we’re still a community that shows up — that feeds people, that welcomes the stranger, that prays together and sings together and believes that love still has power. The surface changes — new programs, new ways of doing things — but that heartbeat underneath is the same one that’s always been here. That’s resurrection in real time. It’s the Spirit still breathing life into us, still calling us to be alive to God and to each other.

It reminds me of how resurrection always disrupts our nostalgia. We sometimes want God to just put things back the way they were — to roll back the clock to when the church was fuller, or life was simpler, or we felt more certain. But resurrection never takes us backward. It always moves us forward into something new. And that’s uncomfortable, because it means letting go of what was familiar, even beloved. But it also means trusting that God’s imagination for us is bigger than our own.

I think of the ministries that have evolved here — how the ways we serve and connect have shifted over time. How we’ve responded to new needs in the community, new ideas, new people bringing their gifts. That’s resurrection hope — not clinging to the old form, but allowing the Spirit to make something new out of what we have. That’s exactly what Jesus was talking about. The Sadducees couldn’t imagine a world different from the one they knew, but resurrection requires imagination. It invites us to believe that life can look different, that something new and holy can grow where we thought everything was done.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us. To live like resurrection is true right now. To see the signs of life breaking out around us — even if they’re small, even if they’re hidden. To be the kind of people who plant hope in the middle of despair. Because when we do that, we bear witness to the God who is still alive and still creating.

When I look at our world, I see resurrection in people who won’t give up on peace, even when violence feels inevitable. I see it in communities that come together after hurricanes or fires or floods to rebuild what was destroyed. I see it in young people who are organizing for justice, refusing to let fear or apathy define their future. That’s resurrection hope in the public square. It’s not flashy. It’s not easy. But it’s real. It’s the same pulse that’s been running through creation since God first said, “Let there be light.”

And it’s here, too — in the quiet faithfulness of this congregation. In the meals prepared for those who are hungry, the prayers spoken for those who are hurting, the simple act of showing up on a Sunday morning to sing and listen and be together. Every one of those things is a declaration that we believe life still wins. That love still wins.

That’s what Jesus was getting at when he told the Sadducees that God is the God of the living. He wasn’t talking about someday, far away. He was talking about this moment — this complicated, beautiful, terrifying, holy moment we’re living in. He was saying, God’s life is not waiting for you in the future. It’s pulsing all around you, in every act of courage, every risk of compassion, every choice to love again when you’ve been hurt.

So maybe the question for us isn’t, “What happens when we die?” but “What’s being brought back to life right now?” Where do you see resurrection? Where do you need it? What’s waiting to breathe again in you?

I don’t know exactly how resurrection works. I don’t think any of us do. But I do know that it’s real — not because I can prove it, but because I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it in this church. I’ve seen it in the faces of people who thought they were done, who thought the story was over, and then found themselves surprised by grace. I’ve seen it in communities that rise from the ashes. I’ve seen it in myself.

Resurrection isn’t something we just believe in; it’s something we practice. It’s a way of living. It’s showing up, again and again, in the face of endings — trusting that endings are never the end. Trusting that even when we can’t see what’s next, the living God is already there, already at work, already calling us forward into new life.

And that, friends, is good news. Because it means that even now — in this world, in this church, in our own hearts — God is still making all things new.

Amen.