Lectionary Commentaries for April 5, 2026
Resurrection of Our Lord

[Looking for a related commentary on John 20:1-18? See this 2026 commentary by Jennifer Vija Pietz.]

Matthew presents the resurrection of Jesus as an earthshaking occurrence.

The event itself and evidently also its consequences are literally seismic. So, too, were Jesus’s humble and provocative entry into Jerusalem and his crucifixion, for on all three occasions Matthew uses the Greek word seismos or its verbal cognate, meaning “earthquake” (21:10; 27:54; 28:2; see also 8:24, when the boat carrying Jesus and his disciples becomes swamped).

Nothing is ever certain during an earthquake. Nothing is stable. Everything totters.

Each Gospel depicts the first Easter in its own way. For the other three, resurrection brings confusion, reunion, disbelief, and wonder. For Matthew, it’s primarily a triumph. God unleashes power.

• The natural world itself is affected, as it is in any seismic event.
• An angel, blinding in appearance, enters the scene. Any barrier between the earth and the heavenly realms has been breached.
• The angel does more than roll the stone away. Making a chair out of it, he mocks its great weight, the empire that rolled it there in the first place, and the finality of death that it represents.
• The guards are overwhelmed. The seal that represented imperial authority over the tomb snaps apart; it’s no more a deterrent than flimsy yellow tape guarding an old crime scene. The angel cares nothing about the legal repercussions of breaking open the threshold.

By that point, Jesus has already left the tomb. The angelic action allows Mary Magdalene and “the other Mary” (who are introduced in Matthew 27:56, 61) to confirm that he’s gone. All of the seismic excitement outside, Matthew, din view of the women and the guards, says the quiet part out loud: No one and nothing will obstruct what God is doing. To borrow from Paul borrowing from Isaiah, “Death has been swallowed up in victory” (1 Corinthians 15:54; Isaiah 25:7–8). Matthew sees no need for subtlety. After all, according to Matthew 27:53, even more (previously) dead people are about to show up in Jerusalem. We shouldn’t pretend that Easter isn’t pretty weird.

Matthew’s resurrection account is rather disorienting in its brevity, especially when considered next to Luke’s and John’s. Readers receive few details. The narrative stays silent about the two Marys’ reasons for going to the tomb, other than they wish “to see” it. Probably anyone stunned by the death of a loved one can relate; who needs a good explanation for an impulse to visit sites of death or burial? The awful emptiness of loss and separation generates its own desires.

The followers of Jesus do not appear to expect a resurrection, however.

What the women see and hear from the angel astounds them. They depart the tomb with contrasting—but hardly incompatible—emotions of fear and joy. Then, when they suddenly encounter Jesus, they recognize him at once and don’t hesitate to fall at his feet. Do they “worship” him or “reverence” him? It’s not clear that Matthew would fuss over the difference between those two possible translations.¹ In any case, the 11 remaining male disciples will do the same soon, when they see Jesus in 28:17.

Speaking of the Eleven, their absence from Matthew’s Easter narrative is conspicuous. None of them appears on the narrative stage, and we don’t learn how difficult it might be for the two Marys to convince them that Jesus will meet the entire group of men and women—all of them, based on the plural “you” in verse 7—in Galilee. Things do go according to plan, nevertheless, since this Gospel will conclude in Galilee, back to the more diverse population among whom Jesus began his ministry (in fulfillment of Isaiah’s words, as Matthew sees it in Matthew 4:12–17).

The brevity of the narrative might underscore the lingering danger. Those guards are going to wake up, after all. And Rome never runs out of crosses. The story’s sense of haste could instead (or also) emphasize the importance of getting to the next steps as soon as possible. The Messiah’s determination to spread mercy must not slow down.

Preaching on Easter

Easter brings out some of the church’s most triumphal music and imagery. Matthew’s version is right at home with it. Preachers do well to make sure that the conquest, the power, and the decisiveness all belong to God. The response of Easter’s original witnesses in Matthew is worship and obedience, not cockiness or fantasies about their own authority. We have plenty of occasions in the Bible in which God displays astonishing power; I’m typically wary of people who jump too quickly to proclaiming divine power over other powers. Too often that becomes an opportunity for the church to co-opt divine authority to advance some specific agenda.

Yet, when it comes to proclaiming God’s victory over the grave, I find endless comfort in promises about God’s determination to boot death out of the world. Who’s not too familiar with death’s ferocity? Who hasn’t felt robbed or blindsided by death? Human history—past and present—brims with people and movements who know how to use death to advance their own terrible ends. If there’s any power whose defeat deserves a grand celebration, it’s death. A preacher can help congregations explore the implications of this divine vanquishing, especially how it affects our views of grief and promotes the value and dignity every person possesses.

Notice, finally, that Jesus’s particular story has specific implications for how the church understands imperialistic authority and the alliances that despots forge with death. It matters that a crucified man, a man Rome sought to make a nobody, was raised from the dead. Matthew’s attention to the guards at Jesus’s tomb calls our attention here.

Tyrants and empires devote endless energy toward maintaining the power to silence their critics and foes. They know that nothing silences like death and the threat of it. What will happen, though, when a ragtag bunch of resurrection-believers offer testimony in response to state-sanctioned death? What can happen when the dead get a chance to speak from beyond the veil, or when a formerly dead man commissions his followers to speak on his behalf?

Christian theology, rooted in resurrection, won’t allow the dead to remain silenced and forgotten. It won’t allow anyone else to keep them dead.

Notes

1. See the review of the verb proskuneō in Matthew by Mark Allan Powell, Matthew: An Interpretation Bible Commentary (Westminster John Knox, 2023), 51–53.

It is an interesting challenge to preach on a passage from Scripture that itself functions as a sermon. In these verses, the apostle Peter delivers a compelling speech to God-fearer Cornelius and his household, concisely outlining the Christian message about the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. When presented with such an accomplished address, it is easy for the preacher to feel somewhat on the back foot, uncertain about how to do justice to the biblical text.

Surprisingly, however, such a feeling might put us in the good company of Peter himself. The opening words of his speech are usually rendered in English as “I truly understand,” a phrase that could function to underline the strength and surety of Peter’s conviction regarding the God who shows no partiality.

However, the Greek word used here (the verb katalambanō) can also be translated “to catch up with something,” “to make something one’s own,” and “to grasp something through a process of enquiry.”¹ These variants allow Peter’s words to stretch beyond the immediate context of his speech, and to point toward a process of realization: What has just now been understood was once (perhaps only a short time ago) out of reach. Peter has only just caught hold of the message he is about to share with others.

The statement that “God shows no partiality” is not entirely new. Indeed, from the very start of the biblical narrative, God is shown to be creator and Lord of all, and there are several places in the Old Testament where his lack of partiality is noted and praised (for example, Deuteronomy 10:17–18; 2 Chronicles 19:7; Job 34:19).

This idea can also be found at earlier points in the Acts narrative, such as the account of the baptism of the Ethiopian court official (Acts 8:26–40)—not to mention Peter’s own earlier speech at the first Christian Pentecost, in which precisely this outpouring of the Spirit upon “all flesh” is named (Acts 2:17). Peter has already preached this message, therefore, but is only now coming to understand the implications of his earlier words.

The immediate narrative context for this development is the account of Cornelius’s and Peter’s visionary experiences (10:1–8 and 10:9–16), followed by the conversation and journey Peter shares with the men sent by Cornelius (10:17–23). In his vision, Peter is commanded three times to “kill and eat” from a mixed group of clean and unclean animals. Appalled by this challenge to his long-held views, Peter refuses to follow the apparently taboo instructions that he receives. He is left in a state of confusion, unable to make sense of what he has seen and heard.

The experience is immediately followed by the arrival of the men sent by Cornelius. While it would hardly be plausible to suggest that this is Peter’s first encounter with Gentiles, his assertion, “You yourselves know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a Gentile” (10:28), hints at a closer engagement with Gentiles than he had previously experienced. The group lodge together in Simon’s house before journeying on to Caesarea, and it is perhaps through this shared hospitality that Peter’s attitude begins to shift.

Instead of functioning as a label for a group of “others” to be kept at arm’s length, “the Gentiles” become individuals with names and faces, fellow guests and companions on the journey. Peter’s attitude toward the Gentiles changes as he travels (literally and symbolically) with Gentiles.

And thus, we arrive again at Peter’s language in Acts 10:34 and the renewed grasp of what God’s impartiality really means: something that extends beyond the boundaries of the people of Israel (rich or poor, high or low status) to incorporate those “in every nation” (10:35). God’s lack of favoritism signals nothing less than the inclusion of the Gentiles.

The speech that follows highlights the way in which Peter’s understanding has evolved, yet it also clearly roots the story of Jesus in its Jewish context. God’s message was sent to the people of Israel (10:36), and Jesus’s ministry is located in Judea, Nazareth, Galilee, and Jerusalem (10:37–39). These specifics are not changed or erased by the inclusion of the Gentiles. Peter’s proclamation is not one of abstract universalism.

The momentousness of Peter’s realization can be lost in too glib a rendition of this message. The story of the God of Israel who shows no favoritism captures something of the complexity of Christian language of inclusion. In his commentary on the passage, Willie James Jennings writes as follows:

This moment schools us in divine transgression. God brings Peter to one outside of the covenant, transgressing God’s own established boundary and border. We must not weaken the radical implications of this epic meeting. This meeting has yet to gain its proper place in the historical consciousness of the church because the actions of God here are taken for granted. God’s actions here have been imagined by so many Christians through a mangled vision of providence that conceals the real God behind a strange universal god.²

Peter’s statement—at once a bold proclamation of a familiar faith and an acknowledgment of the transformation of his own understanding—is an invitation for individuals and congregations to think again. When faced with complex theological or ethical questions and new experiences, it can be tempting to seek comfort in the familiar and to cling to long-held convictions. Yet we ought not to mistake rigidity for steadfastness.

Declarations of God’s impartiality may roll easily enough off the tongue (“all are welcome in this place”), but we might also ask ourselves if there are contexts—including the context of our own church congregation/community—where we have yet to “catch up” with the implications of such words.

Notes

1. Walter Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, rev. and ed. Frederick W. Danker, 3rd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 519–520.
2. Willie James Jennings, Acts (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2017), 110.

Psalm 118 is the concluding psalm in the collection known as the “Egyptian Hallel” (Psalms 113–118).¹ Hallel is the Hebrew word for “praise,” and this collection’s name reflects the emphasis in these psalms on praising and giving thanks to God for God’s great acts of salvation. 

The “Egyptian” part of the name refers to God’s deliverance of Israel from Egypt. This theme is most explicitly on display in Psalm 114, but the other psalms in the collection can also easily be read as reflecting the exodus event (for example, Psalm 113 praises God for reversing the situation of the poor, and Psalm 115 celebrates God’s superiority over idols). Traditionally, the Egyptian Hallel psalms were—and are—prayed as part of the Passover meal. When the Gospels describe how Jesus and his disciples concluded their last Passover meal by singing “the hymn” (Matthew 26:30, Mark 14:26), therefore, we can suppose they may have been singing the Egyptian Hallel. Perhaps the last song Jesus sang before his crucifixion was Psalm 118. 

An overview of Psalm 118

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving psalm that unfolds in several distinct movements:

• (verses 1–4) Call to community thanksgiving
• (verses 5–18) Story of the crisis, call for help, and rescue
• (verse 19–21) Individual thanksgiving
• (verses 22–29) Community thanksgiving

The psalmist’s declaration in verse 14 is one of the points of connection between this psalm and the exodus from Egypt that give the “Egyptian Hallel” its name. After the miraculous parting of the sea and the destruction of Pharaoh’s pursuing army, Moses and Miriam lead the Israelites in singing:

I will sing to the LORD,
for he has triumphed gloriously;
horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.
The LORD is my strength and my might,
and he has become my salvation;
this is my God, and I will praise him.” (Exodus 15:1–2)

By quoting a more ancient song of deliverance, the psalmist here connects the current moment to the past—and, by extension, to the future. As the psalmist goes on to promise to “recount the deeds of the LORD” (verse 17), worshipers recognize that these deeds include episodes of salvation from the distant past, from the psalmist’s life, and from their own experiences. Establishing patterns of divine behavior gives the community confidence in the God being worshiped. God saved in the past, and God will save again. 

Having begun to celebrate the God-given victory over enemies, the psalmist appears to move toward the temple for worship. The psalmist cries out, “Open to me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter through them and give thanks to the LORD” (verse 19), and the response comes in the next verse: “This is the gate of the LORD; the righteous shall enter through it” (verse 20). 

The implication of this liturgical dialogue is that we who would praise God must ensure that our lives reflect the righteousness and justice (the Hebrew word used here involves both) of God. This part of the psalm is a call to action beyond temple worship. God’s righteousness is exhibited in part through God’s help of those who are—like the psalmist was—oppressed and beaten down; God’s worshippers should be righteous in the same way. 

The rest of the psalm assumes entrance into the temple is granted. The whole community joins in the praise (notice the first-person plural pronouns starting in verse 23), and the setting of this praise seems to be the precincts of the temple itself (verse 26). There are some beautiful lines of praise in this section of the psalm: 

• This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. (verse 23)
• This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. (verse 24)
• The LORD is God, and he has given us light. (verse 27a)

The psalm ends with the same refrain with which it began. The individual’s story of how God brought salvation is the reason for the community’s worship in Psalm 118—it is the reason the psalmist calls Israel, the house of Aaron, and all who fear God to praise (verses 2–3), and the psalmist’s story of personal salvation is the reason these groups ultimately do join their voices in praise (verses 22–24). Remembering and sharing personal stories of how God has saved us in various ways is a critical part of how we worship. 

Psalm 118 and the Resurrection of our Lord

This psalm puts on full display the beautiful dance between individual, community, and God. Our relationship with God is our own, but it also exists within the context of other people. In the church, this dynamic means we lament with those who lament and give thanks with those who give thanks (see Romans 12:15). Together we strive for the righteousness that characterizes those who come into the presence of the Lord. 

The kind of individual and community righteousness for which Psalm 118 calls leads to disruption. Those who should have been defeated have victory, those who should be dead live, the stones that should be rejected become the most important ones. The crucified Jesus becomes the risen Lord. God is the one who makes this disruption possible—the one whose right hand does valiantly and gives victory. God is the only one who can make alive the dead. 

At the same time, this psalm quietly reminds us that God has called worshipers to be agents of disruption as well. We need to pay attention to those who are calling out in distress, who are surrounded by attackers, who have no hope. We need to recount the deeds of the Lord in past acts of salvation, but we also need to stand ready to offer what salvation we can in the moment. God calls us to worship—by helping bring people out of distress, delivering them from attackers, and giving them the hope of Easter.   

Notes

1. Commentary previously published on this website for March 31, 2024.

If you want to convey the significance of Christ’s death and resurrection for all the baptized at Easter, it is important to add an Epistle reading to the Gospel. The Epistles are where death and resurrection cease to be only something about Jesus, and become real for the lives of Jesus’s followers. This short reading from Colossians offers a beautiful companion to either of the Gospels chosen for this year (John or Matthew).

Colossians makes the bold claim that believers in Jesus have died with Christ in baptism and have also been raised with him as a present reality.¹

• They now conduct their lives from an entirely new place, “hidden with Christ in God” (3:3).
• This passage concerns the implications of resurrection for Christian moral discernment.

Let’s first take a look at some of the interesting Greek terms that show up in the passage—not to unload them on a congregation, but to give the preacher a sense for the nuances in the Greek as opposed to the English translation. The language can inform your preaching without you ever mentioning the Greek terms:

• synēgerthēte (syn + egeirō), “you have been co-raised with Christ”: The Greek compound verb emphasizes the closeness between the believer and Jesus. They are one body, co-rising together, with deep inner changes for the believer, who otherwise remains on earth. What part of “you” (plural) is above, and what part is below?
• phroneite, “set your minds”: Phroneō is a verb that signifies practical wisdom at work, the wisdom of discerning right actions in complex circumstances. Paul uses it in Philippians 2:5 to urge the community to have the “mind of Christ” in all their dealings with one another in their immediate community.

In Colossians, believers are to have the mind of Christ in discerning their relationship to the whole cosmos. The author of Colossians simultaneously draws a sharp distinction between the baptized and the world around them (“things that are above, not … things that are on earth”) and also makes it clear that believers have a critical role in relation to the world. What distinguishes them post-baptism is the ground of their decision-making: not the standards of the world, but standards derived from a divine perspective. And they inhabit that heavenly place now, in their innermost being, the place where they are hidden with Christ in God. It is a view of baptized humanity that is both transcendent and immanent.

• Use of the second-person plural: Jewish conceptions of resurrection (which are the basis for the claim that Jesus was raised) are communal. For the author of Colossians, resurrection is not only a future reality for the people of God, but a present gift of practical wisdom, the gift of a community living together from a new center in Christ.

The benefit of this passage for the preacher is that it creates an entry point into some of the questions people bring with them when they come to church on Easter: What does the resurrection of Jesus mean for me? How is my life different because Jesus was raised? The claim of Colossians 3:1–4 is that our lives are completely different now. In baptism, we are gathered into Christ in both death (to destructive patterns of living) and new life from an altered moral perspective. The passage offers both reassurance (“your life is hidden with Christ in God … you also will be revealed with him in glory”) and challenge (“set your minds on the things that are above, not on the things that are on earth”).

So what does the turmoil of our own day look like from this perspective? The critical feature of Colossians 3:1–4 is the way in which it describes the new basis for Christian decision-making now. What are the issues in their families, communities, the nation, the world … that your congregation is concerned about? How do these concerns appear from the place where we have been embraced by Christ in all his suffering and his glory? How do they appear when we consider them from the place where we are entirely hidden in God’s love and grace?

Resources

Kevin J. Madigan and Jon D. Levinson, Resurrection: The Power of God for Christians and Jews (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008). This is a classic book on resurrection, very informative and also readable. It gives insight into the fact that the claim of resurrection has specific meaning for Jews and early Christians. It is not simply the claim of a miraculous occurrence, but makes assertions about God as Creator and about the righteousness of the One who is risen, and makes promises to the ongoing community.

Notes

1. This is a different claim from the Epistle reading for Easter Vigil, taken from Romans 6. In Romans, Paul sees the postbaptismal life as a liminal time between dying with Christ and a future resurrection. The life of the baptized is like being freshly born into a life freed from the power of Sin, a chance to “walk in newness of life” (Romans 6:4). Both perspectives stress the moral dimension of this new life, a new basis for decision-making in line with God’s will for all.