We invite you to read the words that shape our life together.

Invitation

We are a Resurrection people, and Alleluia is our song. Are you singing? How in your waking do you greet the day, and how are you a bearer of God’s amazing grace throughout the day, and how do you end the day well?

What might it mean to live as if each breath, each choice we make, and every encounter is infused with the Spirit? How would we go about washing the dishes, making our to do lists, tending our homes and communities? How might we interact with our children, our work colleagues, or the grocery store attendant?  

As we consciously put on the mind of Christ and open our hearts to God’s presence and love, what might we notice? If we saw creation as a living word of God and our bodies as temples of the Spirit, how might we treat them? Are we extending to others what we are receiving of God’s goodness and generosity?
 
In this Sunday’s gospel, the resurrected Jesus appears to his disciples for a third time.* Resurrection is revealed in the simplest of everyday actions. Going fishing. Eating breakfast. Being with each other in grief and gathering with joy. Resurrection is seeing beyond the surface of things. It is remembering when our eyes were opened and our deepest hurt healed by God’s love, and sharing the blessing.

The Paschal Mystery of Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection invites us to renewed being and life. God’s calling on our lives and our response is an ongoing process. Christ’s presence is never far, offering communion, forgiveness, and encouragement. We can never grasp the fullness of God’s love and mercy; we can only live in awe and gratitude and boldness of faith.

-- Trish Stefanik, Overlook Retreat House at Dayspring
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A poem to guide your reflection on invitations this week.

Easter Morning in Wales by David Whyte

 A garden inside me, unknown, secret,
neglected for years,
the layers of its soil deep and thick.
Trees in the corners with branching arms
and the tangled briars like broken nets.
 
Sunrise through the misted orchard,
morning sun turns silver on pointed twigs.
I have woken from the sleep of ages and I am not sure
if I’m really seeing, or dreaming,
or simply astonished
walking towards sunrise
to have stumbled into the garden
where the stone was rolled from the tomb of longing.
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