"If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied. But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died."  1 Corinthians 15:19-20

At the end of an Easter Service, the pastor noticed one member coming through the exit line who only attended church on Easter. "Good to see you, Brother," the pastor greeted him, "I'd love to see you come here more often."

"I would, Pastor," the man replied, "but every time I'm here, you always preach the same sermon!"

It's easy to mock those whom we pastors call "C & E" Christians. But I am grateful for their presence, even if it is only on high holy days. At least they are putting themselves in a place to hear the gospel. At least they seem to think the stories of Christ's incarnation and resurrection are worth hearing again and again. At least they are open, however reluctantly, to the possibility that God might speak to them a word of new life.

Someone once observed - I can't remember who - that Easter is only ever a quaint observance until it becomes a matter of life and death for a person. That happened to me in 1984. I was a newly ordained Associate Pastor serving in Boise, Idaho entering my first Holy Week as a pastor. I was awakened early Monday morning with the news that my mother had died in her sleep while receiving treatment for advanced breast cancer. The services, I was told, were going to be held on Good Friday in New York City, and Easter Monday in San Diego. As I was the only minister known to my family, they wanted me to lead the services.

Thankfully, the senior pastor and congregation were understanding and let me off on the most important Sunday of the year. I struggled through the service in New York battling stress-induced laryngitis, and flew to San Diego Saturday. Sunday morning, I sat in the pew of a small Presbyterian church and heard the Easter story proclaimed in an oh-so-very-ordinary service of worship.

But it wasn't ordinary for me. I was very much in the tomb with Jesus, in that empty space between my mother's two memorials, between death and resurrection. The familiar words took on new power for me. Easter had literally become a matter of life and death, and I was filled with resurrection life.

I remember that Easter, which was in many ways my first real Easter, as I write this, having just learned of the sudden and premature death of a dear friend in ministry. I remember it as I reflect on the courage and hope demonstrated by the students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School who suffered such loss and yet are determined to turn death into life. Whenever death becomes all too real, I hear the words anew: "He is risen!"

It may be the only sermon some people ever hear; and maybe the only one they need to hear.