I See the Birds

Dear First Pres SLO Family.

Grace and peace to you in the name of Jesus the Messiah, the Risen One, the one whose love for us is so strong that even death cannot keep him from us.

Christ is Risen!

           Christ is Risen Indeed!

If you were at our Sunrise Service on Easter, you heard this message from Jen. If not, I’m sharing it with you today because it was too good to miss!

Blessings to you and yours this Easter season,

Pastor John

“I See The Birds” Easter Sunrise Service Message (Jen Rabenaldt)

Luke 24:1-8

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’ Then they remembered his words.

Most of us know the Easter story, right?

It felt important to me this morning, to not only acknowledge Easter morning but also, to acknowledge how that matters to our lives today. So, this may be a different kind of message this Easter morning. I hope you hear something or feel something different today but also that you find comfort in the familiar.

As the sun rises this morning, it does what it has done since the beginning of time—it shows up.

Quietly. Faithfully. Without being asked.

And in this thin space between night and day, we hear a familiar whisper from God:

“Do not be anxious about your life.”

We gather this morning while the day is still waking up.

The light is gentle, not yet strong.

The world is quiet, not yet busy.

And in many ways, this is exactly how Easter begins.

Sitting here at dawn, we confess how often our minds run ahead of our hearts.

We wonder if we are in charge of our own thoughts—or if our worries are in charge of us.

We replay losses. We fear the future. We carry grief into the morning light.

The gospel tells us that the women went to the tomb at early dawn. Other translations say, while it was still dark. They did not arrive expecting resurrection. They came carrying grief, unfinished rituals, and heavy hearts. They came because love compelled them to show up—even when hope felt thin.

And that matters.

That matters because when we look up on Easter morning God tells us something more.

God reminds us that he cared enough to raise Jesus from the grave, and that surely—surely—we mean more to God than we can imagine.

This morning proclaims what the empty tomb has already said:

God does not leave us by ourselves.

Because resurrection does not begin with certainty.

It begins with faithfulness.

It begins with showing up when it is still dark.

Before the stone is rolled away, before the alleluias ring out, before anyone understands what God is doing—God is already at work.

While the women are walking toward the tomb, God is already raising Jesus from the dead.

While they are bracing for loss, heaven is preparing surprise.

While it is still dark, God is doing a new thing.

That is the quiet power of Easter morning.

Resurrection does not wait for full daylight.

It does not wait for perfect faith or complete understanding.

It meets us right where we are—tired, grieving, uncertain, hopeful and afraid all at once.

The risen Christ appears not to people who have everything figured out, but to those who come with questions, confusion, and trembling hearts.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” the angels ask.

It is not a scolding question. It is an invitation.

An invitation to lift our eyes.

An invitation to see differently.

An invitation to trust that God’s life is stronger than death, even when we cannot yet see how.

The women came to the tomb carrying spices and worry,

but they left carrying wonder and hope.

The stone was rolled away, not so Jesus could get out—

but so we could see in:

See that death does not have the final word.

See that love is stronger than fear.

See that God is still holding us sturdy and leading us on—

through years of joy and grief alike.

A few winters ago, after losing someone I loved deeply, the world felt unbearably quiet.

Not just silent — but hollow. You know that kind of silence? The kind that echoes because someone’s voice is no longer filling the room.

One cold morning, I was standing at the kitchen sink, staring out at a gray sky and bare trees.

Everything looked lifeless. And then, almost startling against the muted winter branches, a flash of red landed on the fence. A cardinal.

Brilliant. Bold. Unmistakable. Ok, maybe not a cardinal being that we don’t have them here. But it was a red bird and I like to imagine it was a cardinal.

It didn’t blend in. It didn’t hide. It simply perched there, bright against the bleakness.

I had heard people say that when you see a red cardinal, it can feel like a reminder of someone you’ve lost, a small whisper from heaven, a gentle nudge that love does not disappear.

I don’t know about all the theology of that. But I do know this: in that moment, my grief felt seen. The cardinal did not erase my sorrow. It did not bring my loved one back. But it pierced the gray. It reminded me that color still exists in winter. That life still perches on barren branches. That beauty still visits even when trees are stripped bare.

Grief can feel like winter—exposed, stark, and long. But the cardinal feels like a promise: love is not buried. It is simply waiting for spring.

Every time I see one now, I pause. I breathe. I remember that the people we love leave more than memories. They leave imprints. They leave warmth in our stories. They leave faith that even in loss, God is still painting the world in bold strokes of red. Sometimes the cardinal is not a message from the one we lost — sometimes it is a message from God:

“I am still here. And so is love.”

And against the gray branches of grief, that bright flash of red is enough to remind us that hope has not flown away.

As the sun rises around us, creation itself joins the proclamation.

Light pushes back the night. Birds begin to sing.

Warmth replaces the chill. What was hidden becomes visible.

This is not just a backdrop for worship—it is a living message.

Because Easter keeps happening like this.

God brings new life in quiet ways.

Hope rises slowly.

Healing dawns before we notice.

And the promise of Easter is not only that Christ was raised, but that God is still raising. Still restoring. Still rolling stones away in places we thought were sealed shut forever.

So, if you arrived this morning carrying grief, Easter is for you.

If you came tired, Easter is for you.

If you came unsure, or waiting, or simply showing up because love told you to Easter is for you.

Christ is risen not just in the bright certainty of noon, but in the fragile hope of dawn.

The tomb is empty.

Love has won.

And even now—especially now—new life is rising.

So this Easter morning, we let go.

We let go of trying to control everything.

We let go of carrying our lives alone.

We let go again.

And we hear God say, softly and surely:

“Don’t you worry, child. I have not left you.

I am here. I am your help.”

Risen Christ, be ever-present.

Be our closest friend.

In this new day—

and in every time of trouble—

be our help again.

Christ is risen.

He is risen indeed. Amen.