On Easter Sunday, we gather again to step into a very different kind of morning. If Good Friday asks us to stay with what feels lost, Easter invites us to consider what we might be missing even when it is right in front of us. With poetry, song, Scripture, and reflection, we will move into a story where recognition comes slowly, hope arrives strangely, and the world may be more alive than we first imagined.

This Good Friday, we will make space for the weight of the story without rushing past it. Through Scripture, music, art, and reflection, we will linger with the cross as a place of sorrow, honesty, and difficult love. This is a service for anyone who knows that not everything can be fixed quickly, explained neatly, or tied up by the end.

Friends, we are about to enter Holy Week, and so, as we do, we’re turning to one of the most surprising exchanges at the cross. It is the dialogue between Jesus and two criminals also being executed beside him. I want to pair this moment with Andrea Mantegna’s painting Crucifixion (Louvre). There is something incredibly vivid, to me, about this painting. It kind of draws you into the scene as a spectator. If you have a chance to look at it before Sunday, which of the two criminals do you think is the “good thief?” Of course, the teaching this week isn’t really about who deserves what. Rather, it’s about what people reach for when they’re almost out of time: the things we ask for, what we bargain for, what we fear most, and what we hope might still be possible. It’s about the strange ache behind the words remember me, and the startling way Jesus answers.

Have you ever been left behind? I have been - at church, no less. And I must confess…I have also left a child at church. While I was probably 16 years old when it happened to me, our daughter was but 18 months. I know. Not a stellar parenting moment. But it’s surprisingly easy - it always involves two cars, and the abandoned person somehow falling between the cracks. A simple miscommunication and misunderstanding. (It turned out just fine, by the way, thanks to a good friend who had our phone number, some time, and patience. Well, that and the fact that the instant we both got home we realized something was awry…both of us wide eyed…I thought you had her!) I’m sure we’ve all experienced a whole range of abandonments…times of feeling forsaken. Alone. What was it like for you? On this second last Sunday before Good Friday and Easter, we continue with the sayings of Jesus from the cross. This time, a heart-wrenching question: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” Known as the Cry of Dereliction, this saying is full of meaning. We might have some curiosity about this cry of Jesus. It’s a chance for us to consider what we believe was happening in that moment…where was God? What does it mean for us that Jesus spoke these words? As we listen to Jesus’ cry, we may also notice a tension, some mystery, and some hope for us all. As with all the Lent sermons, we’ll be looking at an art piece - this time, a recent work from a controversial Canadian artist.

The Dry Place, from March 15th is avaialble by podcast: This Sunday in our Lent series, we’re going to focus on Jesus’ shortest, and easiest to skip, saying from the cross. In John, Jesus simply utters, “I thirst.” It isn’t a speech or sermon. It isn’t a lesson. It is two simple words that speak volumes and asks us to lean in close rather than hurry past them. In those two words are I think both a revelation and a vocation for us.

We will also be gazing at a striking crucifixion painting from the Louvre. It comes to us from the Renaissance period and was created by Niccolò di Liberatore’s in 1492. It is simply called, La Crucifixion. Peek at it before Sunday if you like. I am hoping its details will do what art does best: not explain but evoke. There’s a visual tension in the scene. See if you can spot it.

This Sunday in our Lent series, we’ll be sitting with more of Jesus’ words from the cross. This one is less divine revelation and more communal and tender in nature. And I want to come to Jesus’ words as with one piece of art held up long enough for it to actually do something to us. We’ll be gazing at La Crucifixion (a stark, monochrome crucifixion plaque), and letting it orient our attention into the mood of this moment on the cross. Along the way, I think there is plenty to consider especially around loss and grief.

Lent is now upon us, and for the weeks leading up to Easter at Nexus we’re slowing the pace down on purpose. Each week we’ll take just one of Jesus’ sayings from the cross and we’ll keep a single piece of art in front of us as a visual companion. This Sunday’s artwork is Karel Dujardin’s: The Calvar (1661): https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Duajrdin-Calvaire-Louvre.jpg

a dark, storm-charged scene where the world feels loud and chaotic...and yet Christ is strangely illuminated, impossible to ignore. And the saying we’ll sit with is as disarming as it is unsettling: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” That line cracks open a revelation about what God is like, but it also exposes something about us. It confronts our revenge impulse, our certainty, and the way communities can get carried along by fear and scapegoating. We’ll also look at a modern echo of this prayer through the story of one church, with a long history, where forgiveness showed up, not as sentiment, but as a costly refusal to let evil move in. For us, the question won’t just be “Does God forgive?” but something more personal and a little dangerous. Can we become the kind of people who interrupt the cycle? Can we become people who tell the truth, hold boundaries, pursue justice, and still refuse to be remade into enemies?

Have you ever had a day, or week, where you sincerely wanted the good, and then things still unfolded opposite of all your good intentions? The invitation this Sunday is to take that strange, universal experience seriously, not as a quirky personality glitch, but as a window into what it means to be human. We’re exploring The Conflicted Self this Sunday. We’ll hear one of the most uncomfortably honest passages in the Bible where Paul admits, in essence, “I know what’s right . . . and then I don’t do it.” And we’ll talk about why “just try harder” so often backfires and why internal laws have a funny way of creating rebellions within us. If you’ve ever felt frustrated with yourself, or oddly harsh toward other people, this is a sermon that aims to make room for honesty and compassion. Not to excuse our mess, but to understand it, and to discover why grace meets us right in the middle of our dividedness, instead of waiting for us to get ourselves together first.