This Easter, I stood in front of my congregation and said something I never expected to say from the pulpit — not on Easter, not ever:
“I didn’t even want to be here today.”
The words weren’t planned. They weren’t poetic. They were painfully honest.
I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was overwhelmed, weary in soul and spirit. The expectation to show up strong, to embody hope, to proclaim resurrection — it felt almost impossible under the weight I was carrying. And in a moment that felt terrifyingly raw, I decided to stop pretending.
Instead, I told the truth.
I shared that I was struggling. That I was tired. That I felt like I had crawled out of my own grave just to get there that morning.
And in that vulnerable moment, something sacred happened — not just for me, but for many who sat in the pews and heard their own silent struggles spoken aloud.
We often talk about resurrection as a triumphant act. But what if resurrection, real resurrection, begins when we allow something inside of us to break open?
Resurrection Isn’t Just for the Polished
We live in a world — and sometimes, a church — that encourages us to curate our lives. To present strength. To lead with certainty. Especially for those of us in positions of spiritual leadership or authority, there’s a quiet pressure to keep our humanity neatly tucked away.
But resurrection doesn't require polish.
It requires honesty.
It requires the courage to say: “I am not okay. But I showed up anyway.”
That Easter morning, I wasn’t leading from strength. I was leading from the depths. And maybe that’s where resurrection always starts — in the tomb, not on the mountaintop.
Pope Francis and the Power of Gentle Leadership
As I’ve reflected on resurrection, I’ve also found myself reflecting on the recent death of Pope Francis.
His papacy was not perfect — no papacy is. He didn’t move as fast or as far as some of us had hoped when it came to justice, inclusion, or the full embrace of the marginalized. But what he did do was remarkable in its own way: he re-centered the church around compassion. Around humility. Around the idea that faith must always begin with love.
He bent to wash the feet of prisoners. He embraced those whom others had shunned. And perhaps most powerfully, he was not afraid to admit when he needed prayer, when he was unsure, or when he was tired.
That kind of vulnerability from someone in such a high and sacred office is no small thing. It reminded us that leadership does not have to be distant. It can be tender. And holy.
He gave us a glimpse of what it looks like to lead — and live — with a heart broken open for the world.
The Power and Healing Found in Community
After Easter, I received message after message from people saying: “Thank you for being real.”
And what I’ve come to understand is this: People don’t need perfect leaders. They need honest ones. They need reminders that they, too, can bring their whole selves — doubts, depression, fears, and all — to the table.
Because healing doesn’t happen in isolation.
Resurrection doesn’t happen in secret.
It happens in community.
It happens when we risk being known.
When we allow others to see what we’ve kept hidden.
When we lean into the sacred circle of friends, family, and chosen family who don’t try to fix us — but simply sit with us, walk with us, and love us through it.
In a world that teaches us to hide our pain and perform strength, vulnerability becomes an act of resistance. And it becomes the birthplace of healing.
A Holy Invitation
So here’s the invitation I offer — not just from the pulpit, but from my own cracked-open heart:
Let’s be real.
Let’s risk honesty.
Let’s stop trying to appear okay when we’re not — and instead, allow ourselves to be held.
Let’s create a community where masks are unnecessary.
A church where confession isn’t a ritual, but a rhythm of real life.
A place where resurrection isn’t just a sermon — it’s a shared experience.
Because when we do that?
We’ll find that the tomb isn’t the end of the story.
It’s just the place we tell the truth —
before love rolls the stone away.
