Mary Magdalene, Joana, Mary the mother of James, and the other women go to the tomb with spices to tend to Jesus’ body. When they find the tomb empty and are stunned by the presence and words of the men in dazzling clothing, they remember. They remember what Jesus had said, which compels them to go out and tell the story. Even in utter shock, they return to their deepest knowing and allow themselves to receive the expansiveness of resurrection. Their imaginations and hearts expand, and they must take action in response. Many of the disciples won’t open themselves to this expansiveness and reject it. Peter is curious enough to return to the tomb, and as a result, he is filled with amazement and awe. How do we carry forth what we have learned this Lent? Can we be curious enough to return and remember? Can we allow ourselves to be filled with expansive hope? Can we trust in the expansive promise of new life, and carry that promise with us wherever we go?

On this Good Friday, we grieve the violence of humanity. In John’s account of Jesus’ death, Jesus’ final words are: “I am thirsty. . . it is finished” (John 19:28, 30). He is offered a jar full of sour wine as he takes his final breaths. And yet, even here, God’s love is full, poured out, self-emptied. Even in his last moments, Jesus is overflowing with truth and the fullness of the human experience. God embodies the fullness of pain and deep sorrow. And so, in the silence of this day, let us, too, sit in the fullness of this cup of sorrow.

Maundy Thursday witnesses God’s invitations to encounter, to connect, and to be transformed. Through three movements, worshipers will visit the baptismal font, trusting in their goodness and God’s loving claim on their lives; they will experience the nourishment of the Table, encountering Jesus’s body through communion; and they will explore how to live out Jesus’s new commandment to love others as he has loved us.

As Jesus enters Jerusalem, the multitude of disciples begins to joyfully shout with praise. The Pharisees try to silence them, but Jesus responds: “I tell you, even if these were silent, the stones would shout out” (Luke 19:40). All of creation cries out with praise—that message rises above the noise, even if the oppressive powers want to silence it. As we begin our walk through Holy Week, let us ask: What can’t be silenced? What must be said? What things can we not stay quiet about? What is bubbling up that we need to give voice to—faith questions, apologies, issues of justice, truth-telling? As we go deeper into the story, the truth will soon be set free.

God is brazen in turning tears into joy. Not so long after their brother Lazarus dies and is raised from the dead, Mary and Martha joyfully welcome Jesus into their home. Mary pours out fragrant perfume (perhaps originally intended to anoint her brother’s body after death) and it fills the whole room. This is a brazen act of beauty. Beauty is resistance to death; beauty is an act of love. Her anointing of Jesus’ feet is also a public act of worship. Her faith does not hide; it is not frugal. It is embodied, broken open, and poured out. This isn’t a frugal faith—it is an abundant, extravagant faith. Mary’s act is also risky—she puts her full body into it, sort of like a protest. She exhibits a shameless and brazen faith.

The word “prodigal” is commonly used to describe the son who squanders his inheritance. Yet, this parable invites us to consider how God’s grace is also prodigal—extravagant, lavish, illogical. This parable disrupts and expands our definitions of grace. Once again, grace is not earned. After wasting his resources, the younger son becomes destitute and returns home to his father, saying, “I am no longer worthy” (Luke 15:21). In response, his father welcomes him with a celebration and the fatted calf. The older son, in contrast, has done everything “right”—he’s tried to perform, work hard, check all the boxes—but he forgets how to celebrate. How might you receive and extend prodigal grace?

Like the fig tree, you are worthy. You’re not a lost cause. You’re not a waste of resources. You deserve audacious hope. You deserve to be nurtured. Your fruit will come. Like the gardener, you are invited to see others with audacious hope and budding potential. The lesson of the fig tree invites us to unpack the source of our worth in a system and society that often measures worthiness by commerce, production, output, success, status, achievement, ethnicity, and/or gender identity. We might ask, “Can the fig tree have worth even if it never produces any figs?” What does that mean for us if the answer is “yes”? Patience, nurture, asset-based thinking, and audacious hope are counter-cultural practices needed for an expansive life.

Even in the desert, Jesus expands our definitions of a full life. It’s not the life the Tempter presents: a life defined by excess power, control, or reign. Jesus sees beyond this facade and says, even in the midst of fasting, “One does not live by bread alone” (Luke 4:4). Excess is not abundance, but there is more. There is a fuller life we are called to live. Even in the midst of struggle, oppressive forces, hardship, and grief—God’s promises spill over, like the bounty of the first fruits from the ground. Even in the desert, you are called to the riverside to be washed by grace.

As we begin our Lenten journey, we’re invited to come fully as we are. The prophet Joel proclaims, “return to God with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning” (Joel 2:12). Your brokenness, joy, gifts, and doubts all belong to God. Brokenness is a beginning. We have to break our faith open to go deeper. Expansive faith is possible when we break open old faith. Digging deeper requires broken ground.