Jesus will meet you in Galilee, the angel said. Galilee was the place in which Jesus' life and ministry had begun. It was the place where the disciple still lived and worked. Galilee was the place from which the Resurrection would become known, real, and proclaimed. The disciples became active apostles in the broader landscape of their lives not stationary keepers of a religious site. This explains why Christians still proclaim the resurrection over two thousand years later but we have lost track of the exact location of the tomb.

We too are called to be different in how we live our lives not simply to be faithful preservers of places and things, or ardent practitioners of particular rites. The tomb is just a pointer. The words we will say, the things we use and the buildings in which we do them are also pointers. The point of the Gospel is the Resurrection and its power to transform the way we live our lives. This is the heart of the matter.

Not far from here is a forked dirt road. I saw it this morning while I was walking. One branch of this dusty lane clearly circles around to the left and the other points off to the right. The left-hand branch curves around on itself and comes back, full circle, to the fork. Held within the embrace of this left-hand path is the remains of a collapsing building. The building is passing away inch by inch. The weather has removed all but the most muted colors, and time and gravity have broken the ridge beam. The old structure looks like it has pierced the surface of the sod and is being slowly buried by time and the pressure of its own weight.

The right hand branch at the fork in the road quickly turns into a dusty track that points to the hilltop without reaching it, and intimates a horizon that lies beyond. The way is not clearly delineated but the invitation is clear. Those who travel up the hill will leave the known way, but they shall stand on the heights and see a landscape that cannot be viewed from the valley.

A tree stands at the apex of the forked road, full of life, its branches raised as though ready to bless or consecrate that which might come before it. Those who approach the fork choose the way they shall go, their souls and bodies. But even those who go to the left and choose to circle around that which is passing away will find themselves coming back to the fork, to the place of decision, over and over again.

And the tree stands ready, branches raised in blessing: ready to greet them, ready to guide them to the road less traveled - the road that leads to the hilltop where the risen sun will warm the upturned faces of those who are standing there when dawn breaks.

The collapsing building in the bowl-shaped valley is like the political and sacrificial structure to which the Pharisees were clinging. They wanted so strongly to preserve "what was" that they were willing to kill for it. But they must have sensed somewhere within themselves that things were slipping away. The Temple and its systems did not survive, even with Jesus out of the way. The Romans razed the Temple to the ground in 70 AD. All the effort that the Pharisees had put into keeping things exactly the same was for naught. The Temple did not last, but Jesus who had died, rose from the dead. God's Spirit transcends both earthly bodies and things made by human hands.

The collapsing building in the valley is like those situations or things that are passing away in our own lives to which we vigorously cling. But only God is eternal. Everything else will fade away. We too have to choose that in which we will place our faith.

On the one hand there are things that are transitory - like our youth, our health, our power and wealth, and "the way we have always done things". On the other hand there is the unchanging grace of God, the strong rock of our salvation, the indissolubility of our baptism, and the freedom that comes through the cross.

Our baptismal font is like the tree in the bowl shaped valley. All in proximity of the font this night are facing a choice; whether we are washed with the water or only with the words of the Baptismal Covenant. Any of us can simply turn and try to circle back to the same old life, or we can consciously choose to walk the road that rises out of the valley.

The water in that font is not simply tap water; it is the taproot of the cross. In that water we are buried with Christ, and for a moment, wood, water and stone co-mingle. The water in that font is a sea of freedom, a liquid mirror in which we can see not only the ancient Israelites' escape from Egypt, and our own release from sin and death, but also the face of Jackson Brooks Marindin superimposed on the face of Christ.

Our font is the wellspring of creation, the river Jordan, and the rocky basin of the empty tomb. And yet, for all of this, the font remains just a pointer. Jesus left the tomb. Jackson and all of us will leave the font and this building when the liturgy concludes.

Let us go as disciples determined to take the road less traveled.
Let us leave knowing we are pilgrims in the valley, but eager to ascend to the hilltop.
Let us proclaim Christ not only with our lips, for these few gathered moments,
but in our actions all the days of our lives.

We stand here below the cross, by the font, and at this altar because God loved us enough
to send his only Son to die for us. Prophets, apostles and martyrs urge us on.
Wood, water and stone cry out to us: "Christ died for you, now go,
with all that you have and all that you are, and live, for Him and for His kingdom."
AMEN.