TRANSITION: a deceptively mild word for the seismic shifts for Christians with the Resurrection at Easter and its aftermath. TRANSITION also uncannily conveys how those pivotal moments in Christianity parallel our turbulent broader lives today.

The Easter season marks a breathtaking game changer: Jesus’ miraculous transitions with the Passion, recounted in the Gospels, from crucified human to resurrected Son of God who soon ascended to his usual place by God the Father. We, in turn, received a model for living in a flawed world, a supportive (disembodied) presence in the process, and reassurances of hope beyond.

The Resurrection also triggered, in a stupendous ripple effect, countless other transitions for Christianity. I think of Saul, Roman persecutor of Christians, transformed, in a dramatic blinding divine call, into the powerful apostle and teacher Paul.

Consider also the 11 apostles who, illuminated by the Holy Spirit at the next pivotal event Pentecost (50 days after the Resurrection), transitioned to divinely sanctioned bearers of the Word, Light, and Christ’s example throughout the world. All but John the Beloved underwent forms of the Passion: They were arrested, executed and, some believe, ascended immediately to heaven.

Those transitions, I propose, have broad counterparts in our Now. Here are examples that occur to me for just 2022, even though we’re nowhere near completing the Christian “arc:” Some of our phases are simultaneous; others have yet to begin.

Torture and death phase of the Passion. It might parallel this year’s painful spike in gun violence, homicide, and opioid addiction in the United States, the repercussions of the evolving pandemic, and Russian violation of Ukraine, threatening nations beyond and escalating to outlawed levels. Our Passion this year encompasses countless lives broken and lost, and families and communities ravaged by these crises, and anguish worldwide.

Resurrection. Might we see forms of resurrection in Ukrainian refugees who, for months now, have found sanctuary in new places, to be restored to life there or, some hope, at home?

Hope. Hope grows out of the generosity of communities worldwide that embrace refugees, nurturing new life, and of Ukrainians abroad who rally to help those at home. Hope drives an embattled Ukraine that, with increasing international support, resists invasion to reclaim its bloodied land and restore its people. Spring planting, I read, began in recovered ground even as Ukrainians confront new assaults that threaten daily. The light that animates these beleaguered communities awes me.

Yet there’s so much more! I think of the profound transitions in lives near and far this season. So many complete an education radically revamped by the pandemic to enter a changed workplace in a changed world.

Others courageously reshape their lives, themselves, even their sexual identities. Yet more—like one young couple I much respect—start families with eager and intelligent engagement with whatever comes.

Other transitions that we all can think of—perhaps our own included— are similar passages through turmoil to a changed life that embraces the future, mindful of the pitfalls. This accepting hopefulness, expressed in one of Henri Nouwen’s meditations on the season, is an Easter gift that heartens me:

The Easter season is a time of hope. There still is fear, there still is a painful awareness of sinfulness, but there also is light breaking through

— Suzanne Glover Lindsay, St. Stephen’s historian and curator