What I am about to tell you happened to me on Easter morning many years ago at another church in a land far, far away. Well, let's just say this happened at another church and we'll keep it at that. You and I both know that I'm not old enough for it to be many years ago and I'm not cosmopolitan enough to have experienced a land far, far away.

It was Easter morning. The night had given way to the day and I, with the rest of the world, was expecting the Sunrise on high to visit (Luke 1:78). Kris and I woke our children, greeted them with smiles and dressed them in their resurrection best. I readied my vocal cords with a hot cup of Bengal Spice tea graced with just a touch of honey. I practiced a few measures of some traditional Easter hymns (Up from the Grave He Arose, Christ the Lord Is Risen Today) that I was absolutely sure we would sing in the morning service. These were songs only sung once a year, on a very special day and if for no other reason than that they included high notes only reachable on one day a year.

We arrived at church early that morning humming with joy. To our dismay, we learned from the bulletin that we wouldn't be singing on this particular Easter. The church had opted to perform a cantata where 10-15 people sang to us for the entirety of the worship service. Adding insult to injury, the musical arrangements selected were entirely new pieces. The liturgy planners had reduced us to spectators. There was no Word, no sacraments, no congregational participation. We were there to sit still and shut up. I felt like a kid forced to window shop at a candy store. I felt like an actor in a play who never had a chance to speak his lines in the script.

I must admit, I left that service a tad bit grumpy. As we exited the parking lot, I noticed the church sign out front which said, "He is risen; he is not here. Mark 16:6." The words gave me a chuckle. I turned to Kris and commented, "If that isn't truth in advertising. Jesus wasn't here this morning. He must have gone to church somewhere else."

The words of that church sign were first heard two thousand years ago on that first Easter morning. A few women came looking for Jesus. Their hearts were heavy with sorrow. The brutal force of the facts had brought them to the tomb looking for a dead body. Their leader, their Lord had been tragically executed as a prisoner of the state just a few days earlier. They came that Sunday morning to pay their last respects and anoint their loved one with burial spices.

When they came to the tomb, however, the stone had been rolled away and the place was empty. Fearing that someone had moved the body of Jesus' they asked around, hoping to learn what had happened. When they got an answer, they got the gospel. What they got in the gospel were a few words, which have since changed the world: "he is risen; he is not here." These words are four short words in the Greek New Testament (egerethe ouk estin hode). Together, they are barely long enough to take up a single line of space on parchment. And yet, within a few short generations, these words conquered the vast stretches of the world's largest empire. Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar had built their kingdoms by the might of their military. Jesus and His followers would build a kingdom by the force of four words. What do these four words mean?

Jesus is not here. He is not in this tomb. He is not dead. He is not a memory. He is not a footnote to history. He is not a tragic victim of injustice. He is not the defeated foe of evil. He is not what could have been. He is not the silence of God. He is not the unbearable pain of life. He is not ultimate sorrow. He is not Dante's hell for those who have long since abandoned all hope.

Jesus has risen. He is still alive. He is present. He is our hope. He is our future. He is what will be. He is a victor. He is a conqueror. He is peace on earth. He is the Hallelujah chorus. He is the coming resurrection from the dead. He is the new heavens and the new earth.

This is why we sing. This is why we insist that we sing.