No one believes in the existence of the devil these days, do they? Do you? Perhaps we can thank Hollywood and Halloween’s marketing blitz for our casual if not incredulous approach to the devil’s existence. Pointy horns, pitch forks, red costumes, and box office ticket sales continue to shape our culture’s collective consciousness of the devil. Though red tights and long tails may be a frightening thought as you consider a costume for a Halloween party, they do nothing to communicate the true terror of an honest-to-God encounter with the devil’s power.

This Lent we are called to expunge the fantastical images of the devil from our minds and think seriously about the real presence of evil in our world. We know firsthand about the sin that caused, causes, and will cause suffering to us, our loved ones, our neighbors, our global communities, and creation itself. Sin is real; suffering is real; evil is real; indeed, the devil is real. This oppressive, tangible reality is as real as the air we breathe—felt but not always seen. Greed, envy, rage, hatred, war, discrimination, and apathy are just some of the ways the devil’s forces wreak havoc upon us. These forces have one goal and one goal only: to turn us away from the will of God.

Matthew’s gospel reorients us to the truth of the devil’s power, and calls us to name Satan’s presence in the world. In the wilderness Jesus encounters an evil as real as its opposite, resurrection. The great tempter seeks to undermine Jesus’ mission before he even begins; testimony that evil has much to fear of our Jesus! Nonetheless, Jesus will not be dissuaded. “Away with you, Satan!” proclaims the redeemer of the cosmos. Thus, the Lenten journey begins—a journey that takes us to the cross, where the devil is named and crushed underfoot.

What is it about the night that invites questions? As our head rests on the pillow and shadows stretch out on the bedroom wall, questions, like field mice, begin to emerge from the nooks and crannies of our mind. At first, the questions are utilitarian: Did someone let the dog out this evening? Are the kids’ lunches packed for school? When am I going to get to the grocery store this week? And then, without warning, the questions morph: Is Grandma going to recover from this illness? Why are my prayers so short these days? Does Jesus really care about us—about me? At this point we know that night has truly descended. Truth uttered in darkness. Naked honesty feels much safer, much less exposed when light’s reach seems a day way.

Maybe that is why we can relate to Nicodemus. For when did Nicodemus come to Jesus? By night! Though we can easily skip over the setting’s description in this gospel encounter, it is so very important. With shadows dancing in the torchlight, Nicodemus makes his way to Jesus, beset by questions he can ask only under cover of darkness. Though the darkness is Nicodemus’ security blanket, he cannot help himself. Like a moth fluttering in the night sky, Nicodemus is irresistibly drawn to the light. Not just any light: Jesus, the light of the world, the light no darkness can overcome. As people filled with our own questions, we follow in the furtive footsteps of Nicodemus, falsely believing our naked honesty will remain hidden in the gloom of night. But the Spirit, through the light of Christ, calls us out from the shadows, and in fact, exposes us to the brilliance of God’s love—a love that meets our questioning hearts with nothing less than life eternal.

The woman at the well is a familiar text for many people. This image of Jesus standing at a well talking with a Samaritan woman is emblazoned in our visual and theological imaginations, but as with all Bible stories that we think we know, we might do well to take another look! Perhaps relegating this text to the simple moralism “be nice to people who are different” causes us to miss how deeply radical and difficult the message really is. We may assume this gospel simply urges us to stand with the marginalized, especially women. Yet while standing with marginalized women is a commendable action it can lead us, after doing so, to congratulate ourselves for being just like Jesus. A more critical and searching look at this text calls us to the reality that Jesus doesn’t just stand with the other, Jesus stands with your other; your church’s other. Your church’s “Samaritans” may be homosexuals, evangelicals, urban people, rural people, conservatives, liberals, the poor, the rich, the dying, or single parents. Your church’s Samaritans could very well be the key to this text. Because, like it or not, when we draw lines between ourselves and other people, Jesus is always on the other side of that line. So communities and individuals who thirst for the living water would do well to look to who our own Samaritans might be. And when we find them we should perhaps not be surprised to also find Jesus; a Jesus we thought was all our own but who, in reality, is the living water who comes to us in the strange and the stranger.

Hope overcomes despair for God’s people: this is the message of the readings for today. The hope of new life is evident in the story of “dry bones” from Ezekiel. The children of Israel declare their hope is lost. The prophet’s experience in the valley of dry bones inspires him to preach renewed hope to the people. Psalm 130 sings of hope in God and God’s word. The work of God’s Spirit gives hope of new life in Paul’s letter to the church at Rome. The Gospel of John tells the hope-filled story of the raising of Lazarus from the dead. The gospel gives us encouraging words to sustain us through the approaching despair of Christ’s passion and brings us to the fulfillment of hope on Easter. Martha’s wistful words to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here. . . . But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him” (John 11:21-22), reflect the hope of God’s people in the face of despair, even in the face of death.

Each text encourages hearers to hope in God and God’s word. How do Christians experience unfulfilled hope? This is the challenge for those who interpret today’s texts for hearers. Israel’s woes are not at an end; other psalms tell of struggle and pain; the Christ-believers at Rome are persecuted; Jesus who raises Lazarus from the dead soon dies. And yet hope is fulfilled as Paul proclaims “all Israel will be saved” (Rom. 11:26). Psalm 46 sings of God’s presence in time of trouble. A preview of the hope of the resurrection will sustain believers in these final days of Lent (John 20:17). The Christian’s confidence in the resurrection of the dead epitomizes their hope in Christ.

The servanthood of a teacher in Isaiah, the outcast in the psalm, those who bow down in Philippians: today’s readings teach humility. On this day we move from Christ’s triumphant ride on a humble donkey to the humiliation of the cross. The humility of the characters in the passion story is in question: Judas, Pilate, the Twelve, chief priests and elders, Barabbas, the crowd, the soldiers, two bandits. Among other things, their lack of humility is what brings about the passion of Christ. There is only one truly humble person in this story: Jesus the Christ. Matthew’s humble Jesus cries out from the cross to ask God why he has been forsaken.

Only in the stories of the resurrection do other humble characters appear: the centurion, the women, Joseph of Arimathea. A careful look at the complexity of humility in the palm and passion stories could set up a reflective theme carried through to Easter. Who in each story do we regard as humble? Why? How does our humility compare? Are there characters who seem to gain or lose humility in the course of the story from the triumphant entry to the resurrection? A deep and meaningful understanding of humility is a worthy and lasting gift to take away from the season of Lent and the celebration of Easter.

Joseph of Arimathea is a particularly good character on which to base an understanding of humility. A close look at all references to him in the Gospels, and a bit of creative narrative, create an image of a truly humble believer. He is referenced in both canonical and apocryphal texts. His devotion represents deep humility that leads to the very finest of good works as he cares for the body of Jesus.

Easter turns the world upside down. It defies our expectations with hiddenness and bluntness: Mary does not recognize the resurrected Jesus (John 20:14), the good news is heralded by an earthquake and terrifying angels and is brought to the women of the church first, rather than to the Twelve (Matt. 28:1-10). The radical reversals prophesied in scripture and revealed in Christ’s life and ministry culminate in the good news we proclaim today: Christ, through death, has triumphed over death. “The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone” (Ps. 118:22).

Easter offers the mystical possibility of transformation in every moment. In this season, what is dying and what is being born? For our communities? For our families? For our world? What is breaking open like a seed to die (John 12:24) so that new life might thrive?

The theme is framed candidly in Colossians: “You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God (Col. 3:3). In the season of Easter, we are invited to allow old husks to fall away so that Christ’s new life may emerge. This part of the resurrection story is strange, unsettling. We are invited, after all, to share fully in Christ’s death as well as his resurrection (Rom. 6:5; 2 Cor. 4:10-11). Terrifying, but in the mystery of the Holy Spirit’s work in us, we receive it as hope (1 Peter 1:3).

On this Easter day, we are honest about how God is stirring us to transformation, and we may be called to faithfully lament the letting go. Almost simultaneously, as we embody Christ’s resurrection in the present, we celebrate it with great joy (Matt. 28:8). In our desire to be hidden in Christ’s abundant life (John 10:10), we can even name seasons of suffering as Christ’s resurrection emerging (Phil. 3:10).