"Christ is risen!" she says when I get in the car.

"He is risen indeed!" I reply.

It is the Paschal greeting, the tradition of Christians for centuries to greet each other this way on Easter morning. My mother taught me when I was young and here with Sarah at 6:20am I remember she too is family.

We walk toward the Levitt Shell, an open venue in the central park of Memphis. I carry a blanket for us to sit on and my hot tea. It is a brisk morning and the sky still somber gray.

It is an ecumenical service. The Presbyterians, the Episcopalians, the non-Southern Baptists and the Missionary Baptists are all waiting for the sun to rise together. Some in Sunday best, others look like they just unzipped a tent and came out to sit at the campfire. The Missionary Baptist choir is elegant in suits and heels. They fill the stage as if ready for Carnegie Hall. We are black and white, liturgical and charismatic on the lawn. We are one body.

A few from my church family sit on a blanket next to us. One is very small, happily eating Cheerios as she rests in a lap. There is Gospel sway and folk strumming, music for a slightly older crowd. Light breaks more and more.

Men and women ministers read prayers and the Resurrection story. Some in robes, others in plain clothes. The sermon is delivered by a gentle man and he tells us it okay to doubt. That yes, this Resurrection story does sound made up. But it is our hope, one we will commit to wrestle with. It is darkness turning to light, and Christ is present in both.

On the stage is the communion table. A silk patterned tablecloth hangs long and sacred. It is covered in cups and plates. Each church has brought its own to share, a potluck Eucharist. There are cups made of clay and fired in a kiln, others made of silver. Some are simple and brown, another blazing green. The plates of bread are piled in mounds. A silver tower of trays stacks tall. It is the passable dish of my childhood. I imagine the small juice shot glasses, each sitting in place like a deviled egg plate.

A woman minister breaks the bread, pours the wine. Her voice is clear and sure:

Soon men and women, ministers by vocation and ministers by commitment, come surround the table. They take the elements and move toward the edges of the lawn in a horseshoe shape. The suits, the mountain gear, the old, the young, the black and the white. They move out in pairs - two by two - one with the bread and one with the juice. All who share in Christ's resurrection are welcome at this table made by two willing servants.

We rise from our blankets and our lawn chairs. We stand in line and wait for our turn to receive the mystery. I take a chunk of bread and dip it in the juice. I linger at the soaking, wanting to sop up as much grace blood as I can. In my mouth it is sweet. I am reminded of what Augustine wrote:

I drink the sweetness in the park with the people. I forget myself and I take it in. The robes and the jeans, the tow-headed children still in pajamas. We have come to celebrate the sweetness of the Resurrection, the mystery that seems too good to be true. But it is only good and true and we are one body, coming from darkness into a marvelous light.