Every year, I remember. Easter began in the dark. My father
would quietly tap on my bedroom door. Pssst…Chris…do
you still want to go? It felt like I had just closed my eyes.
How could it already be time to get up? But Easter began
when my bare feet hit the cold wooden floor. We rode
to the church together in silence, just us two; there’s not
much to say at that hour in the morning. We parked in the
empty lot of Vandalia Presbyterian Church and made our
way to the lawn, where we silently set up metal folding
chairs. Every year I remember Easter began for me in
the darkness and the quiet of that empty lawn, as slowly,
human-shaped shadows began to whisper in the pre-
dawn twilight.
Still dark.
Early on a Sunday, a woman walks to the graveyard. Of
all the gospels, John is most specific about the time Mary
arrived. It was still dark. The sun had not yet risen. It was
still dark as Mary approached the final resting place of
her dearest friend. The darkness was more than light’s
absence. Mary was veiled in grief, surrounded by the
shadows of loss, the gloom of faded hope. The humble
teacher, the gentle healer, the powerful preacher who had
given her reason to believe, was gone. His bright light
extinguished on a Roman cross. There was nothing for
her to do but put one foot in front of the other. And so, I
imagine, unable to sleep, she rose in the darkness to stand
outside the tomb, and there she wept for all that was lost.
Still dark.
Now, we who worship on this bright Easter morning know
what happened next because John gives us all we need.
He tells us it’s the first day of the week—that’s the day of
resurrection. Life has already begun to stir before the sun
rises. But Mary cannot see it yet. Not in the dark. It’s Easter,
but she’s still living in Good Friday. And I think we know
exactly what that feels like.
We know Good Friday. Yes, we have seen death’s power.
We have felt suffering’s weight. Oh yes, we know that
graveyard. We too have been awake in the dark. Maybe
you are searching medical websites for answers you don’t
want to find, or replaying in your mind an angry outburst
you wish you could take back, or aching from the absence
of one you love who used to be right there. It’s 3 o’clock
in the morning, and you’re doomscrolling through cruelty
close to home and catastrophe across the globe. It’s 3 in
the morning, and you’re worrying over aging parents. It’s
3 in the morning, and you’re fretting over distant children
or frayed relationships. It’s 3 in the morning, and in those
silent hours, fear swells and burdens grow heavy.
Still dark.
So, we try. We aim to keep the darkness at bay. We fill
our homes with artificial light and noise-making devices.
I remember when our son Samuel was two years old,
every single night, when we flipped the switch to turn
out the light in his room, he would say, “Uh-oh.” Yes,
darkness is hard at any age. Last month I had my annual
physical. After looking me over, the doctor had a few
questions. I had answers. Stress at work? Not one bit.
How are you sleeping? Nine hours a night, doc. How
about you? Our laughter was knowing, because the story
is familiar. Most days still begin in the dark—not what the
doctor ordered.
And yet. The gospel witness is crystal clear on this one
point: darkness is the only place where Easter begins.
Only in the dark can you see that first glimmer of light.
New life stirs in unlit places—seeds in the ground, babies
in the womb, Jesus in the tomb. This day is not about our
ability to magically see in the dark. All we need to do is
show up and let God turn on the light.
You might have noticed that John tells his story in two
different parts. Part one is frantic and frenzied. Mary
discovers the stone rolled away, and she runs to tell Peter
and John. The men—of course the men—race each other
to the tomb, see that it’s empty, and go back home. In the
first scene, there’s a lot of action, but no understanding.
No one mentions the resurrection. They’re focused on
the body. Where is it? But Mary, weeping in grief and
exhaustion, goes back to the tomb. Even then, even there,
the sight of two brightly lit angels cannot lift the fog. “They
have taken away my Lord,” she says, “and I don’t know
where they put him.”
Still dark. And then, the miracle.
Jesus is there. Alive. And she thinks he’s the gardener. I just
love that. Why? Because he is not radiant with resurrection
light. There is no glowing halo around his head. No choirs
of angels surround him with songs of praise. Frederick
Buechner tells it best: “When the…gospels come to the
most important part of the story, they tell it in whispers.” i
I think Jesus whispered her name. “Pssst…Mary.” And
suddenly, she knows. She just knows. I think that’s when
Easter dawns. I think that’s when the light shines. The
impossible has happened, and now anything is possible.
Mary has missed every other sign—the rolled-away
stone, the empty tomb, the angels, even Jesus himself.
And who can blame her? Afterall, it’s still dark. Hard
to see. But when she hears her name, that’s when
everything changes.
Friends, the message of resurrection does not always
come in earth-shaking thunder, or neon lights, or
shouts from a mountaintop. It comes in a word spoken
in love. Mary.
Samuel, it’s alright. We’ll be right here. You’re safe. We
love you.
And isn’t that what we all want? To hear our name spoken
in love? Isn’t that what we all need? Isn’t that what gives
us courage in the darkness? Knowing we’re not alone?
Knowing we are loved beyond measure?
If you have heard your name spoken in love, then you know
what happened to Mary in that garden. That’s when the light
broke through. That’s when her faith returned, her life was
changed, and she became the first preacher of the gospel: “I
have seen the Lord.” Five words. The original Easter sermon.
I imagine some of you dream I could be so succinct.
But first, she heard her name.
So, what about you? Have you heard your name? Have you
seen the Lord? Because if you have, God’s got work for you
to do. The truth of Easter does not depend on our ability to
explain what happened. This day is not about convincing
arguments. It’s about encounter. It’s about testimony. I have
seen the Lord. He spoke my name.
You see, it’s still dark.
Too many still live in Good Friday’s deadly grip. Too many.
Too many are left out, kept out, worn out, shut out, shoved
out. Too many live in the shadows of violence, injustice,
and cruelty. And too many enable these conditions
through our silence and our timidity. Easter insists on a
different story. This is no sentimental promise. It is the
relentless proclamation that death dealers will not have
the final say. That love—yes, love—is stronger than death,
not only in our hearts, but in our streets, in our city, in our
nation, and in the world. I must proclaim to you that the
resurrection demands a new way of life that refuses to
accept abuse, or bigotry, or exploitation. That resurrection
demands a new way of life that listens for the names of the
suffering and sees their faces. That resurrection demands
a new way of life that carries light that reveals, light that
exposes, light that drives out the shrouded forces of
hatred. And let us begin.
Because if you have seen the Lord, you can no longer
hide your light. If you have seen the Lord, you cannot hold
your tongue.
Easter is encounter. And encounter changes everything.
Because of Easter, love can no longer be an abstraction. It
has a name, a face, a story. Because of Easter, we know that
is how we are loved, not in general, but by name. Easter is
encounter, and encounter changes everything.
So today, my friends, we proclaim the defeat of death. The
grave has lost its victory. Today we announce God’s triumph
over all that seeks to separate us from God. And maybe you
are ready to meet the Risen Christ. Maybe you are ready to
join the celebration.
But maybe not. Maybe this day still feels heavy. Maybe new
life has not yet whispered your name. Afterall, it is still dark.
And I tell you, it may get darker still.
If that’s where you are, I have good news: you are in the
very place where new life begins. Easter only always begins
in the dark. And you’ve already done the one thing you have
to do, the only thing you can do—you showed up. No doubt
you’ve brought your questions, your grief, your fear, and, I
pray, a flicker of hope whispered in the darkness.
A couple of weeks ago for spring break, our family traveled
to Zion National Park in Utah, a place of astounding
beauty and light that echoes. One of Zion’s marvels is
this mile-long tunnel through Mt. Carmel, an engineering
masterpiece in 1930. The first time we drove through that
tunnel, I was at the wheel, and our eight-year-old son, Ben,
was in the backseat. As we emerged from darkness into full
sun, Ben was reflective:
Hey, Dad, look how bright it is when you come out of a dark
cave. I have to blink a lot and squint my eyes, but I love it.
That’s Easter. It begins in the dark. And so, you are where
you are meant to be. Now, listen for the voice of love.
It sounds like a quiet tap on a closed door. It looks like the
first rays of light on a church lawn, or brightness that makes
you squint to see. Hope is dawning.
Psst…Mary! Time to wake up. The sun is rising.