Homilies
"Mary!"
Alleluia! Christ is Risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!
It is Easter morning. The stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty. The world has shifted on its axis — though it may not feel like it yet. Because today’s Gospel does not begin with trumpets or shining angels or great crowds rejoicing. No — it begins in the dark. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb…”
Still dark. And that’s the truth, isn’t it? The resurrection doesn’t come with a sunrise neatly scheduled at 6:12 a.m. It comes in the shadows, in the confusion, in the sorrow that still clings to Mary’s heart. She has come, like we would, to mourn — to weep, to remember, to tend to what is lost. In the Gospel of John, the darkness is often used symbolically, so signify an absence. Many times that absence is of knowledge or understanding, as we heard on Good Friday, the dark came in the absence of God.
As I was writing this, a quote popped into my head about it always being darkest before the dawn and it occurred to me that we can only know this because we have the certainty that dawn will always come. Today we have that knowledge of the Easter story, we know that Jesus rose again but for those there on that first Good Friday, that darkest time must have felt like it would go on forever.
But before we leap to the joy of today, let us take a moment to look back over the last week: Holy Week has taken us through the depths after the jubilation of Palm Sunday, with crowds singing ‘Hosanna’. On Monday, Jesus cursed the fig tree and cleansed the temple. On Tuesday, Jesus spent the day teaching, trying to change minds and open closed hearts. On Wednesday, Mary extravagantly anointed his feet with nard, whilst Judas was striking his deal to betray Jesus. On Maundy Thursday, we watched love kneel to wash feet, before his betrayal and arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane. On Good Friday, we stood before the cross, where love was condemned, lifted high, pierced and died for the world. And then — Holy Saturday. A day with no liturgy, no song, no comfort. Just the silence of a sealed tomb. Waiting and wondering. An in-between time.
But what happens in this quiet time is remarkably important. Many Christians rush to the celebration of Easter Sunday, a time to rejoice in Jesus’ resurrection and what it means for us as Christians. No one wants to dwell on death, loss and grief, yet Holy Saturday is a reflective time. A time to ponder life on the edge. None of us were there the day that Jesus died but we can all probably understand a sense of it being a borderline, a time where things can’t go back to how they were. That is Holy Saturday. A limbo between crisis and resolution. For us, our borderline might be the loss of a loved one, the ending of a relationship, a change of significant future plans or acute health issues. Nothing can be the same again, we need to learn to live in a different way from now on, acknowledging the change and holding the grief of its loss whilst continuing to live.
For the women around Jesus there was nothing they could do except wait. Joseph had asked for the body and it had been taken to the tomb and sealed away. In the gospel of Luke it tells us that the women went away to prepare spices and perfume and then they rested for the Sabbath according to the commandment. The Sabbath was coming and their hearts were shattered but they followed the commandment to keep the Sabbath. Their loss was great that day. Not only had Jesus been crucified, but after realising what part he had played in it, Judas too took his own life. We cannot know what Judas thought would happen to Jesus after betraying him, but the burden and guilt were too much for him to bear. He could see no way back. So, the community bore the weight of two deaths that day.
For us, there is no stone to seal our hurt, our whole life may feel like a tomb at these times. Claustrophobic, oppressive, smothering. Holy Saturday, whenever it may occur for us, may feel like there is no future at all, but in the silence and the waiting we need to recognise that there is hope. As bleak and lonely as it may feel at times, we must remember we are not alone. However securely sealed our own tombs appear, they cannot escape the love of God. This time and space for lament is necessary. The struggle now will strengthen our resolve, making us stronger, over and above the usual rush to offer platitudes and bland reassurances that ignore the depths of our emotions. Putting on a brave face for others so they too don’t have to feel our hurt. This time of waiting on Holy Saturday gives us space to reflect on how loved we are. How much God cares for his creation, that he sent his only Son to die as a ransom to reconcile us back with him. God is with us in our suffering, just as God suffered with Jesus on the cross. But God doesn’t want us to remain in this space, by God’s grace we can and will walk through the heaviness of Holy Saturday and emerge once again, changed maybe, but still here.
And if we do not let ourselves feel that — the raw absence, the stillness, the desolation — then we rob Easter of its power. Because the resurrection is not just a happy ending — it is a world-shaking reversal. And you cannot reverse something unless it has first been broken.
As our creeds teach us, during those three days Jesus first descended to the dead. Three long days of grief for those who were close to Him, but they were not days of inactivity. Jesus was conquering death. Death is no longer the end for Christians, through Jesus’ sacrifice he paid a ransom for us, reconciling back with God and with that, showing us the promise of eternal life. During the silence of Holy Saturday, Jesus is breaking apart the walls of our lives, setting us free from captivity, breaking the bonds of death and filling our own lives, our living tombs, with love so deep it permeates all and transforms us on Easter Day into a new life. Just as a caterpillar must undergo a period of change and waiting before it is transformed into a butterfly, this time cannot be rushed.
The disciples kept the Sabbath; a day to be faithful. They may have been on autopilot, totally numb and bereft. They may have been angry and resentful but still they were faithful and observed the Sabbath. They rested in God’s strength until they could begin to see a way forward. Keeping the Sabbath is more than a command not to work, it is a command to rest; to trust and surrender to the timing and love of God. We have one advantage over those disciples experiencing the first Holy Saturday, we know what happens today, on Easter Sunday, not just for Jesus but for us all. Good Friday is not the end. Holy Saturday doesn’t last forever. God’s silence is not absence and inactivity is not apathy. We are not alone in our struggles, but they do have their purpose.
Mary knew the brokenness. She stood at the cross. She stayed when the others scattered. She watched Him die. And yet today we met her at the tomb, not because she expects resurrection, but because love refuses to let go. And what does she find? An empty tomb. And still — she does not rejoice. She weeps. Because an empty tomb without Jesus is just another layer of grief.
But then, she turns. She sees a man. And then, the moment everything changes:
“Mary.”
Not a sermon. Not a miracle. Just her name.
One word, spoken by the One who knows her. And in that moment — resurrection becomes real. Not abstract, not theological — but personal.
Her Lord. Her Rabbi. Her Jesus. Alive.
This is the Easter we should be celebrating today.
One that knows what it is to grieve.
One that knows the silence of that Saturday.
One that knows the pain of unanswered prayers and dashed hopes.
And still — one that breaks through with the gentle voice of Jesus calling us by name.
That is the power of Easter.
This is the reason we rejoice.
Not because we’re skipping past the pain, but because pain does not have the final word.
Death does not have the final word.
The tomb is not the end.
Because He lives, we can live — truly live.
Because He calls Mary’s name, we know He will call ours.
Because He rose, we know our stories — our broken, beautiful and unfinished stories — will also be raised in Him.
So on this Easter morning, do not rush. Take a moment to sit with Mary at the tomb. Let yourself remember the silence of Saturday. The ache. The confusion. And then — hear Him speak your name. Let that voice call you into new life. Jesus is risen. We have our Lord back. And He is calling you by name. Love will once again conquer all. It really is always darkest before the dawn but the dawn will come, always, and with a triumphant love.
Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Amen.