Sermon from Sunday 20 April

 

Reading(s): Acts 10.34–43, 1 Corinthians 15.19–26, John 20:1-18. This sermon was given by Ann Devereux at All Saints and St Mark.

Early on the first day while it was still dark…

How peculiar? The most extraordinary, world-changing moment in all of history happens not in broad daylight, not in front of a crowd, but in the dark. Before the first light of day. Before any human eye could witness it. Before any human hand or faith group could claim involvement.

The Gospel of Matthew says there was an earthquake - yet apparently no one woke up.

Somewhere on the edge of the sleeping city a garden held a tomb. A tomb that had been sealed shut with a heavy stone two days before. But now as night gives way to morning, something has clearly changed. The stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty.

No eye saw the moment. No fanfare. No lights. No applause.

And yet, there it is, the empty tomb, just waiting for someone to discover it.

God doesn’t often work according to our expectations. What He chooses to reveal or conceal - and when - is rarely what we would plan. This remains a mystery.

Wouldn’t the resurrection have made the perfect media event? Imagine the interviews with eye-witnesses: ‘Tell us, how did you feel as you saw Jesus walking out of the tomb?’, or the crowd gasping, a Saviour stepping out, triumphant and powerful.

But instead it all unfolds quietly, in the dark, in the mystery. As if to say: This is not for show.

Mary arrives first. She has come to finish the work of anointing Jesus' body, a task that was interrupted by the Sabbath. She comes with love and grief, not expecting anything miraculous. But, she finds the tomb open and the body gone. She runs to tell the others, and they come and look but they don’t understand, and return home. It’s still so soon after the appalling trauma of Jesus' crucifixion. They would have all been emotionally stressed, frightened and exhausted.

However, Mary stays. Confused. Hope buried.

She checks the tomb again. This time there were angels sitting where the body had been. They ask her, ‘Why are you weeping?’.

It’s a strange question to ask someone standing at a grave of a loved one, isn’t it? The answer seems obvious.

The first experience of the resurrection is not clarity. It is not joy…rather, it is one of loss, emptiness and confusion. The kind of bewilderment that doesn’t neatly lead to faith, but just deepens the ache we feel.

Even the empty tomb doesn’t convince the first disciples. It’s just more mystery in an already painful story.

And yet… something begins to shift.

Mary turns away from the tomb. Someone is standing there. Mary knows him so well, but now does not recognize him. She thinks he is the gardener. He too asks, ‘Why are you weeping?’

But then comes the moment everything changes:

A name. Her name. Spoken in a voice she knows better than her own.

“Mary.”

And in that instant, she knows. It’s Jesus.

She turns again—but this time, it’s not from grief, but from joy. “Rabbouni!” she cries. Teacher!

This turning—this moment of recognition—is at the heart of what it means to follow Christ.

Not through logic or having all the answers, or through some spectacle, but hearing the voice that calls our name, and turning towards Him in faith.

Faith begins not in certainty, but in bewilderment. In grief and helplessness.

The risen Jesus cannot be recognised by human choice. It is for Him, Jesus, to reveal himself to us. Faith is invited, and then received as a gift.

What is really encouraging is that Jesus is already present, even when we do not recognise him.

In one sense Mary was quite right to think Jesus was the gardener.

John, the gospel writer, gives us a clue in the details. After all they are standing in the garden - it is the morning of the first day - Jesus is the New Adam.

This is the beginning of a New creation. And just as Adam began by naming what he saw, Jesus begins by calling Mary by name…

The miracle of the resurrection is about something NOT being there: the body. His tomb is empty and the grave is not final. The resurrection of Christ shows us that death has been defeated.

In Christian art, for centuries peacocks have been used to symbolize resurrection and immortality. This stems from the ancient belief that peacock flesh does not decay after death, and resonates with spiritual rebirth and eternal life. Its vibrant plumage, which changes with the seasons, further reinforces the idea of renewal and transformation.

Peacocks are referred to in St Augustine’s 5th century book, The City Of God, and C.S. Lewis also refers to this ancient symbolism by hanging peacock feathers from the roof of the Great Hall in the Castle of Cair Paravel in Narnia, home to its kings and queens.

Think about peacock feathers - perhaps look at a picture or an actual one if you have one.

The world is broken.

We hear this phrase often - the world is broken, the NHS is broken, society is broken.

But in that empty tomb, life is streaming through it. It waits to be discovered by us, as it did that first morning. Resurrection has happened and Christ is risen!

Like Mary, we too must bend and look into the tomb, the place of death, and find it empty. To bring our own mix of grief, confusion and longing. And then to turn. To hear Jesus call our name.

This is the first day of a new creation. Life begins again. And today, we renew the promises of our baptism.

‘I turn to Christ.'

And when we do, He is there, waiting to greet us.

Christ is risen. Hallelujah!