Easter 2026

 

Having learned the joyful message of the Resurrection from the angel, the women disciples boldly proclaimed the good news to the apostles: “Death has been despoiled. Christ God is risen, granting the world great mercy.” — Resurrection Troparion

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. She had been there the evening before, standing at the foot of the cross with Mary, the mother of Jesus, and the disciple John. Others had remained at a distance, fearful and hesitant to be identified as followers of this Galilean preacher. But Mary was there as Jesus died. She witnessed his body taken down and laid in the hastily prepared tomb of Joseph of Arimathea. Having followed him throughout much of his public ministry, she now came, undoubtedly devastated, to grieve the loss of her friend.

When she arrived, she found the tomb empty—his burial shroud lying folded in the place where his body had been. Fearing the worst, that the body of this charismatic yet controversial figure had been stolen, she ran to Peter and cried out, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” One can imagine the tears streaming down her face. To be denied a place to mourn and remember must have felt, in some sense, like a second death. Peter returned with her, inspected the tomb, likely concluded it was a grave robbery, and then departed. But Mary remained, weeping.

In the depths of her grief, she encountered the risen Jesus. Mistaking him for the gardener, she explained the reason for her sorrow and pleaded—almost accusingly—for the return of her Lord’s body. One can feel the pathos of the moment: her desperate longing to lay her beloved to rest. Then he turned to her, looked at her, and said a single word: “Mary.” In that instant, she recognized him. The Lord was risen, and in the midst of her grief, Mary Magdalene was given a reason to rejoice.

Let no one say that women should not preach, for it was Mary who first proclaimed the resurrection, preaching the earliest sermon in the history of the Church: “I have seen the Lord.” These words have echoed through the centuries to this very day. The tomb was empty. Christ is risen. And the world can never be the same. This is not myth; it is the beating heart of history.

Yet we remain surrounded by death, hatred, and violence. The headlines remind us daily: wars rage, divisions deepen within our communities, and the world offers us no shortage of reasons to weep. Many of us are weary—deeply weary. And still, just as Jesus came to Mary in the midst of her grief, so he comes to us now. He comes having faced the full weight of sin and death upon the hard wood of the cross. He comes having burst forth from the tomb. Though the world may seem to be perishing, Christ is risen, and death itself has been defeated. Even when hope feels beyond reach, Christ gives it to us nonetheless.

Easter is the proclamation of new life—certain, unshakable, and offered to each of us by God. Last evening, at our joint Vigil with Saint Andrew’s, Yardley, the Paschal Candle—the symbol of the risen Christ—entered a darkened church. Slowly, steadily, its light overcame the darkness, just as it did in the empty tomb. And I, a humble and perhaps tone-deaf priest, intoned the ancient words of the Exsultet:

Rejoice now, heavenly hosts and choirs of angels,
and let your trumpets shout salvation
for the victory of our mighty King.

Rejoice and sing now, all the round earth,
bright with a glorious splendor,
for darkness has been vanquished by our eternal King.

Christ is risen indeed. This is no mere metaphor or symbol of renewal. Jesus truly died—and truly rose—so that the chains of sin might be broken and we might be set free. Therefore, let us stand with Mary Magdalene, with the women and men across the centuries, and renew our hope in the power of the Resurrection. Our lives—and indeed the life of the world—depend upon it.

I close this morning with words from the great English poet, John Donne. He wrote and indeed prayed: 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.