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.