Rejoicing in the Resurrection
John 20:1-18
Happy Easter! I hope this finds you well. Thank you for reading this blog post. If you’re not currently subscribed, click the button below to receive my weekly reflections via email.
I can’t normally keep track of the year when I remember different events. I have various Easter memories, especially from childhood, but I don’t quite know which memory goes with which year. There’s one exception - I certainly remember Easter in 2020.
There were no celebrations at church, no Easter egg hunts in the park, no family gatherings. We didn’t gather in Christ's name and proclaim the Resurrection through loud singing and collective Amens. Some of us spent the day alone - watching streamed services in our apartments, away from our families and the rest of the body of Christ. My associations of people dressing up in bright colors with smiles abounding were thrown out of the window that year. But it wasn’t just the absence of these things that changed the feel of Easter. The world was in crisis and we were expected to rejoice?
And though the COVID-19 pandemic appears to be behind us, the world is still in crisis. Wars rage across the globe, natural disasters continue to wreak havoc, and the number of people I know facing great strife and difficulty - of every kind - always seems to be going up.
Growing up, I heard time and time again how Easter is the peak of the church calendar. Language of rejoicing surrounds the day. Charles Wesley's famous Easter hymn rings out: "Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!" We rejoice at Christmas at the birth of our Savior, but Easter brings a different type of rejoicing. The rejoicing Easter aligns with the springtime and we can hope for sunnier days again (at least in places in the Northern Hemisphere where the four seasons run their course).
But, since the COVID pandemic, I have been wrestling with Easter a lot more. I haven’t found it to be as simple as I believed as a child. In 2020, I struggled to observe Holy Week because every day felt the same. This year, amid broken nights of sleep, I experience the same problem. I don’t have the space or capacity to recognise the significance of each day.
The deep sorrow I used to experience on Good Friday was replaced this year by frustrated sighs as I chased my toddler through the Stations of the Cross. The past few weeks have been so chaotic that, now that Easter is here, it doesn’t quite feel like it. Maybe it will in a few hours when I go to church but when I woke up to my son’s head pressing into my side, it was hard to remember that Jesus is risen and that today is supposed to be a good day.
I usually cry on Good Friday, and this year was no different. But I wasn’t crying over the brutality of the cross, I cried silently in the bathroom, an outpouring of the depths of my exhaustion. As I consider it now, I wonder if Friday’s weeping was the most poignant cry of all my Good Friday tears.
My understanding of the crucifixion has matured and developed over time but the violence found there always strikes me. I remember the first time I really envisioned that moment in Scripture. I remember being so afraid of the picture that my imagination had constructed. It was horrifying. I couldn’t shake the image of Christ crucified from my mind, and it’s an image that returns every Good Friday. And so, I cry. I cry because I am still afraid of the image my mind conjures up. I cry as my heart breaks that humanity could be so cruel. And I cry because I don’t understand. I don’t understand how it works. I continue to struggle with the brutality at the heart of my faith. How can it be that I am saved because someone died? It’s a question I wrestle with every single year.
Good Friday is ordinarily a shock to the system. I am reminded of Christ’s execution and remain stuck there until I rejoice with my church family on Sunday morning that ‘he is risen.’ It’s like Jesus dies and is resurrected every single year.
This year though, as I was in 2020, I am already shook to the core. I am still in shock that the little baby who silently snoozed through a Easter morning BCP two years ago is now a toddler with whom my husband and I have a daily battle over his unwillingness to fall sleep. I’m not even in the aftershock phase yet because every single day, I wake up and am reminded that my life is not how it used to be.
My daily routine used to be as follows. I would wake up sometime between 5.30 and 5.45 am to get some sense of quiet before everyone else descended the stairs an hour or so later. Breakfast would follow, Andrew would go to work, and I would attempt to entertain Jonny until lunch time. After that, he would nap and I could have quiet again for an hour or two. We’d play again until dinner and then he’d go to sleep. He’d maybe complain for a bit but it wasn’t too difficult. But, as I wrote about Monday, those days are seemingly over. They already feel like a distant memory.
This morning, I woke up at 5.15 am thinking I could sneak out of bed without disturbing my sound asleep toddler. I went downstairs to make the much-needed coffee and, as soon as I opened my journal to pour out all my feelings, the door handle turned. I wasn’t alone anymore. The simple quiet time I had hoped for was soon replaced by repeated requests for… well, anything and everything.
I cried on Good Friday this year because everything has changed, and it’s hard. Really hard. And now, I’m in this horrible in between phase, waiting for the situation to change or for me to adapt to it. I guess you could say I’m stuck in Holy Saturday, wondering if things will ever get better.
As on Good Friday, Christians have varying Holy Saturday traditions. Altars are covered in black, sanctuaries are stripped bare, and some refrain from ordinarily joyous activities. For every Christian, whether they formally observe the day or not, tradition marks the day as a time of solemn waiting. The Son of God has died and, while we know how the story ends, we still sit in the waiting.
This year, not too dissimilarly from my experience in 2020, I wait with a different anticipation. I eagerly await the day when uninterrupted sleep will resume and my quiet time is restored. But, unlike many of my previous experiences of Holy Saturday, I don't know how this story ends. I don’t know how long it’ll take and I don’t know what other parenting tests and trials may come along the way.
So, I feel a deepened sense of understanding of the first disciples’ Easter experience. Normally, I relate to their sheer lack of understanding, their seemingly stupid questions and the ways they earnestly try to help Jesus (but still often fail). And like me this week, the disciples must have wondered if things would ever be the same again. Some of them denied Christ, others of them ran away. If I’m honest, it’s been tempting to leave Jesus to one side at this time, not because I want to, but because finding him in the choas is hard. Coming to the altar in worship when I feel so broken is a lot of effort. And I don’t know if I have time right now.
And, unlike my usual experiences of brokenness, this one feels like something I should be able to do in my own strength. Everyone else seems to be able to get through this period of parenting just fine. People kindly tell me ‘it won’t last’ and I know that it won’t, but that doesn’t make my experience now any easier.
So I return this Easter weekend to the story of Mary Magdalene. Reflecting on her encounter with Jesus in John 20, there's something there that strikes me today. John 20:1-10 reads:
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
- John 20:1-10 -
Mary Magdalene went to the tomb. Given that the Saturday was the Sabbath day, this was the earliest opportunity she had to go there. She went "while it was still dark." Maybe she went at that time to avoid being seen. Maybe she went at that time to ensure she would be the first one there that day, and get precious time alone with Christ's body. Maybe she couldn't sleep, still traumatized by the crucifixion, and needed to get away. We will never know her motivations for going to the tomb, but we know that when she did and saw that it was empty, she ran to share the news. She was afraid that they had taken her Saviour, but she was not afraid to boldly go to the disciples and demand their help. The disciples returned home. Mary stayed by the tomb. Even after she had been dismissed by the disciples, she remained.
And Jesus appears to her. In John 20:11-18, it reads:
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
- John 20:11-18 -
She wept outside the tomb. She drew near to Jesus, just as Jesus was too drawing near to her. This Easter, I am reminded to draw near with faith to the empty tomb. Christ drew near to Mary as she was weeping at the tomb, and Christ draws near to us as we weep there also. He’s drawing near to me now, even as I despair in hidden places.
So today, exhausted as I am, I can assert boldly and joyously that Christ does come back. He came softly in the words to Mary Magdalene in the garden. He called her by name, evidence of his resurrection. So too is Jesus calling me by name, ushering me in to celebration. When I look back on Easter 2025, it may seem to be characterized by tiredness and desperation. But, as Easter 2020 taught me, this is not something to try and forget.
It is in Mary's weeping that Jesus calls to her. It is in her grief and her sorrow and her loneliness that Jesus comes. So, even though it feels as if I am weeping outside of an empty tomb, not sure what is happening or where Jesus is, Christ is on his way to me. In fact, he is already here.
This Easter Sunday will inevitably be different for me to ones that have gone past, but even as I wrote this, Christ found me in the solitude. And, as I’ve looked back on Easter 2020, I remember all the times Christ came amid silence and weeping and grief. Jesus did not come back loudly. He came quietly to the garden to his beloved follower, as too will he come to each of us.
No matter how you or I might feel right now, we will get through this. There is cause to be hopeful, for Christ gives us an everlasting hope. Even though our world is constantly changing around us, we can all continue to stand in God’s unchanging love.
So, may we live as Easter people – rejoicing in the resurrection of our Saviour and Redeemer. Christ is Risen. He is risen indeed. Hallelujah!
This blog post was adapted from one I wrote during the COVID-19 pandemic. The original is here. I hope this was helpful, or at least provoked some interesting thoughts. Please feel free to send it along to someone and encourage them today.
With much love and gratitude,
Stephanie