Bright ideas, simple reflections — a little light for every step of the way.
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Sunday, April 5th: Resurrection of Our Lord: Easter Day
Readings:
Acts 10:34-43 or Jeremiah 31:1-6
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24 (24)
Colossians 3:1-4 or Acts 10:34-43
Matthew 28:1-10 or John 20:1-18
He Says Her Name
Grace and peace to you in the name of our Risen Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
Not too long ago, I made a quick Target run—one of those “I’ll just grab a couple things” trips that somehow turns into wandering around, slightly disoriented, because they’ve rearranged everything again.
And in the middle of that confusion, I heard someone say my name.
At first, I didn’t recognize her. But she could tell—and she graciously reminded me: we grew up in the same neighborhood. And just like that, it all came rushing back. Long summer days. Backyard games. Running in and out of each other’s houses. A whole world that felt so big and so small at the same time.
Isn’t it amazing how that happens? One moment someone is a stranger passing by—and the next, something clicks. A name. A memory. A connection. And suddenly, you see.
That moment—that recognition—that’s what I hear in the resurrection story from John’s gospel this morning.
Because Mary Magdalene is standing in a world that no longer makes sense.
It’s early. Still dark.
Her grief is raw.
Her expectations are shattered.
The one she trusted, the one who gave her hope, has been crucified. And now—even his body is gone.
She’s trying to make sense of it. Trying to hold it together. Trying to understand what has happened in a world that suddenly feels upside down.
Honestly—it doesn’t feel all that far from the world we live in right now.
A world where grief lingers.
Where uncertainty is constant.
Where so much feels broken or unfinished.
Where we wake up some mornings and wonder, what now?
Mary stands in that kind of world.
And then—Jesus is right there with her.
But she doesn’t recognize him.
She assumes he’s the gardener. Just another stranger in a confusing moment.
And then it happens.
He says her name.
“Mary.”
And in that moment, everything shifts.
Not because all her questions are suddenly answered.
Not because the world instantly makes sense again.
But because she is seen.
She is known.
She is called.
And she recognizes him.
Resurrection doesn’t arrive for Mary as an explanation.
It arrives as a relationship.
It arrives as a voice that knows her name.
And that matters for us—because we live in a time that is full of noise.
So many voices telling us who we are supposed to be.
So many fears trying to define us.
So many systems that reduce people to labels instead of seeing beloved children of God.
It is easy to feel anonymous.
Or overlooked.
Or uncertain about where we belong.
And into that kind of world, Easter speaks.
Not as an abstract idea.
Not as a distant miracle from long ago.
But as a living voice that still calls people by name.
The resurrection of Jesus is not just something we remember.
It is something we are drawn into.
Because the same Christ who stood in that garden…
the same Christ who spoke Mary’s name…
is still speaking.
Still calling.
Still showing up in places we least expect—
in grief,
in confusion,
in ordinary moments,
in conversations,
in communities,
in acts of courage and compassion.
Sometimes we don’t recognize him right away either.
Sometimes we mistake resurrection for something ordinary.
Or we assume hope is gone because we’ve already decided how the story ends.
But Easter says: God is not finished.
Life has a way of breaking in where we thought only endings existed.
And here is the promise that runs through all of it:
You are known.
You are called.
You are not forgotten.
As the prophet Isaiah says, “I have called you by name—you are mine.”
That promise didn’t end with Mary.
It didn’t end with the disciples.
It continues—with you.
Which means this:
Easter is not just about what happened to Jesus.
It is about what God is still doing—
in you,
through you,
and among us.
The Apostle Paul says it this way:
“It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”
That is resurrection life.
Not perfection.
Not having everything figured out.
But Christ alive within us—
shaping how we love,
how we show up for one another,
how we participate in God’s ongoing work of bringing life out of death.
And Mary—once she recognizes him—doesn’t stay in the garden.
She goes.
She tells.
She becomes the first witness of the resurrection.
“I have seen the Lord.”
Not “I understand everything.”
Not “I have all the answers.”
Just: I have seen the Lord.
And maybe that is our calling too.
Not to explain away the mystery.
Not to pretend life isn’t complicated.
But to bear witness—
To the moments when hope breaks through.
To the places where love refuses to give up.
To the ways Christ is still alive and moving among us.
To say, in our own lives and in our own words:
I have seen the Lord.
In kindness.
In justice.
In community.
In healing.
In unexpected grace.
Christ is risen.
Not just once.
Not just then.
But now.
Alive in this world.
Alive in this community.
Alive in you.
Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
God's Yes + My Amen 