Sermon: "Easter Sunday" April 20, 2025

Luke’s Gospel: Jesus and the Outsiders, Outcasts, and Outlaws

Scripture: John 20.1-18

Preacher: Rev. Ryan Slifka

Title: “Easter Sunday” 

O God for whom there are no barriers, no stones too big to remove,
roll away our resistance to you. Let your words fill us with new life
and bring us out from the tomb of indifference, alive again in you.

In Jesus’ name we pray.  Amen.

“Early on the first day of the week,” begins our gospel reading for today. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark.” While it was still dark, Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb, and sees the big stone door has been rolled away.

While it was still dark.

Now, this isn’t simply an astronomical and meteorological detail. Like, “it was dark, nineteen degrees, with 30km winds and low humidity.” Because for John dark isn’t just the time of day. “Dark” refers to the human situation. Overshadowed by sin, death, evil.

Mary Magdalene has just lost her beloved friend—the Lord—In the most gruesome of ways. This man, who’d inspired in her such hope, exuded such love has been taken away. And not only has he been killed, but she rushes to tell Simon Peter and another guy John just calls “the beloved disciple” that the grave appears to have been robbed. The body’s been snatched… adding insult to the original injury.

And while Simon Peter and the Beloved Disciple run back to see the apparent robbery for themselves, then head home after a short investigation, Mary just lingers outside the tomb, we’re told. Weeping. All while it was still dark.

Here on the first Easter, the darkness isn’t only literal. It’s metaphorical, too. It’s symbolic. For Mary this is a day of devastation, a day of fear. Of loss. Of permanent dead-ends. Death, sin, and evil, reign. The first Easter begins while it was still dark. Because this is a dark day, indeed.

Now, few if any of us, of course, have ever experienced the kind of brutal loss that Mary experiences. But my guess is that the kind of darkness that hangs over Mary is not unfamiliar to most of us. If not all of us.

The most obvious is grief. Losing someone we love. Sometimes someone too close taken too soon, sometimes someone who we just don’t want to lose. Could also be the loss of someone based on our actions, or theirs–often both. But it doesn’t have to be loss. A sudden cancer diagnosis, or onset dementia. A recent divorce. Alienation from our parents or children. Could be a sense of guilt, shame, or that we wasted our lives. Could be our own need for self-medication. Or the loss of one if our children to drugs.

It could be anything that, like a charcoal cloud hangs over even the sunniest moments and the most joyous day. Anyone who’s opened their eyes at night will know what darkness looks like. Anybody who’s experienced depression knows what darkness feels like. I literally heard an economist on the radio say that we Canadians need to prepare ourselves for pain. For the “dark days ahead.”

My guess is that each of us, each of you know something of the darkness, the cloud that hangs over Mary, hangs over the world on the first Easter. Our Easter, like that first one too, begins “while it was still dark.” It begins with tears outside the tomb.

While the first Easter may have begun “while it was still dark.” That’s not how it ends, of course.

Now, I’m going to say something rather disappointing. When we return to our dear sister Mary, we find little in the way of good advice or techniques in dealing with grief, or any of our other maladies.

Like, you’d think a student of one of the great spiritual masters of all time might be able to give us a few tips for handling this sort of thing. But there’s no journaling, there’s no breathing exercises, there’s no self-talk like “this is going to be ok.” She just kinda lingers in the darkness by the tomb. I mean, so is she is so locked in to her grief that she doesn’t even notice when a couple angels show up where Jesus’ body was supposed to be and ask her what’s wrong. There’s nothing about Mary that will chase that will melt the clouds of sin and sadness, nothing in Mary that will drive the dark of fear and doubt away.

No, the relief from Mary’s grief doesn’t come from inside of her at all. Rather, it comes to her unexpected. It comes to her in the darkness, from the outside.

It comes from behind her, actually. After her little oblivious interaction with the angels, she turns around, and there’s this guy there. One who she assumes must be the gardener. After all, who else hangs around a cemetery at night? And, you know, this strange horticulturalist must have taken some emotional intelligence classes, because rather than pulling some weeds, he starts digging around in her psychological well-being. “Why are you weeping?” he asks. “Who you looking for?” And she basically replies with the same story: she’s grieving the friend she’s forever lost, and she’s looking for his body which is nowhere to be found. Still locked in, still lost, still in the dark. 

But it all changes with a single word. “Mary,” says the gardener. The gardener says her name, “Mary.” And just then, Mary turns to meet the voice and sees that the gardener is actually Jesus. “Rabbi!” she says. It was Jesus the whole time. And you know, Jesus told her before, back in chapter 10 that, like a sheep who know the sound of their shepherd’s voice, so would his followers know the sound of his voice, the voice of the Good Shepherd. She hears it. Jesus who promised back in chapter 16 promised that their weeping would turn to joy. Jesus, who referred to himself as the light of the world, the light of all people, breaks through the darkness of her grief by one simple word, “Mary.”

The first Easter may have started in the dark. But into that darkness came Jesus, the light of the world. The light no darkness can ever overcome. Jesus who was pulled into the darkness of death itself on a cross, now calls her out of all darkness by name.

One of my favourite preachers, Tom Long tells the story of a girl he knew in elementary school named Mary Ann. Mary Ann had a difficult childhood. She was born with a host of disabilities, a cleft palate prior to widespread surgery. She had a disfigured face, and was deaf in one ear. She also had lopsided feet, which caused her to trip, and stumble when she walked. Of course, this meant she was the target of regular taunts and insults by her peers. It made her into someone extremely self-conscious. Mary-Ann hated her face, and her body. She’d do her best to avoid attention, because attention

n usually mean insults or pity.

Seeing as how this was about 70 years ago in the rural American south, teachers were required to administer a simple hearing test. The teacher would call each student up to their desk and cover one ear and whisper something basic in the other to test their ability to hear a sound. Usually something like “trees are green,” or “I see you have a new shirt on today.”

Mary Ann of course, dreaded this test on account of her one deaf ear. It seemed like yet another opportunity to be singled out, mocked, and pitied in front of everyone.

That year, however, Mary Ann has a new teacher named Miss Leonard. Young, and energetic, Mary Ann would later say that Miss Leonard just oozed kindness. So when it came time for Mary-Ann to come forward for the hearing test, she stumbled her way forward. She covered her deaf ear first, and held out her good one, just so she could at least have a decent start.

Miss Leonard leaned in to administer the test.

“Mary-Ann,” she whispered. “Mary-Ann… I wish you were my little girl.” Mary-Ann, I wish you were my little girl.”

Now, Mary Ann never really wanted herself, let alone had anyone want her. But in that moment she felt loved. She felt wanted. Chosen, not by anything she had done, but by the mere fact of her teacher’s love. These words did not instantly fix her disabilities, but in that moment they scattered her darkness, and helped her live with them. Mary Ann credited this moment as one that changed her life. She found the courage and confidence to follow in Miss Leonard’s path in spite of her disabilities, becoming a teacher herself. Where she would strive to shine with the same love and grace she’d been shown. To quote that great saint, Huey Lewis, “that’s the power of Love.” Miss Leonard called her by name: Mary Ann. And claimed her as her own. It was a word of absolute grace.

Easter is like that. In that you and I, like Mary-Ann, have been called by name, and claimed. In spite of all that is unlovely in us. All that is disfigured, whether by accident, or by our own doing. The difference is that, unlike Mary-Ann in elementary school, the One calling us is not only a human being, but God in the flesh. Like Mary Magdalene, God in the flesh here asks you “what are you looking for?” Right here and right now, God in the flesh asks you “why are you weeping?” Right here and right now, Jesus Christ, who was crucified, and raised from the dead on Easter Sunday, calls us, calls you by name.

(names of congregants). Insert your name here.

Friends, dear friends, beloved guests. In the same way the first Easter started in the dark, our Easter, every Easter yours and mine starts with that same old shadow of death. But Easter never ends there. The tomb is empty. The stone is rolled away. And the one we thought lost forever stands behind us, calling our name. Because the hope of Easter is not some vague comfort or spiritual metaphor—it’s a living, breathing person. Jesus Christ, risen from the dead. And he is the light no darkness can ever overcome.

He lives! And He calls you by name. And not only does he wish you were his little boy or little girl like Mary-Ann, but in Christ he says you are my brother, my sister. A celebrated son, a dearest daughter, part of my family, a child of the living God. You are forgiven! You have a purpose and hope, you have a future! And that no matter what darkness may befall you or our world, whether fear or grief or sin, by my Spirit, I am with you—even in death itself. I love you, says the Lord! I love you, I died for you, and went to hell and back for you. And I have gone ahead of you to make a place for you. Forever.

So whether you’re standing in the light or barely hanging on in the dark, take heart. Because death does not get the final word. Grief does not get the final word. Sin and fear and failure and addiction and regret do not get the final word! But Jesus does! Jesus does, and his Word is life. His Word is love. His Word is yours.

Because Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed!

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. AMEN.