Written by:  Pastor Kelley Molloy

Scripture Readings:  John 20:1–18

HOPE THAT FINDS US

Early on that first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.

It begins in darkness.

And that matters—because it tells the truth about the world we live in. Easter does not begin in bright sunlight, with certainty and clarity. It begins in confusion, grief, fear, and loss. It begins in the kind of world we recognize—a world where hope can feel fragile, where the future feels uncertain, where hearts carry burdens too heavy to name.

Mary comes to the tomb not expecting resurrection, but to mourn. She comes carrying spices, carrying grief, carrying love that has nowhere to go. And when she sees the stone rolled away, her first thought is not, “Christ is risen!” but “They have taken him.”

Even the empty tomb feels like more loss.

And if we are honest, that is often where we begin too.

We live in a challenging world—one marked by division, violence, uncertainty, and anxiety. There are personal struggles we carry quietly. There are communal wounds that seem slow to heal. There are moments when hope feels like a distant memory.

And yet, this is exactly where Easter begins—not after everything is resolved, but right in the middle of the uncertainty.

Mary stands outside the tomb, weeping. She looks in and sees angels, but even that does not yet change her understanding. Then she turns and sees Jesus—but she does not recognize him. She thinks he is the gardener.

Isn’t that remarkable?

Resurrection is standing right in front of her—and she does not see it.

Because sometimes, hope comes in forms we do not expect.

Sometimes, new life looks like something ordinary. Sometimes, God’s presence is disguised in ways we overlook. Sometimes, resurrection is already unfolding, but we are still living in the language of loss.

And then—everything changes with a single word.

“Mary.”

Jesus calls her by name.

And in that moment, she recognizes him.

Hope becomes personal.

Resurrection is no longer an idea—it is a relationship. It is not just something that happened—it is something happening. It is not distant—it is right there, calling her, knowing her, finding her.

And that is the heart of Easter:
We do not find resurrection.
Resurrection finds us.

In our grief, in our confusion, in our fear—Christ comes to us. Calls us by name. Meets us where we are, not where we think we should be.

This is hope—not as wishful thinking, but as a living presence.

A hope that does not deny the darkness, but enters into it.
A hope that does not rush us past grief, but meets us within it.
A hope that speaks our name and reminds us that we are not alone.

And then Jesus gives Mary a commission:
“Go and tell…”

She becomes the first witness of the resurrection—the first apostle to the apostles.

Notice this: she is not sent because she has everything figured out. She is sent while still processing, still overwhelmed, still transformed by an encounter she is just beginning to understand.

Easter does not require perfect clarity. It invites faithful witness.

And so the question for us is not, “Do we understand everything about resurrection?”
The question is, “Where have we heard our name called?”

Where have we glimpsed life in the midst of death?
Where have we experienced unexpected grace?
Where have we seen love persist, even when it seemed impossible?

Because those are resurrection moments.

In a challenging world, it can be tempting to look for hope only in grand, dramatic transformations. But Easter often unfolds quietly:

• In compassion where there could be indifference
• In reconciliation where there was brokenness
• In courage where there was fear
• In community where there was isolation

These are signs that the tomb is not the end.

The resurrection of Jesus is not just about what happened long ago. It is about what is happening now. It is God’s declaration that life is stronger than death, that love is stronger than fear, that hope is stronger than despair.

And that changes how we live.

It means that even when the world feels uncertain, we are not without hope.
It means that even when we cannot yet see clearly, God is already at work.
It means that even in the darkness, dawn is coming.

Mary went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”

She does not say, “I understand everything.”
She says, “I have seen.”

That is enough.

And perhaps that is our call this Easter—not to have all the answers, but to bear witness to the glimpses of resurrection we have known.

To say, in our own ways:
I have seen hope.
I have seen love.
I have seen life where I expected none.

And to trust that the same Christ who called Mary by name is still calling us—still meeting us, still sending us, still bringing life out of death.

So wherever you find yourself this morning—whether in certainty or doubt, in joy or grief, in light or lingering darkness—hear this good news:

The stone has been rolled away.
Christ is risen.
And hope is already on the move.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Pastor Kelley Molloy