It’s almost unimaginable for me to think of the sorrow that filled the hearts of those first women who ventured to Jesus’ tomb on that first Easter morning.
I’ve heard the story of the resurrection so many times that I sometimes forget to dwell on the sorrow they must have felt. They had gone earlier to buy the oils and spices they needed to anoint His body—a task they couldn’t complete on Friday because the Sabbath had already begun at sunset. It was already late.
So they arrived at the tomb: Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and Salome, the mother of the sons of Zebedee. They were going to anoint the body of Jesus—a task that traditionally fell to women. The same women who brought life into the world were often the ones preparing for death.
I think of Mary Magdalene, who had anointed Jesus’ feet just two days before when He visited Bethany. Little did she know that in two days, the death she was foreshadowing would become reality.
As they approached the tomb in the dark morning hours before sunrise, they were debating who might help roll away the stone. But when they arrived, the stone was already rolled away.
In Mark’s Gospel, the young man in a long white robe isn’t called an angel. But he sits there and says, “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He is not here. He is risen. Go and tell Peter and the other disciples that He awaits them in Galilee.”
I always find it strange that, in our resurrection narratives, we don’t focus more on the wonder of these women. They were the mothers of Jesus’ disciples. They supported His ministry from Galilee all the way to Jerusalem. They walked the long roads with Him. They were His disciples too.
Three years later, Saul the Pharisee—armed with letters from the chief priests—is on his way to Damascus to continue persecuting this early church. But there, on that road, he encounters the risen Christ. That encounter changes everything. Saul becomes Paul. No longer the persecutor, but the proclaimer of the Good News.
In his second epistle to Timothy—probably the last letter he wrote—Paul is sitting in a Roman prison under Emperor Nero. He writes, “If we die with Christ, we shall also live with Christ. If we deny Him, He will deny us. If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.”
At the time, under Nero, Christians were being rounded up, covered in tar, and set alight to provide light for Nero’s extensive gardens. So if you were being baptized in those days, you knew your life was in danger. And yet, their faith in the resurrection, their faith in the risen Christ, was so strong—they knew it was worth everything. It was worth eternal life with Christ.
This Easter, I thank God that we are not called to martyrdom as they were. But we are still called to give light. Not light for Nero’s gardens, but light for the world.
We, as Christians, are called to be the light for those around us—to be the ones who make the change, even as Christ has changed our lives.
So be the light. Be the one who brings the love of God into the presence of all those around you.
Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.
Alleluia. Alleluia.
