“From Darkness to Light”
John 20:11–18
Mary was there. Not just in proximity to the tomb—but deeply, painfully present. Her grief had brought her back to the place of death, the place where her hopes were buried, where her Lord had been taken from her. And though she searched, she could not see. Not clearly. Not yet.
We’re told she wept. She wept even as angels sat where his body had once been. She wept even as the living Jesus stood before her. Faith had not yet come. It hadn’t come through her deep love, though she clearly loved much. It hadn’t come through her relentless devotion, though she stayed when the others left. She had seen the stone rolled away, the burial cloths folded, heard the message of angels, even been face to face with Jesus—and still, she remained in darkness.
This is not a slight against Mary. It is a revelation about the nature of faith. Faith does not come by our effort or understanding. It is not summoned through grief or devotion or desire. Faith is not constructed; it is gifted. Jesus must give it. Jesus must speak.
When he does, it’s not through theological exposition or dramatic display, but through a single, tender word: her name. “Mary.” That’s all it took. In that moment, her darkness shattered. Her tears may have still been on her cheeks, but her soul awakened to light. Jesus, the risen Lord, called her name—and the resurrection wasn’t just something she believed about Jesus. It was something that had now happened in her. She had passed from darkness to light. From despair to hope. From clinging to death to proclaiming life.
How many of us stand where Mary once stood—next to empty tombs, surrounded by signs and sermons, yet still unable to believe that Jesus lives and speaks today? We long for peace, hunger for meaning, ache for healing—but faith eludes us. We’re left trying to stitch together some kind of belief out of broken experiences and half-understood truths. But this is not how faith begins.
Jesus doesn’t leave us there. He doesn’t abandon us to our own spiritual sight tests. He comes to us. He calls us by name. He speaks into our grief, our questions, our confusions. And he does not only reveal himself as a teacher or healer—he reveals himself as the victorious Lord, the conqueror of sin and death, the giver of life.
Mary’s first instinct was to cling to him—to hold on tight. Who could blame her? But Jesus gently points her beyond the physical to something deeper. Her connection to him, and ours, is no longer based on presence we can touch but on a relationship born of the faith he supplies. “I am ascending to my Father and your Father,” he says—words that pull her into a new reality, a new identity. She is no longer a mourner at a tomb. She is a witness to glory. She is part of the family of God.
That same shift is offered to us. No longer obsessed with death, decay, and despair, we are invited into a life obsessed with grace, with hope, with resurrection. We no longer see God as a distant deity but as a loving Father—known in the Jesus way. And we begin to see one another through Jesus’ eyes as well. New vision. New faith. New life.
So, where are you today?
Are you standing still, overwhelmed by your unanswered questions, your unresolved grief, your spiritual blindness? Or have you heard him call your name?
The tomb is still empty. Jesus is still risen. He still speaks. And he still sends.
Will you stand by the grave, looking for what once was? Or will you run with the good news that he is alive?
Amen.
