Easter Sunrise C 2025

Text: “1 Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb” (John 20:1).

You’ve made it to Easter morning. The lilies are in bloom. The hymns soar. The pews are fuller than usual. There’s something in the air—a sense that today is different. And it is.

But not for the reasons most people assume.

This is not a day about pastels and family brunch. It is not about sentiment or tradition. It is not about pretending for one day that everything is okay. Because everything is not okay. You know that. The grief is still there. The diagnosis still stands. The estrangement, the regret, the pain you carry—none of that stayed behind just because the calendar says “Easter.”

So let’s be honest about what Easter really is. Let’s go back—not to your childhood memories or seasonal traditions—but back to that first morning. Back to the tomb. Before the lilies. Before the trumpets. Back to the dark.

John tells you that Mary Magdalene came to the tomb while it was still dark (John 20:1). Not just the darkness of the early morning—but the darkness of death, of grief, of unanswered questions. She came not expecting life, but preparing to honor death. She came to anoint a corpse.

This is how Easter begins: with a woman who had been forgiven much, doing the last thing she could for the Lord who had given her everything. She had seen the nails. She had watched Him breathe His last. And now, she came to finish what the hasty burial had left undone.

There is no celebration here. No joy yet. Only silence. Only sorrow.

And then the stone is gone.

She runs—not with hope, but with panic. She tells Peter and John that someone has taken the body. And now the men are running. They don’t understand. They don’t believe—not yet. But something in them stirs. And so they run.

That is Easter.

It is not people singing confidently in harmony. It is people running in confusion, breathless with a fragile hope, still haunted by their own guilt, their own cowardice, their own questions. It is disciples who had fled, now returning in doubt. It is a woman weeping alone. It is a tomb that should have been full, but is empty.

It is not clean. It is not pretty. It is not polished.

But it is real.

Because this is not a holiday. It is the undoing of death. It is the judgment of sin. It is the beginning of new creation, breaking into the old.

And now Mary is standing outside the tomb, weeping.

You’ve been there. Maybe not in a graveyard at dawn, but you know what it’s like to weep with unanswered questions. You know what it’s like to feel like God is silent. You’ve cried over things that are broken and can’t be fixed. Over sins that won’t let you go. Over people who are gone and won’t come back. That’s where Mary is. That’s where Easter finds her.

And that’s where the Risen Jesus meets her.

He doesn’t come with fanfare or fireworks. He doesn’t overwhelm her with divine glory. He simply stands there—alive—and speaks one word. Her name.

“Mary.”

And just like that, everything changes. The darkness begins to lift. The sorrow gives way to joy. The grave, once a place of finality, becomes the doorway to hope.

Because Easter is not theoretical. It’s not abstract. It’s not a symbol. It’s a voice calling you by name. It’s Jesus, the crucified and risen Son of God, speaking forgiveness and life not just into the world—but into you.

And that’s why Easter is for sinners.

Not for the polished. Not for the proud. Not for those who think they have it all figured out. Easter is for the ones who weep. The ones who run in confusion. The ones who come looking for Jesus but don’t know what they’ll find.

Easter is for the ones who have failed—like Peter. For the ones who have doubted—like Thomas. For the ones who stood at a distance—like the rest of the disciples. And for the ones who stayed close, even in sorrow—like Mary.

And that means Easter is for you.

Not because you’ve earned it. But because Jesus has paid for it. With blood. With tears. With His very life. He bore your sin. He died your death. He descended into your grave. And now He stands, alive, with your name on His lips.

And He gives you everything.

He gives you forgiveness—not as a wish or a possibility, but as a fact. He gives you life—not as a someday hope, but as a present reality. He gives you His body and blood, not to remind you that He died, but to deliver the benefits of that death to your very body. He gives you Baptism, where your old life was drowned and your new life began. He gives you absolution, where the chains are broken again and again and again.

He gives you Himself.

And if you ever doubt whether it’s really for you, go back to your Baptism. Remember that moment when your name was spoken aloud and water was poured over your head—not as empty ritual, but as divine promise. Christ claimed you. He forgave you. He called you by name.

And every time you hear the words, “I forgive you all your sins,” it is not the pastor speaking. It is Christ Himself. And He does not speak in generalities. He speaks to you.

And when you come to this altar, He feeds you—not figuratively, not spiritually only—but with His real body and real blood. Because Easter is not a metaphor. It’s not an idea. It’s the flesh-and-bone reality that death has lost its grip, and Jesus lives to give you life.

So take joy in the flowers and the hymns. Let them rise like incense before the throne. But don’t let your praise stop there. Let it carry into your life. Let it shape your relationships. Let it soften your judgments. Let it overflow in mercy. Let it show grace even to those who don’t deserve it—especially to those who don’t deserve it.

Because that’s exactly what Jesus has done for you.

The one who called Mary by name also calls you. The one who forgave Peter also forgives you. The one who invited Thomas to touch His wounds invites you to find your healing in Him.

Easter is not the end of the story. It’s the beginning.

He is not here. He is risen.

And because He is risen, your sin is forgiven. Your death is undone. Your name is known.

Alleluia. Amen.