At First Light

Matthew tells us, “After the Sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning…”

That line matters. It was dawning. Not midday. Not when the sun was already high. Not when everything was bright and clear and easy to understand. It was dawning. That means there was still darkness in the sky. That means the light was coming, but it had not fully arrived yet. That means the women were walking to the tomb in that in-between hour—when night is losing its grip, but morning has not fully taken over.

And if we are honest, a lot of life feels like that. We know what darkness feels like. We know what grief feels like. We know what it is to carry disappointment, heartache, regret, and questions we cannot answer. We know what it is to wake up and wonder if anything will ever really change. That is where this Easter story begins. It begins with two women walking toward a tomb. Not toward celebration. Not toward victory, at least not that they know of yet. They are walking toward death. They are walking toward the place where their hopes had been buried. Because as far as they knew, Jesus was still dead.

Friday had broken their hearts. Saturday had sat on their chests like a weight they could not move. And now Sunday had come—but they did not yet know what Sunday meant. They came carrying sorrow. They came carrying questions. They came carrying the heavy truth that the One they loved had been crucified. And maybe that is why this text speaks so powerfully to us this morning. Because Easter does not begin with people who had it all figured out. It begins with people who were hurting. It begins with people who were grieving. It begins with people who got up while it was still dark and made their way to the tomb. And maybe that is you this morning. Maybe you came here with faith, but also with wounds. Maybe you came here believing, but also tired. Maybe you came here singing “Christ the Lord is risen today,” but somewhere deep down there is still something in you that feels like it is waiting for the light to break through.

Then this story is for you. Because Matthew says that while they were there, the earth shook. An angel of the Lord came down, rolled back the stone, and sat on it. I love that image. The stone was not rolled away so Jesus could get out. Jesus was not trapped in that tomb. The stone was rolled away so the women could see in. So they could see that what they thought was the end was not the end at all. And that is still what God does. God still rolls away stones. The stones of fear. The stones of shame. The stones of regret. The stones of hopelessness. The stones we think are too heavy, too final, too sealed up to ever move again. God rolls them away—not always when we expect, not always how we expect—but He does. And then the angel speaks.

“Do not be afraid.” That is a word somebody needs this morning. Do not be afraid. Not because there was nothing to fear. There was plenty to fear. Rome was still Rome. The cross had still happened. The world was still dangerous. But the angel says, “Do not be afraid,” because the resurrection changes everything. The worst thing is never the last thing when Jesus gets involved. The angel says, “I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here, for He has been raised, as He said.” As He said. Jesus had already told them. Jesus had already spoken the promise. But grief has a way of making us forget what God said.

Pain can make us forget. Disappointment can make us forget. The silence of Saturday can make us forget. But Easter morning is God’s reminder that He keeps His word. Jesus said He would rise. And He did. The cross was real. The suffering was real. The death was real. But the resurrection is just as real. The tomb is empty. Death has been defeated. Sin has been broken. Hope is alive. And then the angel tells them, “Come, see the place where He lay. Then go quickly and tell His disciples…” That is always the Easter pattern. Come and see. Then go and tell. Come and see what God has done. Come and see the empty tomb. Come and see that Jesus is alive. And then go and tell a world that is still walking in darkness that morning has come. The women leave the tomb, Matthew says, with fear and great joy.

That is such an honest line. Fear and joy. Because sometimes resurrection does not hit us all at once. Sometimes the good news is so big, so holy, so life-changing, that it shakes us before it settles us. They were afraid because they were standing in the presence of the power of God. But they were joyful because death had lost. And while they were running to tell the others, Jesus met them. That may be my favorite part. Not only is the tomb empty. Not only is the stone rolled away. Not only has the angel announced the news. Jesus Himself meets them on the road. Because Christianity is not just the announcement that something happened long ago. It is the living reality that Jesus still meets people. He meets people in grief. He meets people in confusion. He meets people on the road when they are trying to take one more step. And some of us can testify to that.

We have met Him in hospital rooms. We have met Him in funeral homes. We have met Him in sleepless nights. We have met Him in broken seasons. We have met Him when we thought all hope was gone. The risen Christ still meets His people. Matthew says they took hold of His feet and worshiped Him. That is the only right response to Easter. Worship. Because Easter is not just encouragement. It is not just inspiration. It is not just a nice church tradition at sunrise. Easter is the declaration that Jesus Christ is Lord. That He has conquered the grave. That He is alive forevermore. That death does not get the final word. That sin does not get the final word. That your worst day does not get the final word. Jesus does. And then Jesus says again, “Do not be afraid.” The angel said it. Now Jesus says it Himself. Do not be afraid. Church, the sunrise itself is preaching to us this morning. Every Easter, God lets creation act out the sermon. The darkness does not last forever. The night does not win. The sun rises again.

And this morning, the sunrise is telling us something even greater: because Jesus walked out of that tomb, there is no darkness in your life that the grace of God cannot overcome. It may still be dawning for you. It may still feel like the light is just beginning to break. You may still be carrying some Friday pain or some Saturday silence. But Easter says the morning has begun. At first light, the women discovered that the grave was empty. At first light, sorrow began to give way to hope. At first light, death started losing its hold. And at first light today, we stand here and say it again: Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. So if you came this morning carrying grief, hear this: the tomb is empty. If you came this morning carrying shame, hear this: the tomb is empty. If you came this morning feeling stuck, buried, trapped in the dark, hear this: the tomb is empty. And if the tomb is empty, then hope is not dead. Mercy is not dead. Your future is not dead. The church is not dead. The promise of God is not dead. Jesus is alive. So come and see. Then go and tell.

The light has come. The stone is rolled away. The grave is empty. And it all began at first light.