Recognition

Photo credit: Joshua Sortino

Her hands are tearing at her hair; she sobs.

Clean cloths discarded, dropped amongst the dust,

destroyed, along with priceless spices lost.

Two days since Friday’s foul and unjust death,

an emptied grave steals closure for her grief,

indignance adds to his degrading end.

And now a stranger's asking why she weeps.

How can I bear the silence and the shame?

Me - and my sisters – welcomed in his world.

Shall we be seen as lowly once again?

One Sabbath without him and I'm so scared.

He saw me – us – and never turned his face.

Our daughters may not know the hope he shared.

Whose hands will offer cleansing, healing now?

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            "Jesus said to her, 'Mary'."

(John 20:15-18 ESV)

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There's a moment of darkness on Easter Sunday morning - I like to think of it as the last moments of the cocooning of Lent, just before the dawn, before believers greet each other joyfully with "He is risen", and echoing back "He is risen indeed!"

As we acknowledge the events that have been commemorated for nearly 2000 years, it's a remembrance of a time when the first believers didn't yet understand that Jesus' death had any value or purpose. It was still dark.

In recent years I have started attending Tenebrae services in the great cathedral on the hill overlooking Adelaide. Churches all over the world hold these services in the days leading up to Good Friday. Beneath the honey-coloured spires that reflect the gold of the setting sun, there is a sombre reflection on the last hours before Christ's death. The Tenebrae service revisits the conclusion of Jesus' physical ordeal. The normally well-lit church is, over the course of an evening of readings and music, gradually dulled into darkness as candles are snuffed out.

The sun has set, all the lights are out.

A door bangs shut to echo the quaking earth when Jesus died.

It's a moment that feels final.

He is gone.

Those who have lost a loved one may know that when you look on an empty body, the person is gone, their shell transformed. In many cases the hope of their tomorrows is gone with them - their words of wisdom silenced, their plans cut off, their pain unhealed. This familiar grief must have been felt by Jesus' followers in the hours and days after his Friday death. There were practicalities to follow on the Saturday, so in the early hours of the Sunday, the women who were to properly prepare him for his eternal rest made the sombre journey towards his temporary tomb.

When I approach this tomb in my mind, I am reminded that here was a leader who saw women as valuable, who knew their hopes and desires, and understood their precarious social situation. And to those women, on that morning, he was gone.

The moment above pivots on Jesus calling Mary by her name, awakening her recognition that he had risen from the dead. Hope in his plans and promises had risen as well. But it is in these moments before the dawn of Resurrection Sunday that I allow myself to grieve, to feel the horror of so many dark hours without his presence, his spirit, and his validation.

Fast forward to 2026, I acknowledge the privilege that my existence glows under his acceptance and his protection. I have a voice. I have choices. I have faith that he has already made an eternal space for me.

And he calls me by my name.

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Following is a list of links from some writing friends who have also reflected on Easter. Please check them out and maybe even leave a comment.

• Christine Wood No Updates Required: The Unchanging Hope of Easter

• Jo-Anne Berthelsen A Truly Good Friday

• Susan Barnes A Seat at the King's Table

• Steph Penny No Condemnation