Gardener of Grace
John 20:1-18
While it is still dark Mary goes to the tomb. She sees that the stone has been removed, and she runs to tell Peter and the other disciple. They run to the tomb. They look in. And in one of the most understated lines in all of scripture, we are told that “they see… and believe.” My mother often reminded me that, “even Jesus folded his clothes.” And there they were, the grave clothes, neatly lying there. The guys go in, and as guys do, they assess the situation. They draw a conclusion. And then they go home. John tells us plainly: They believed… but they did not yet understand.
Which raises one possibility for us this Easter morning. It is possible to observe something about resurrection, to affirm something about resurrection, even to believe something about resurrection, and still not yet be changed by resurrection. Sometimes we want resurrection to be something we can examine, understand, affirm, and then move on from. But if resurrection does not transform us, then we are not yet resurrection people. We are not yet Easter people. Because seeing the risen Lord changes you.
But Mary stays. While the disciples return to their homes, Mary remains outside the tomb, weeping. She does not rush past her grief. She does not pretend everything is fine. She does not move quickly to hope. She stays. She stays with the confusion. She stays with the sorrow. She stays with the uncertainty. And then she does something courageous. She bends down and looks into the darkness of the tomb. She dares to peer into the place where hope has been buried, into the place shaped by loss, into the place defined by fear. And when she looks into that darkness, she does not find what she expected. She sees two angels sitting where the body had been.
And they ask her a question. Not theology. Not doctrine. A question: Why are you weeping?
Resurrection begins with God acknowledging human pain. Mary answers honestly, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” She releases her fear, her sorrow, her uncertainty. God does not dismiss her emotion as a lack of faith. God meets her inside it.
Then John tells us something subtle, but important. She turns. She turns away from the tomb. She turns toward the garden. She turns toward the world beyond the place of burial. And she sees Jesus standing there. Except she does not yet recognize him. She assumes he is the gardener. Which John wants us to notice. Because John’s gospel does not begin with the birth of Christ, it begins with Christ in the midst of creation itself: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God.” And now, in the resurrection story, we find ourselves in a garden again. And the risen Christ appears as a gardener. The one who cultivates life. The one who nurtures growth. The one who tends what is wounded. The one who brings beauty out of soil that looks barren.
Mary assumes he is the gardener. And maybe she is not entirely wrong. Because Christ’s work did not end with resurrection. Christ’s gardening continues. Christ is still at work bringing life out of places that look empty, still at work cultivating hope in places that feel barren, still at work nurturing new creation in the middle of what looks like endings.
Jesus asks her the same question the angels asked: “Why are you weeping?” And then he asks another question: “Who are you looking for?” Mary still clings to the only explanation she can imagine. She says, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him.” She is still trying to make sense of the empty tomb, still trying to solve the mystery, still trying to hold onto the reality she understands.
And then Jesus speaks one word. “Mary.” Just her name. And somehow that is enough. This is how recognition happens in John’s gospel. Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them. And I call them by name.” Recognition happens through relationship. Resurrection becomes real when it becomes personal, when love speaks your name, when you realize you are known, seen, held, called.
Mary does not respond, “Jesus.” She responds, “Rabbouni.” Teacher. Which suggests that even in this moment of recognition, she is still learning, still growing, still discovering what resurrection means.
Now, do not get me wrong, John’s gospel leaves no doubt that the resurrection is real, tangible, embodied, transformative. Jesus will invite Thomas to touch his wounds. Later, he cooks breakfast for the disciples by the sea. John makes it clear that resurrection is not just metaphor. It is real and embodied. But this first appearance reminds us that resurrection is not only something that happened then. It is something that continues to happen now. Because the risen Christ still meets people in gardens, still calls people by name, still transforms grief into hope, still cultivates life in unexpected places.
Mary sees the risen Christ because she stays. She stays with her grief. She stays with her questions. She stays with the pain. She stays with the uncertainty. She looks into the darkness of the tomb and discovers that the darkness is not as empty as she feared that God is there. And when she turns toward the world again, she is able to see differently. Nothing about the environment changes. What changes is what she can see.
There is plenty of darkness in our world right now. Darkness of war. Darkness of fear. Darkness of separation from loved ones. Darkness of anxiety about what tomorrow may bring. Darkness of grief that still feels fresh. Darkness of addiction. Darkness of depression. Darkness of anger. Darkness of broken relationships. Darkness of uncertainty. And the resurrection story does not call us to pretend that darkness does not exist. The resurrection story does not call us to rush past pain. The resurrection story does not call us to go home unchanged. The resurrection story invites us to remain present long enough to discover that Christ is still at work there, still gardening, still cultivating, still bringing life out of places that look empty.
Mary is the first apostle, the first witness, the first preacher of the resurrection. She goes and tells the others, “I have seen the Lord.” She does not yet have all the answers. But she has experienced enough to speak. And that is what resurrection does. Resurrection changes you. Resurrection sends you. Resurrection calls you to share good news.
And that is the calling to the church this Easter morning: to be people who do not turn away from the places where hope feels buried, to be people willing to stay present to the pain in our world, to be people who trust that Christ is still at work cultivating life, to be people who learn to recognize the voice that calls us by name, to be people who participate in Christ’s ongoing gardening, tending what is fragile, nurturing what is growing, caring for what has been wounded, trusting that new life is still possible.
On this Easter morning we are once again invited to join Mary in bearing witness: We have seen the Lord. May we be transformed by this good news to live into the resurrection as Easter people. Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia. Amen.
