It is early. It is dark. Mary of Magdala, having witnessed Jesus’s violent death only hours before, now comes in love and grief to the tomb where the broken body of her friend and teacher lies. The stone has been removed from the entrance. Mary stands outside and weeps, thinking someone has taken the one she comes with spices and ointment to anoint—a further insult compounding the trauma and horror of the preceding days. In her anguish and disorientation, Mary turns and sees Jesus but does not recognise him. In the half light of dawn, her senses fail her. Even hearing his voice, she does not comprehend who he is, mistaking him for the gardener.
She asks this man if he has taken the body from the tomb.
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Twilight heralding dawn or dusk is referred to by artists as l’heure bleue—the blue hour. There is something arresting in the quality of light while the sun remains below the horizon. But there are limits to what the human eye can perceive in the gloaming. Some psychologists have hypothesised that our identification of the colour blue, in sky and water, operates as a placeholder for wave particles beyond the cognitive ability of the human brain. Homer’s description of the “wine-dark sea” traversed in the Odyssey led linguists to puzzle over the absence in ancient languages of a word for “blue,” prompting them to explore how understandings of colour evolved beyond shades of darkness and light. Scientific research suggests, too, that sadness can affect a person’s ability to distinguish colours on the blue–yellow spectrum. Pablo Picasso’s “blue period” was characterised by striking monochromatic compositions depicting prostitutes, beggars, drunks, the blind, sick and elderly, imprisoned mothers and their children. These outsider stories of poverty, disenfranchisement, and despair are painted as if under a long shadow of sorrow. Such matters are beyond my expertise, but it seems how and what we see may change depending on our context and emotional state. Could a more real reality lie beyond the scope of our roiling emotions and limited powers of observation?
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It is not until Jesus calls her by name that Mary realises who stands before her. And she responds to this familiar voice of love—to the person at the heart of love who knows her. Mary arrived at the tomb in the darkness of death. She was met by the dawn of resurrection life—unanticipated and, at least at first, incomprehensible.
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Earlier in the gospel of John, we read the words of Jesus himself that “unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds” (John 12:24). Through his death and resurrection, Jesus surpasses the physical and temporal limits of the human condition, unfurling anew across time and space. The maker and sustainer of all things became human, died on a cross, then emerged alive from his garden tomb, carrying the hope of a redeemed Eden. Mary, in mistaking him for the gardener, perhaps sensed the force of this life-giving creativity. The greening power of this green-thumbed God.
The seed falls to the ground and dies. But it produces many seeds.
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Often, we, like Mary, find ourselves in the blue hour rather than the verdant green of a daylit garden. The kingdom is breaking through, but the sun has not fully risen. All things are being made new, but we live in a world that is creaking and groaning, and we grapple with brokenness within and around us. That first Easter, in the encounter between the risen Christ and Mary, day and night are not cast as opposites. We witness in this story a life of faith lived in shading and shadow, gradient and degree, the now and not-yet, the in-between. As he did for Mary, Jesus meets us with resurrection life in the darkness. In the midst of loss, disappointment, shattered hopes, unmet expectations, betrayal, loneliness, uncertainty, illness, even death, Christ is present. Squinting through bloodshot eyes, as if through a glass darkly, we might not at first recognise him. In disconsolate moments, when we are distracted or overwhelmed by a grief that clouds our sight, we are invited to surrender our expectations and distorted perceptions and to trust instead the embers that spark within us when the divine draws near—to listen for and respond to the voice of love that calls us by name.
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At this moment of revelation, Jesus tells Mary not to hold on to him. Eternity had entered the present moment, and everything was changed. He directs her instead to take a message of hope to the other disciples, who remained locked away in fear. She obeys, her senses renewed, telling them, “I have seen the Lord.” Mary’s encounter with the risen Christ was not merely a source of personal comfort. She receives a gift to be shared—light on the horizon—and becomes apostle to the apostles. For us, too, resurrection life brings revived vision and mission, re-orienting us away from the empty tomb and toward others with a promise of transformation.
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In appearing first to Mary, Jesus entrusts the good news central to the Christian faith—his bodily resurrection—to an unreliable witness. As a woman, Mary’s testimony would have carried little weight. Is there an invitation for us here too? Are we willing to relinquish control of our narratives to marginal voices? Are we open to dignifying and trusting—in radical and countercultural ways that risk our reputations—those who are different from us, looked down upon, considered suspect? Are we open to following a path of generous love at a cost to our ourselves and our families rather than hoarding power and resources, cultivating influence, or prioritising security or comfort?
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As we sit with the seeds that fall to the ground around us, let us pray in the words of poet Tom Andrews:
Surprise me, Lord, as a seed
surprises itself . . .