Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad” (Matt. 5:11–12).

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds” (James 1:2). “But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed” (1 Pet. 4:13).

The command to practice joy in the midst of loss, grief, and hardship often feels impossible to do and heartless to hear. Yet it is found repeatedly throughout the Bible, including in these quotes from Jesus and two of his closest followers, James and Peter. If we found these words tucked away in some obscure place in the Scriptures, they would be easy to ignore.

But far from being a random idea, the theme of finding joy even in grief is arguably at the core of the Christian vision of life. It not only drives the content of much of Jesus’, James’s, and Peter’s teachings; Paul’s life and writings also constantly sing this same tune. Paul speaks of rejoicing in our sufferings (Rom. 5:3; Col. 1:24) and was known as a man of gentleness and joy (2 Cor. 7:4; 1 Thess. 2:7, ESV), though his life was peppered with hardship, loss, and anxiety (2 Cor. 11:23–28).

The paradoxical reality of rejoicing in suffering—an experience that must be felt to be fully understood—is concentrated in the season of Lent. Lent, which the Eastern Orthodox tradition describes as “bright sadness,” leans into the unexpected and seemingly unnatural experience of joy in the midst of grief. Of all the days of Lent, this paradox is foremost on the fourth Sunday, traditionally called Laetare Sunday, based on the sung command “Rejoice!” Laetare Sunday sits exactly at the halfway point between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, and it intentionally punctuates this season of memorial suffering with required rejoicing.

Why? Far from being insensitive to our grief, God knows what he is doing with this Lenten command. In hearing and trying to obey it, we align our hearts to a profound truth: Grief and joy are sisters, not enemies. Loss and delight can live in harmony, and indeed, they give each other life and energy. As Francis Weller astutely notes, to be alive and to love means we will also experience sorrow and loss. “Acknowledging this reality enables us to find our way into the grace that lies hidden in sorrow. We are most alive at the threshold between loss and revelation.”

Jesus models for us a fully human life that denies neither the world’s joys nor its griefs. Jesus both laughed and wept. His teachings are very much concerned with what it means to thrive and flourish and, paradoxically, that flourishing often looks like loss. (See the Beatitudes in Matthew 5:3–12.)

So here is the invitation of Laetare Sunday: Open yourself to the griefs and losses that Lent reminds us of. Yet just as much, lean into rejoicing at this mid-Lent point. There is a unique grace we can experience only when we honestly acknowledge our losses, needs, disappointments, and unmet desires yet still look upward and forward to a time of full rejoicing to come. This extended period of Lent helps us pay attention to our griefs. Laetare Sunday reminds us that there is deep joy to be had even now and that these griefs are not the end of our story. Jesus’ suffering will lead to his resurrection, which will lead to ours as well. “In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. . . . Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls” (1 Pet. 1:6, 8–9).

Jonathan Pennington is a professor of New Testament at Southern Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, and serves as a teaching pastor and elder at Sojourn East Church. He is the author of many books, including The Sermon on the Mount and Human Flourishing, Come and See: The Journey of Knowing God Through Holy Scripture, and Jesus the Great Philosopher: Rediscovering the Wisdom Needed for the Good Life.

The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment” (Luke 23:55–56). The cross of Jesus stands at the heart of history—the hinge on which the door of eternity swung wide for you and me. Yet on that Friday, as darkness cloaked the land and the temple curtain tore, it must have seemed to those watching that the world itself had fractured.

Luke’s account of the Cross and Resurrection portrays not only the cataclysmic events of Jesus’ death but also the varied human responses to it—responses that echo through time. In the midst of despair, the women simply did the next thing. And in doing so, they bore quiet witness to something greater than grief.

In his final hours, Jesus’ 12 disciples deserted and fled. But the women remained. They stood at a distance, watching, waiting. Love held them there as their world unraveled. The one they followed, trusted, and hoped in now hung among criminals, bloody, naked, and dead.

They had walked with him from Galilee, heard his words, served him, and loved him. And now, in confusion and loss, they did not turn away. They did not desert or flee. Despite seeming futility, they marked the tomb. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. Strange ingredients, echoes of an earlier life. Gifts of worship—fit for a royal child, now fit for a corpse.

It seems so small, so ordinary. But in their sorrow, they simply did what they could. They obeyed the Sabbath command, waiting when they must have longed to act. And when the time came, they returned to the tomb—not in anticipation of an empty grave but rather prepared to love their dead Lord.

Faithfulness in the dark is often quiet, unseen. Simple, daily obedience. Keeping the Sabbath. Tending to the small and the sacred. Preparing for what lies ahead, even when the road is shrouded.

It is easy to praise God in clarity, to act boldly when conviction burns bright. But what of the in between? The silence between Friday and Sunday? Between despair and resurrection? Between death and dawn? The women show us the quiet strength of obedience in uncertainty.

They were not strategizing for a resurrection. They were not waiting for an empty tomb. They simply loved Jesus, and so they did the next thing.

Our world too often feels like that space between the shroud of Good Friday and the dawn of Easter Sunday. Confusion. Uncertainty. Questions. Darkness falls, hope wavers, and the way forward is unclear. But the women remind us that faith does not demand we see the end from the beginning. Faith does not insist on a map. Faith asks only that we do the next thing.

Like the women, we remain faithful in the ordinary, trusting that Sunday morning will come.

Perhaps you are in a waiting season—in a lull, looking for clarity, uncertain of what comes next. Could it be that you are not meant to see too far ahead? Perhaps you are meant simply to trust, one step at a time. Perhaps you’re meant simply to do the next thing.

Jesus committed his spirit to his Father, trusting beyond the veil of death. And so must we, in our own moments of darkness, in our own confusion and questions and waiting. The Cross is not the end of the story.

The darkness does not have the final word. We know this in a way the women who faithfully waited on the Sabbath rest did not.

And so we do the next thing, and we wait for the dawn.

Dan Steel is a UK-based pastor and church planter. He is currently the principal and ministry program director at Yarnton Manor, just outside Oxford.

Moonlit ribbons danced across eddies before being swallowed by raging waters. The river sounds—amplified by his solitude—filled his mind with sacred symbolism. Twenty years reflected in dark and restless waters. Twenty years of cheating, running, and dreading the brother he wronged.

Suddenly, a presence. Without a word, the confrontation began. Jacob strained every muscle in his body. Sweat and raw earth mixed to mud on his skin. As dawn broke, the Man put Jacob’s hip out of socket. Jacob screamed in agony—but held fast.

The Man said, “Let me go.” Jacob, who always cheated his way into blessings, wanted to get this one honestly. He cried, “I will not let you go unless you bless me” (Gen. 32:26).

In an instant, the wrestling God transformed Jacob into Israel.

Holy Tuesdays Are For Fighting

A lot happens on Holy Tuesday in Matthew 21–26—including some feel-good classics like the greatest commandment and Jesus’ heartfelt desire to gather Jerusalem under his wings like a mother hen (22:37–39; 23:37).

One theme won’t let up, though: confrontation. Jesus had flipped some tables on Monday (21:12–17). Now the religious leaders try to entrap him with questions about his authority, politics, and the resurrection (21:23–22:33).

When confronting Christ in their rebellion, the religious leaders lose. With a brilliance and boldness that few could imagine wielding, Jesus stays the course, rebukes the proud, warns of judgment, and invites all who are humble to join the wedding feast. The religious leaders are unmoved, and digging in their heels, their hearts are moved to murder.

This Holy Tuesday, we would do well to let Jesus’ warnings travel across space and time and move us to consider the following questions: What are we doing with our frustrations toward Jesus? Are we following the path of these blind guides? Are we digging in our heels at the invitations of Jesus?

Yet I have to ask—is it wrong to confront Jesus?

Followers Fight Too

We don’t want to be like the religious leaders. So we sometimes struggle to be honest with Jesus about our resistance. But consider the following:

In their disappointment, Mary and Martha cried, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 32).

In his disillusionment, Peter rebuked Jesus, “This shall never happen to you” (Matt. 16:22).

In his doubts, Thomas pledged, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands … I will not believe” (John 20:25).

In their despair, the storm-stressed disciples screamed, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” (Mark 4:38).

When confronting Christ in their confusion, followers of Jesus win. Correction may come, but Jesus never condemns, shames, or rejects. In some cases, he weeps (John 11:35). This Holy Tuesday, we would do well to consider whether Jesus is waiting for us to finally be honest about what confuses us.

The Struggle That Shapes Us

Moonlit shadows danced through an olive grove before being swallowed by agonizing prayers—sweat mixing to mud as Jesus pressed his forehead into the ground. The Son of God wrestled with the Father in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Like Jacob, he wouldn’t escape without scars. Unlike Jacob, Jesus would take on a curse so that we could be blessed. Yet we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Because in that moment, God struggled. And if Jesus struggled, then we can too.

In the confusion of this Lenten world as we await the Easter age to come, you will experience some resistance to God’s ways. Rather than expecting perfect surrender from yourself, confront Christ this Holy Tuesday.

Confront him with your confusion, frustration, and resistance. Speak honestly and with humility about what you don’t like. Allow him to correct and comfort you. Repent, seek forgiveness, and walk with a limp—knowing it is the mark of God’s resurrecting grace.

Rusty McKie (MDiv) is the men’s director of CrossPointe Church in Altamonte Springs, Florida, a trained spiritual director and somatic coach, and the author of Sabbaticals and The Art of Stability. He is also the founder of Steadfast Ministries and ManSchool.

“Spy Wednesday”—so named for the conspiracy against Jesus—is a hope-giving study in contrasts unfolding in three scenes.

The opening scene is set in the courtyard of Caiaphas, the high priest. Chief priests and elders gather in secret, conspiring to arrest Jesus treacherously and kill him. The closing scene returns to the chief priests, now joined by Judas Iscariot. He is eager to learn how he might profit from betraying Jesus. Thirty pieces of silver are paid, and he sets out to seek an opportunity.

As the chief priests conspired with the high priest in a courtyard, Jesus reclined in the home of a man who couldn’t shake his reputation. Though Simon had been healed, he was known as “the leper.”

While the chief priests approached Caiaphas, a man whose name was well known, an unnamed woman approached Jesus. Whereas Judas would receive 30 pieces of silver, she brought a jar of perfume valued at a year’s wages—likely her life savings. While men bargained over Jesus’ life, this woman carried her life in her hands, broke it, and poured it over Jesus’ head.

The disciples, outraged at the inefficiency, scolded the woman: “Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year’s wages and the money given to the poor” (Mark 14:4–5). But Jesus scolded them for bothering her. They would always be able to care for the poor. But they would not always be able to care for him, especially in his final hour.

As the religious elite conspired to act treacherously, this unnamed woman did what Jesus called “a beautiful thing” (Matt. 26:10). While others maneuvered to promote self-interest at the cost of Jesus’ life, she sacrificed all she had to serve Jesus. Judas would forever be known as “the betrayer.” But “wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her” (Mark 14:9).

The religious elite and those in power should have celebrated the King when he appeared. But they didn’t—and, too often, they still don’t.

His kingdom threatens those devoted to their own dynasties. That is why Jesus wasn’t found among them—and isn’t today.

The King was found among the poor, the despised, the rejected, and the nameless. Those with nothing in this world to lose stand ready to inherit the earth. They receive him because his presence is worth the world’s reproach. Jesus does not despise or reject such disciples—he loves them to death.

On Spy Wednesday, Jesus made his purpose plain: “As you know, the Passover is two days away—and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified” (Matt. 26:2). He would drain the cup of God’s wrath, dying to save unknown, unnamed, despised sinners like you and me.

In the dark days of political upheaval, conspiracy theories, and financial uncertainty, Spy Wednesday offers resurrection hope. It reminds us of the upside-down nature of Christ’s kingdom—and the hope offered to the little people who enter it by faith.

These days tempt us to fix our eyes on the theatrics of politicians whose names are constant headlines. Self-serving leaders jockey for power, promising to fix everything in exchange for our loyalty. Sometimes, we imagine that their chambers of power must be where Christ’s kingdom is found—and that it cannot flourish without them. We foolishly believe we can conspire with them and live.

Spy Wednesday calls us back to gospel sanity. The King did not need the partnership of the powerful to redeem the world—and he doesn’t today. The conspiracies of the world did not thwart his saving reign—and they won’t today. Self-righteous chiding did not keep a nameless woman’s worship from being received and remembered—and nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

The nations rage and the people plot, but don’t join them. Kiss the feet of Jesus—for “blessed are all who take refuge in him” (Ps. 2:12).

Eric Schumacher is a husband, father, author, and songwriter who lives in Iowa. He has written several books, including The Good Gift of Weakness: God’s Strength Made Perfect in the Story of Redemption.

Hamilton Grange sits in a park on West 141st Street in West Harlem. The National Park Service gives walking tours of the estate five days a week. If you take a tour, park rangers will tell you the story of Alexander Hamilton’s Revolutionary War heroism, of his service as secretary of the US Treasury, and of his influence as author of most of the Federalist Papers. They’ll show you the home’s early American furnishings and tell you how it’s been moved twice to accommodate New York City’s growth. But what would the house say if its walls could talk? What would it tell us about Hamilton’s conversations with his wife, Eliza?

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton explores that question in the song “It’s Quiet Uptown.” After Hamilton’s philandering and their son Philip’s death in a duel, the couple struggles to rebuild trust. They walk together in their garden. They take their children to Trinity Church, but the words between them are few. Yet despite the pain they’ve experienced, their love persists. There’s a moment in the song (maybe you know it) when Eliza takes her husband’s hand, and the musical’s cast begins to sing:

“Forgiveness. Can you imagine?”

Matthew, Mark, and Luke each report Jesus’ Maundy Thursday institution of the Lord’s Supper (Matt. 26:26–28; Mark 14:22–24; Luke 22:19–20). Each records that Jesus took bread and the cup and that after he’d given thanks, he gave them to his disciples to eat and drink. All three include the words “This is my body” and reference the blood of the new covenant being poured out. The accounts differ in minor details, but Matthew’s report stands out because it includes the phrase “for the forgiveness of sins.”

If you read straight through Matthew’s gospel, you’ll notice that before his Upper Room account, he includes extended sections on forgiveness. Perhaps the most well known is found in Matthew 18:21–35. There Jesus tells of a servant who owed his king more than he could repay in many lifetimes. To settle the deficit, the king ordered that “he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold” (v. 25). Then, the servant pleaded for mercy, and out of pity, the king forgave the man’s massive debt.

If you’ve heard the parable, you know what happens next. Instead of responding with joyful gratitude, the servant found a colleague who owed him a few months’ pay. He “grabbed him and began to choke him,” demanding he pay back what he owed (v. 28). When the second debtor pleaded for mercy, the first man showed none. Instead, he threw his colleague in prison. When the king heard about this, he was incensed. He’d hoped his forgiveness would be received and extended, not forgotten. So he summoned the first debtor and said, “You wicked servant, I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?” (vv. 32–33).

That’s the lesson: We’ve been forgiven much, so we can forgive. We all have griefs and failures that hang over us. The debts we owe God and others because of our sin are far greater than we can repay. If the walls of our lives could talk, they’d reveal the regret and pain we often feel. But through the blood of the new covenant, our slate has been wiped clean. Can you imagine it? Can you feel the great weight taken from your shoulders? When you take Communion with your church, does it remind you of all the King has forgiven? If so, then you can forgive those who’ve wronged you.

We shouldn’t gloss over abuse or abandon our passion for justice, but as D. A. Carson wrote, “[Christians] are called to abandon bitterness, to be forbearing, to have a forgiving stance even where the repentance of the offending party is conspicuous by its absence.” Because Christ has forgiven us, we can take the hands of those who have wronged us. We can offer them the mercy we’ve received.

Whose hand will you take today? Whom do you need to forgive?

Jared Kennedy (ThM) serves as managing editor for books and curriculum for The Gospel Coalition and as cofounder and principal of Gospel-Centered Family. He is author of books like The Beginner’s Gospel Story Bible, Keeping Your Children’s Ministry on Mission, and The Story of Martin Luther.

The world in which we live is beautiful and awe inspiring. It is also dark and dangerous. We don’t have to wait until adulthood to recognize it or experience it, but the older we get, the more we see of the curse that has fallen on us all. Temptation, sin, failure, futility, disease, and death are not isolated afflictions for a few; they plague everyone. And underneath all of it is an ever-present evil. As Martin Luther wrote in his hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” “This world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us.”

Yet this darkness is not just in the world but also in our very lives and inside each of us. We know tastes of glory but feasts of grief. The innocent are targeted, the vulnerable are oppressed, and it’s not just the “bad guys” doing bad things. Even the good guys will disappoint, if not destroy, for “the heart is deceitful above all things. … Who can understand it?” (Jer. 17:9). We all wind up being victims or villains—or both.

And while brokenness and betrayal afflict us all, they are a much more heinous assault on God. The Lord is holy, just, and good. He is patient, kind, loving, and forgiving. This means the corruption of creation is not merely humanity’s burden but a grievous affront to the one who made the world and called it “good.”

“The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled” (Gen. 6:5–6).

Yet as we walk through this gloomy night of this fallen world, God shines a light. In fact, since the very moment sin cast its shadow over creation, God didn’t hesitate to pierce the darkness with the light of his promise—a promise that gives hope to the despairing and comfort to the afflicted, because it is a certainty of redemption. Victims will be vindicated, evil will be crushed, sins will be forgiven, joy will overcome sorrow, and Life will put an end to death.

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned” (Isa. 9:2). The light first dawned in the garden to our first parents after their sin brought a curse into creation. The Seed of the woman would arise to defeat the deceiver who led them into unbelief. And as years passed, God repeated his promise, progressively revealing more for every generation. The promise pointed to a Servant—born of a virgin, despised and rejected, yet bearing the sins of many—who would redeem his people from sin, guilt, and death (Isa. 53:3–5).

In the fullness of time, the Light was manifested in the birth of Jesus—the fulfillment of all the promises that had been carrying the weary through their years of waiting and wandering. He came not only to deliver us from the domain of darkness but also to dispel the darkness itself. But to accomplish this, he would not merely enter the valley of the shadow of death; he would bear its full weight in his suffering and death on the cross.

His death, a willing sacrifice, was motivated by love for the undeserving, and by his death, he saves sinners and sufferers. This is why we call his death “good”—not because of the evil inflicted on him by wicked men but because of the divine purpose behind it and what he accomplished through it.

How do we live through the night while knowing that dawn is slowly approaching? We fix our eyes on Jesus, drawing near to him who drew near to us; and in him we find the beauty, awe, and purpose of the Creator in this corrupt creation. Good Friday is ultimately good because it doesn’t end in darkness. The death of the Light of the World brought life and light to all who believe. And after the darkness of his death, the Son rises in triumph over the curse. By faith, the Morning Star rises in our hearts (2 Pet. 1:19), so we no longer walk in darkness but in the light of life.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

Joe Thorn is the lead pastor of Redeemer Fellowship in St. Charles, Illinois, and the author of several books, including Note to Self: The Discipline of Preaching to Yourself.

The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment” (Luke 23:55–56).

Six or so years ago, I became a birder. Now, wherever I go, I am always on the lookout for birds. We birders like to keep lists—birds we’ve seen, birds we’d like to see, and birds that frequent our backyards or parks or beaches. The birding community uses apps and websites to communicate with one another, and I’m always proud to be the first to see a rarity and then invite others to view it too.

Professional ornithologists often use these lists for their research and planning. It’s useful to know just how many house finches or pin-tailed whydahs were in a local park, and since ornithologists can’t be everywhere, they rely on citizen scientists like myself to help gather information. But here’s something fun that I learned recently: They don’t just need lists of birds. They also want data on when we’ve seen no birds.

While overflowing lists of birds are by far the most fun, it turns out that not seeing any birds can teach us too. Absence is a clue. Perhaps pollution or predators have driven the birds away. Maybe foul weather has them quiet and hunkering down. It might be that migration has started early or late due to a change in the weather. Silence is its own type of information.

Holy Saturday is a time of silence. Jesus Christ has been crucified and laid in the tomb. All hope is lost. Between the despair and finality of death and the impossibility and miracle of the Resurrection lies one very long day.

It is significant that Jesus doesn’t die and then rise again moments later, like a divine jack-in-the-box. He has work to do, of course—the harrowing of hell and the defeat of death—but then, God can work outside of time. Time exists for us.

So why are we given this day? Why this macabre, lonely Holy Saturday when we are invited to linger in what has been lost and commune with the disciples in their uncertainty, grief, and despair? Why must we exist within the pain of this pause?

Maybe it is because this pause is where we live our entire lives. Christ has died, and Christ will come again, but right now we exist in the ache—of war and cancer, discord and misinformation, violence and brutality and loneliness. We watch God’s good creation wear out like a garment, sped along by our own lack of stewardship and care. We live between the “now and the not yet,” as N. T. Wright puts it—between being known fully and knowing fully.

T. S. Eliot put it this way in his poem “The Hollow Men”:
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom.

God invites us to linger in the ache of Holy Saturday. To sit beside the women who yesterday saw the dead body of their Lord and went home to prepare spices and perfumes for him. The women who today kept their Sabbath, refraining from work and waiting for the sun to rise on Sunday when they could once again attend to the broken body of their Savior. To watch the tomb that is not yet empty, the world that is not yet healed and whole. To acknowledge the deep, deep pain we feel and face, offering one another the tenderest possible care.

Together we trust that the light will dawn because God promises that it will be so, even if all is still darkness here.

May we live in light of this cosmic truth: that even when all is silent, the birds have flown away, and no hope is visible to us, the deep work of God goes on beneath and through and above it all.

And that same God will hold us fast.

Courtney Ellis is a pastor at Presbyterian Church of the Master in Mission Viejo, California, and the author of six books, most recently Weathering Change: Seeking Peace Amid Life’s Tough Transitions. She also hosts The Thing with Feathers podcast, all about birds and hope. She and her husband, Daryl, have three children.

The sun has not yet risen above the eastern hill, and here in this dusty blue haze, I am taking the short walk from my porch to the garden gate. The morning air is damp, and the birds have just begun to sing. The true wonder of the garden happens when no one is here to witness it—while we’re on vacation; during a thunderstorm; and in this case, overnight, while we all rested. Today the earth smells fresh and new, the roots have done their work, and the garden has grown without our involvement at all. Fruit has emerged, flowers have budded and are ready to open as soon as the sun breaks through the trees, and I feel as though I am the last one to arrive at the symphony as it rises in a morning crescendo.

Sometimes, the most victorious things happen in the dark.

Here, in this early morning dirt, I think of Mary Magdalene. I think of her, spices in hand, eyes swollen from shock and grief, heading toward the tombs before the sun has even risen. Before the hills are dusted with that vibrant light, she is looking for Jesus. The women have risen early to care for the body of the Man who knew them by name. The Man who looked them in the eye and welcomed them into his followers, who did not snub the lowly, who wasn’t concerned with status and charm, but who instead tended to their hearts as the one who created them.

Anyone near her that morning would realize she is a woman in mourning, as the scent of the herbs would give it away. She is exhausted, afraid, and carrying the heavy weight of grief all the way into that garden cemetery.

Yet, as her eyes begin to adjust to the predawn light, where she expects to find the body of Christ she is met with an empty tomb and a radiant stranger. The flurry brings an abrupt change of plans, and after the disciples have come and gone, she is once again alone in the garden, fumbling still in the wake of grief and confusion. The symphony has already begun, and she’s just about to hear it rise.

It’s here she turns to see a man and thinks he is the gardener (John 20:14–15).

And of course, the beautiful irony is that he was the gardener, and he still is, but not in the sense she imagined. Here, the Gardener himself, the one who tends to all those he has redeemed, is not simply wandering around looking for something to do. He is a man at work with a purpose. Where once a garden was a place of defeat and sorrow, where Eden was broken and couldn’t save us, Christ has returned as the gardener to make all things new.

Christ—who knows Mary’s heart, her eyes, her tears—calls her name.

“Mary.”

We know the voices of the ones who love us. We each know the sound of our name when it rings out in a familiar voice. For Mary, this is the same voice that called forth Lazarus, that spoke the words “Talitha koum” with power (Mark 5:41), that cried “Tetelestai” from the cross (John 19:30).

Mary enters the garden in fear and grief, and in Matthew 28:5, the angel says to her, “Do not be afraid.” This call echoes from Christ’s conception (Luke 1:30) and birth (2:10) to here in the garden tombs, and Christ will announce this once and for all when he returns:

“Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades” (Rev. 1:17–18).

Fear not, those of you who walk in the dark, who rise early and await the brilliance of the morning light, who long to be seen by a Redeemer who knows you by name. Fear not, you who walk amid the aroma of death; you do not need those spices to mask your pain. Here in our dirt, our grief-aroma-filled world, do not mistake him for just the gardener. He is indeed the Gardener, the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the one who knows your name better than you know your own soul. Dawn has broken. The Gardener has faithfully brought life in the darkness. The symphony is rising, and we can join the chorus: Christ is risen, and he holds the keys forevermore!

Andrea Burke is an author (A Bit of Earth, Lexham, 2024; The Quiet Resistance, Baker, 2026) and is on staff at Grace Road Church. She is married to Jedediah, and they are raising their two kids, two dogs, two cats, a few strays, six ducks, and a lot of chickens in an old farmhouse near Rochester, New York.

Easter Monday, a day often overlooked in the US, holds profound meaning across the global church. It is a time for Christians to celebrate the ongoing impact of Christ’s victory over sin and death. In three distinct cultures that offer us a triad of symbols on Easter Monday, we see how the Resurrection not only transforms individuals but also redeems cultures with new meaning and purpose in Christ.

Scotland: Egg Rolling

Easter eggs are a big hit in the US, in part thanks to Scottish Christians who participate in egg-rolling contests on Easter Monday. Originally a pagan tradition meant to seek protection from hailstorms and plead for spring’s fertility, the Scottish church later redeemed its meaning.

The egg retained its symbol of new birth, but the rolling egg came to represent more than just the dawning sun after a dark, wet winter. It now echoed the rolling stone and the dawning of the Son (Mark 16:4). At Christ’s resurrection, the dark “hell storm” passed and the new creation hatched on the horizon.

As Scottish Christians joyfully see whose egg rolls the farthest down the hill each Easter Monday, they celebrate the rolled-away stone of Christ that ushered in an eternal springtime.

Poland: Wet Monday

For Polish people, Easter Monday is synonymous with Smigus-Dyngus (also known as Wet Monday), celebrating the baptism of Poland’s first official ruler, Prince Mieszko, the day after Easter in AD 966. Professor and author Andrzej Buko calls Mieszko’s conversion the “proverbial pebble that caused the avalanche” of Christianity in Poland and Europe.

Water rituals were originally pagan practices of fertility, cleansing, and luck. But Polish Christians found new meaning in them. Jesus’ baptism into the waters of death, his submersion in the tomb, and his reemergence from the proverbial Dead Sea was the pebble that caused the avalanche that changed the entire cosmos forever (Ex. 14; Luke 12:50). Christ’s ultimate baptism didn’t just inaugurate his new life; it birthed a new people—the church, Christ’s nation of nations (Eph. 2:19; 1 Pet. 2:9; Rev. 5:9–10).

Now Polish Christians visit friends and family on Wet Monday to playfully splash each other with water, reflecting on the joy of new life in Christ.

Eastern Orthodox: Bright Monday

The Eastern Orthodox expression of Easter Monday, concentrated in Eastern Europe but practiced globally, focuses on the brightness of the week following Christ’s resurrection. Unlike the usual solemnity of the Office for the Dead—a set of prayers and rituals for the deceased—this week is marked by joy, feasting, and communal celebration.

Genesis 1:1–2 says, “The earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” How barren and bleak! Yet God’s command “Let there be light” (v. 3) brought his creativity and intellect into visible form. This light, still a mystery to scientists, both illuminates and fascinates us.

Jesus’ appearance was once “disfigured beyond that of any human being” (Isa. 52:14)—formless. He “made himself nothing [and] humbled himself by becoming obedient to . . .death on a cross” (Phil. 2:7–8)—empty. “Darkness came over the whole land” (Luke 23:44)—darkness. How barren and bleak! But on the first day of new creation, Jesus declared, “Did not the Messiah have to su!er these things and then enter his glory?” (Luke 24:26). In other words, the sufferings of Christ, the Light of the World (John 8:12), made way for him to enter the light of his exaltation (Phil. 2:9–11).

Bright Monday, the beginning of Bright Week, invites us not only to reflect on the Resurrection’s glory but also to live in its light—and let that Light live through us.

A Comic Redemption

The resurrection of Christ has brought not just a personal redemption but a cosmic one too. The various cultural traditions of Easter Monday throughout the global church remind us that Christ’s resurrection redeems and transforms cultural customs, infusing them with new meaning.

The stone-rolling, nation-birthing, light-giving Messiah has won the cosmic championship, and his resurrection life is now in us. We’re on the winning team—all cultures, all tribes—and this alone should bring a little more brightness to our Monday!

Rechab Gray is pastor of preaching and spiritual formation at New Creation Fellowship in Orlando, Florida, and a contributor to the book Fulfill Your Student Ministry (Rainer, 2019).