Lenten Reflection – The Feast of Resurrection
He Called Her Name – The Morning That Changed Everything
St. John 20:1-18
“Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to Him, ‘Rabboni!’ (which is to say, Teacher).” (20:16)
Christ is risen! Indeed He is risen!
The tomb is empty. The stone is rolled away. The graveclothes are folded. The darkness is over. The grain of wheat that fell into the ground on Friday has produced its harvest. The light that entered the ground on Wednesday has broken through the surface. The voice that was silenced on the Cross is speaking again. And the first word it speaks is a name.
Mary.
Not a doctrine. Not a proclamation. Not a theological statement about the nature of the resurrection. A name. Spoken in the dark. In a garden. To a woman who is weeping because she thinks the body has been stolen. The first word of the risen Christ is not “I am risen” or “death is defeated” or “the new creation has begun.” It is the name of a person standing in front of Him with tears on her face.
Forty-nine days. The fast began with temptation in the wilderness. It moved through healing, forgiveness, stewardship, grace, the potter and the clay, the Spirit who prays, the fruit that grows, the grain that falls, the table where the bread was broken, the Cross where the body was given, the silence of the tomb where the world held its breath.
And it ends here. In a garden. At dawn. With a name.
On the First Day of the Week (vv. 1–2)
“Now the first day of the week Mary Magdalene went to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. Then she ran and came to Simon Peter, and to the other disciple, whom Jesus loved, and said to them, ‘They have taken away the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid Him.'” (20:1–2)
“The first day of the week.” Not the Sabbath. The day after the Sabbath. The eighth day. In the Jewish week, the first day follows the seventh. The day of rest is over. And on the day after rest, the new creation begins.
The Church has always understood this. Sunday is not the last day of the week. It is the first. The day of resurrection. The day the old week ended and the new week began. The new week. The new creation. The new everything.
“While it was still dark.” Mary comes before the dawn. Before the light. In the darkness. The same darkness that has covered the narrative since Wednesday evening. The darkness of the garden. The darkness of the trial. The darkness of the Cross (“and darkness came over the whole land,” Luke 23:44). The darkness of Saturday when the light was in the tomb and the world did not know where it was going.
Mary comes in the dark because she cannot wait for the light. She comes to do the only thing she can do. Tend the body. Anoint the dead. Perform the last act of love for the person she followed from Galilee to Golgotha.
“And saw that the stone had been taken away.”
The stone. On Day 41, Christ said “take away the stone” at Lazarus’s tomb and the people moved it. Today no one has moved the stone. It has been taken away. Passive voice. By whom? The Gospel does not say. The stone that sealed the tomb of the Son of God was moved by a force that John does not name because naming it would diminish it. The stone was moved. By the power of the resurrection. By the God who creates life from death. By the same word that said “let there be light” and “Lazarus, come forth.”
Mary sees the open tomb and assumes the worst. “They have taken away the Lord.” Her first thought is not resurrection. It is robbery. Someone has stolen the body. The grief that has been crushing her since Friday is now compounded by desecration. Not only is He dead. His body is gone. She cannot even tend the corpse. The last act of love has been taken from her.
She runs. To Peter. To the beloved disciple. And the words she speaks are the words of a woman whose world has been emptied twice. Once on Friday when He died. Again this morning when the tomb was empty.
The Race to the Tomb (vv. 3–10)
“Peter therefore went out, and the other disciple, and were going to the tomb. So they both ran together, and the other disciple outran Peter and came to the tomb first. And he, stooping down and looking in, saw the linen cloths lying there; yet he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb; and he saw the linen cloths lying there, and the handkerchief that had been around His head, not lying with the linen cloths, but folded together in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who came to the tomb first, went in also; and he saw and believed.” (20:3–8)
Two men running. John is faster. Peter is bolder. John arrives first and looks in but does not enter. Peter arrives second and goes straight in. The personalities are visible in the running. The beloved disciple who leaned on Christ’s chest at the Last Supper hesitates at the threshold of the empty tomb. The fisherman who jumped into the sea to reach Christ (John 21:7) plunges into the tomb without a second thought.
Peter sees the linen cloths lying there. The burial wrappings. The strips of cloth that were wound around the body. They are lying flat. Not unwound. Not torn off. Lying. As though the body has passed through them without disturbing them. The shape of the wrappings is intact. The body is gone.
“And the handkerchief that had been around His head, not lying with the linen cloths, but folded together in a place by itself.”
Folded. Entetuligmenon. Rolled up. Set apart. Placed deliberately in its own location. Not thrown aside. Not dropped in haste. Folded. By hands that were no longer dead. By fingers that were moving again. By the risen Christ Who, before leaving the tomb, took the cloth that had covered His face and folded it and set it in its own place.
On Day 41, Lazarus walked out of the tomb still wrapped in graveclothes. Christ told the community to unwrap him. “Loose him and let him go.” Lazarus needed help getting free of death’s uniform.
Christ did not. Christ unwrapped Himself. He folded the face cloth. He left the wrappings lying in their shape. He walked out of His own tomb under His own power, in His own time, and He was tidy about it. Death did not have to be torn from Him. He set it aside the way you set aside a napkin after dinner. Finished. Done. The meal of death is over. The napkin is folded. The table is cleared.
“He saw and believed.”
The beloved disciple saw the folded cloth and believed. Not because an angel told him. Not because Christ appeared to him. Because of a folded napkin. The evidence was not dramatic. It was domestic. A folded cloth in an empty tomb. And it was enough. The disciple who leaned on Christ’s chest recognized the gesture. The folding was familiar. The tidiness was characteristic. This is how He does things. Even resurrection. With care. With order. With the quiet attention of a person who folds the cloth before leaving the room.
St. John Chrysostom, in his Homily 85 on John, notes that the detail of the folded cloth is John’s way of refuting the robbery theory. If someone had stolen the body, they would not have stopped to fold the face cloth and set it neatly in its own place. Grave robbers do not tidy up after themselves. The folded cloth is proof that what happened in the tomb was not theft. It was resurrection. Calm. Deliberate. Orderly. The Person who left this tomb left under His own power and took the time to fold the napkin before He walked out.1
Woman, Why Are You Weeping? (vv. 11–13)
“But Mary stood outside by the tomb weeping, and as she wept she stooped down and looked into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white sitting, one at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. Then they said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.'” (20:11–13)
Peter and John have left. They have seen the cloths and the beloved disciple has believed. But Mary has not. She is still standing outside. Still weeping. The two men ran to the tomb and ran away again. Mary stays. She does not leave. The grief holds her to the spot. She cannot walk away from the last place she saw Him.
She stoops and looks in. And sees what Peter and John did not see. Two angels. In white. Sitting. One at the head. One at the feet. Where the body had lain.
The angels are sitting where the body was. The space that held death now holds messengers of life. The stone slab that supported a corpse now supports two figures in white. The tomb has been redecorated. What was a grave is now a throne room. What was the end is now the beginning.
“Woman, why are you weeping?”
The question is asked by angels. They know why she is weeping. They ask because the weeping is about to end. The question is not a rebuke. It is a setup. The answer to “why are you weeping?” is about to walk up behind her.
“Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him.”
Mary is still in the robbery narrative. She has not yet shifted to the resurrection narrative. She is looking for a dead body. She does not know she is about to find a living Person. The grief has blinded her to the possibility that the empty tomb is not a crime scene. It is a victory.
On Day 35, the blind man could not see until Christ made mud and sent him to the pool. Today Mary cannot see until Christ speaks her name. The pattern is consistent. The seeing requires an encounter. The eyes do not open on their own. Someone must open them. And the One who opens them does it with the most intimate possible gesture. Not a miracle. A name.
Mary! (vv. 14–16)
“Now when she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, and did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?’ She, supposing Him to be the gardener, said to Him, ‘Sir, if You have carried Him away, tell me where You have laid Him, and I will take Him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to Him, ‘Rabboni!’ (which is to say, Teacher).” (20:14–16)
She turns. He is standing there. And she does not recognize Him.
Why? Because the risen body is different. Not unrecognizable. Different. Transformed. The same body that was crucified and buried is now alive in a way it was not alive before. The resurrection body is not the resuscitated body (like Lazarus, who was restored to the same life he had before). The resurrection body is the transfigured body. The body that passes through graveclothes without disturbing them. The body that will later appear in locked rooms (John 20:19). The body that is the same and not the same. Continuous and new.
She supposes Him to be the gardener. The person who tends the garden where the tomb is located. An ordinary worker. An unremarkable figure in the early morning. She asks the gardener where the body has been moved. She offers to take it herself. The love is still operating in the grief. She will carry a dead man’s body on her own if someone will tell her where it is.
“Mary.”
One word. Her name. Spoken by the voice she has known for years. The voice that called her out of seven demons (Luke 8:2). The voice that taught her on the roads of Galilee. The voice that was silenced on the Cross and has been silent for three days. That voice says her name.
And everything changes.
“She turned and said to Him, ‘Rabboni!’“
She turns again. She had already turned once (v. 14) and did not recognize Him. Now she turns a second time. And the second turning is the turning of recognition. The eyes that were blinded by grief are opened by the sound of her name. She does not recognize His face. She recognizes His voice. The voice that says her name the way only He says it. The way only the Good Shepherd says the names of His sheep.
On Day 41, Christ called “Lazarus, come forth!” and the dead man heard his name and obeyed. Today Christ calls “Mary!” and the grieving woman hears her name and recognizes. The pattern is the same. The voice of Christ speaks a specific name. And the person who hears the name is changed. The dead man walks. The grieving woman sees.
“Rabboni.” Teacher. My Teacher. The Aramaic form. The intimate form. Not the formal “Rabbi” of the classroom. The personal “Rabboni” of the relationship. The word a student uses for the teacher she loves. Not the title. The name. The relationship name. He called her by name. She calls Him by relationship.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Hymns on the Resurrection, writes that Christ appeared first to Mary Magdalene for a reason that goes back to Genesis. In Genesis 3, the woman (Eve) was the first to encounter the serpent and the first to fall. In John 20, a woman (Mary) is the first to encounter the risen Christ and the first to believe. The garden of the Fall is answered by the garden of the Resurrection. The woman who listened to the serpent’s voice is answered by the woman who hears the Shepherd’s voice. Ephrem says: the resurrection begins where the fall began. In a garden. With a woman. And a voice calling a name.2
St. Cyril of Alexandria, in his Commentary on the Gospel of John, teaches that Christ said “Mary” to demonstrate that the resurrection is personal before it is universal. The first word of the risen Lord is not a doctrine about death’s defeat. It is a name. Because the resurrection is not primarily a cosmic event (though it is that). It is primarily a personal encounter. God knows our name. God speaks our name. And when we hear our name spoken by the risen Christ, we will turn. We will recognize. And we will say “Rabboni.” My Teacher. My Lord. The one I have been looking for in the wrong tomb, in the wrong narrative, with the wrong expectations. He is not among the dead. He is alive. And He knows my name.3
Do Not Cling to Me (vv. 17–18)
“Jesus said to her, ‘Do not cling to Me, for I have not yet ascended to My Father; but go to My brethren and say to them, “I am ascending to My Father and your Father, and to My God and your God.”‘ Mary Magdalene came and told the disciples that she had seen the Lord, and that He had told her these things.” (20:17–18)
“Do not cling to Me.”
Mē mou haptou. Stop holding on to Me. The tense suggests she has already grasped Him. She heard her name and reached out and grabbed Him. The way you grab something you are afraid of losing again. She lost Him on Friday. She is not letting go now.
Christ says: stop. Do not cling. Not because the touching is wrong. Because the relationship is changing. The old way of being with Christ (walking beside Him on the roads, sitting at His feet while He taught, anointing His feet with perfume) is over. The new way has not yet fully begun. The ascension has not yet happened. The Spirit has not yet been poured out. The Church has not yet been born. The old is finished. The new is coming. And in the gap between the old and the new, Mary must learn to relate to Christ differently.
“For I have not yet ascended to My Father.”
The resurrection is not the end. It is the middle. The end is the Ascension. The going to the Father. The return to the throne. And from the throne, the sending of the Spirit (Day 37). And through the Spirit, the permanent presence of Christ in the Church. The touching that Mary is doing now (grasping the physical body) will be replaced by something deeper. The indwelling of the Spirit. The Eucharistic presence. The mystical body. Christ will be more present through the Spirit and the Qurbana than He ever was on the roads of Galilee.
“Go to My brethren.”
Brethren. Adelphous. Brothers. Not servants. Not disciples. Not students. Brothers. The men who abandoned Him on Thursday night. Who denied Him on Friday morning. Who hid behind locked doors on Saturday. Christ calls them brothers. The first message of the risen Lord is addressed to the people who failed Him most completely. And the message is not rebuke. It is inclusion. Not “go to My cowards” or “go to My deserters.” Go to My brothers. The relationship has not been broken by their failure. It has been deepened by His resurrection.
“I am ascending to My Father and your Father, and to My God and your God.”
My Father and your Father. Not just “the Father” in the abstract. My Father. The one I called “Abba” in Gethsemane. And YOUR Father. The same one. The Spirit of adoption that Paul described on Day 37 (“you received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, ‘Abba, Father'”) is the Spirit of the risen Christ. The resurrection does not just defeat death. It redefines the relationship between God and humanity. My Father is now your Father. My God is now your God. The wall has come down. The barrier has been removed. The thing that separated you from the intimate address has been demolished. By the Cross. By the tomb. By the resurrection.
“Mary Magdalene came and told the disciples that she had seen the Lord.”
She becomes the first preacher of the resurrection. The apostle to the apostles. The woman who came to the tomb looking for a dead body goes to the disciples announcing a living Lord. The grief has become testimony. The tears have become the first Easter sermon.
“She had seen the Lord.” Four words. The simplest possible statement of faith. I have seen the Lord. Not “I have understood the resurrection” or “I can explain the theology of the empty tomb.” I have seen Him. He called my name. I know His voice. He is alive.
On Day 30, the Gerasene demoniac was sent home with the same mission: “tell them what great things the Lord has done for you.” On Day 35, the blind man said “one thing I know: I was blind, now I see.” Today Mary says: “I have seen the Lord.” Each testimony is simple. Each testimony is personal. Each testimony is irrefutable. Not because the theology is complex. Because the experience is real.
What Pascha Means for the Series
The fast is over. The forty-nine days are complete.
Day 1: temptation in the wilderness. Day 50: the resurrection garden. The distance between the two is the entire Gospel. And the entire Gospel is a single story. The story of a God who entered the wilderness of human existence, faced every temptation, healed every disease, taught every truth, washed every foot, broke His own body, poured His own blood, fell into the ground like a grain of wheat, lay silent in the tomb for three days, and then walked out. Under His own power. In His own time. With the face cloth folded.
Every day of the fast has been pointing here.
Day 9: the seed grows in secret. Today the seed has produced the harvest.
Day 24: the Cross was placed in the middle of the church. Today the Cross has done its work and the tomb is empty.
Day 25: with God all things are possible. Today the most impossible thing has happened.
Day 29: the potter has power over the clay. Today the potter has reshaped death itself into life.
Day 33: the dead girl got up. Today the dead God gets up.
Day 34: the withered hand stretched. Today the dead hand folds the napkin.
Day 35: the blind man saw. Today the grieving woman sees.
Day 37: the Spirit groans. Today the groan becomes a shout.
Day 38: the fruit of the Spirit. Today the fruit is joy.
Day 39: having nothing, possessing everything. Today the tomb has nothing. And the garden possesses everything.
Day 40: the fast that defeated Satan. Today the defeat is permanent.
Day 41: Lazarus came forth. Today Christ comes forth. On His own.
Every thread. Every theme. Every healing, every teaching, every parable, every stumble, every grace. All of it converges in an empty tomb and a voice in a garden saying a name.
Mary.
Your name. Whatever it is. The voice that called Lazarus from the tomb. The voice that called the blind man from the pool. The voice that called Zacchaeus from the tree. The voice that called the bent woman from the crowd. That voice is speaking this morning. In the garden. In the dawn. And it is saying your name.
Turn. Recognise. And say the only word that matters.
Rabboni.
For Our Journey Today
Go to the empty tomb. If you can attend the Paschal Qurbana, go. Stand before the altar where the bread is broken and the cup is poured and know that the body in the bread is the body that walked out of the tomb. The blood in the cup is the blood that flowed and then pulsed again. The Qurbana is the resurrection made present. Every Sunday. Every feast. This morning above all.
Listen for your name. Mary did not recognize the risen Christ by sight. She recognized Him by sound. By the sound of her own name spoken by the voice she loved. Today, in the Scripture, in the prayer, in the silence between the words, listen for your name. He is speaking it. Not “hey, you.” Your name. The specific, personal, unrepeatable name that the risen Christ knows and the risen Christ speaks. Into the dark. Into the grief. Into the garden where you are looking for a dead body. He is alive. And He knows your name.
Tell someone. Mary went and told the disciples: “I have seen the Lord.” Today, tell someone. Not a theological treatise on the resurrection. Four words. I have seen the Lord. In this fast. In this bread. In this cup. In the empty tomb. In the voice that said my name. I have seen the Lord. That is your Easter sermon. And no one can argue with it.
Lord Jesus Christ, who on the morning of the third day walked out of Your own tomb with the face cloth folded, we stand in the garden today. We came looking for a dead body. We found an empty tomb. We came in the dark. We found the dawn. We came with grief. We found You. You called our name. Not a doctrine. Not a proclamation. Our name. Spoken by the voice we have known for forty-nine days. The voice that said “come apart and rest.” The voice that said “stretch out your hand.” The voice that said “I am the resurrection and the life.” The voice that said “this is My body.” That voice, silenced on the Cross, silent in the tomb, is speaking again. And the first word it speaks is our name. Rabboni. Our Teacher. Our Lord. Our risen God. Christos Anesthi. Haqqath Qam Moriyo. Christ is risen. Truly the Lord is risen. And we have seen Him. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, St. Mary Magdalene, the holy Evangelist John, and all the saints. Amen. Amen. Amen.
Christos Anesthi! Haqqath Qam Moriyo! The tomb is empty. The napkin is folded. The gardener is the God. Mary heard her name and turned. And the first word of the new creation is not a doctrine. It is a name. Yours.
A Note on What Lies Ahead
This reflection marks the completion of the forty-nine-day Lenten series on Seeking Theosis. From Day 1 in the wilderness to Day 50 in the resurrection garden, the fast has walked us through temptation, healing, grace, the Cross, the tomb, and the empty morning.
But the story does not end at the empty tomb. In the Indian Orthodox tradition, the days following Pascha are known as the Hevoro Days, the Days of Brightness. These eight days from Pascha to the Sunday after Easter are days of unbroken celebration. The fast is broken. The alleluias return. The church is filled with light. And the risen Christ continues to appear. To Mary. To the disciples behind locked doors. To Thomas who would not believe until he touched the wounds. To the road to Emmaus where the bread was broken and the eyes were opened.
Reflections for the Hevoro Days are planned for the days ahead on Seeking Theosis. The Lenten series is complete. The Paschal series begins. The grain that fell has produced its harvest. And the harvest is just beginning.
