Easter Sunday: April 20, 2025

Sermon Transcript

“Who Are You Looking For?”

“Who are you looking for?” That is the question, isn’t it? Anytime you come to church—or really, anytime you go anywhere—who are you looking for? This is the question that was put to Mary Magdalene in the gospel story we just heard. And I think it’s a question that’s in front of all of us, not just during the 30 or 40 minutes of my sermon (kidding), but throughout this service, during this festival weekend, and at many other moments in our lives.

Before I was doing this, I was a graphic designer. I worked in marketing and copywriting, and I still dabble in it now—especially for the church. The logo you see for our church: what do you notice? Most people see a heart. Some people, however, see angel wings. When we designed it in red, that pushed people even more toward seeing a heart, but the goal was for it to be both—a heart and wings. That was intentional. We are St. Michael the Archangel Episcopal Church. That’s a bit long, so we go with St. Michael’s Episcopal Church. And like many graphic designers, I’ve always loved creating logos that have a hidden meaning or dual image—something subtle beneath the surface. That’s what we tried to do here.

Every graphic designer has their favorite example of this idea, and almost all will point to the FedEx logo. Do you know what I mean? The arrow. For years, people just saw the “Fed” and the “Ex.” But embedded between the E and the X is a forward-pointing arrow. It symbolizes motion, delivery, progress—even if you’re not consciously aware of it, it communicates something deeper.

We as Christians have a logo too—a centuries-old one: the cross. I mentioned this a bit on Friday. We do all sorts of things with the cross. We process it up and down the aisle, we have one outside by the street, there’s one on our steeple (though the proportions are a bit off—that’s the graphic designer in me talking). But seriously, crosses are everywhere. We’re kind of obsessed. We decorate them with gold, with diamonds—they’re ornate, central, revered. And yet, there’s only one day in the church year that’s fully dedicated to what happened on the cross: Good Friday.

On that day, just a few days ago, we pulled out a large wooden cross from the basement, placed it here, and venerated it. One day. That’s it. The symbol that defines our faith is given one day of undivided attention. And even more paradoxically, it’s the day we veil it. We cover it up. You’d think today—Resurrection Sunday—would be the day to cover it, to focus only on life, only on joy. But Good Friday is the day of veiling. Why? Because the cross, at its core, is an instrument of torture and defeat. It was used by the Roman Empire not just to execute people but to assert dominance and squash rebellion. When someone was made to carry a cross, it meant they were done. There was no coming back. The cross was undefeated—until Jesus.

And even then, it defeated him too. At first. Jesus died on that cross. But we know the rest of the story—how he rose again and claimed victory over death itself. That’s why we’re here this morning. That’s why we’ve broken out of the Lenten sadness and into joyful hymns. That’s why we’ve emerged from the complications of Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday into the clear, bright joy of Easter. Finally, someone defeated the cross. Someone defeated death and rose again.

So what’s the first thing Jesus does when he rises? Does he go to the cross and smash it to pieces in triumph? No. He doesn’t destroy it. Instead, he finds one of his best friends—Mary Magdalene. He shows up to her. And why her? Because she was there. When others fled, she stayed. She was the closest. So Jesus appeared to her first. Still, she didn’t recognize him. He had to ask her, “Who are you looking for?” She was looking for Jesus, yes—but a dead Jesus. It wasn’t until he said her name, “Mary,” that she recognized him. Not by his face or form, but by his voice—the voice of the Shepherd.

That moment, that recognition, is everything. Jesus didn’t go through all he did just to make a spectacle—he did it for moments like that. For calling our names. For reconnecting. For helping us see who he really is—not just who we were told he would be. Are we listening for our name in his voice?

So back to the question of symbols and logos. If Christianity is to be a symbol of life and resurrection, why isn’t our logo the open tomb? Why not a stone rolled away? That’s a pure symbol of life. And yet, that’s not what Jesus left us with. He left the cross intact. Why? Because he didn’t come to destroy it. He came to redeem it. He came to pour new meaning into all the death-dealing symbols of our world—the dominance, oppression, scarcity, competition—all of it. He came not to abolish these things, but to transform them, just as he said of the law: “I have come not to abolish it, but to fulfill it.”

So the cross remains, but something else broke. If you remember the Passion story, you may recall that at the moment Jesus died, the curtain in the temple—the one that separated the Holy of Holies—was torn in two, from top to bottom. Almost like God, in grief, tore his own garments. That curtain was meant to shield the holiest place, where only one person could go, and only once a year. It was the place where God’s presence was most concentrated—and also most dangerous.

And yet, when Jesus died, that barrier was removed. God was no longer contained or restricted. The Holy of Holies spilled out—into the priestly court, the court of the Jews, the court of the Gentiles, into the streets, into Independence, Missouri, into this very place and all the holy places where we live our lives. Resurrection life came out to meet us.

So yes, it might seem like today should be the day we veil the cross, forget about death, and just focus on the empty tomb. But Jesus kept the cross intact for a reason. He’s saying to us, “Celebrate Easter. Sing your hymns. Rejoice. Hunt for Easter eggs. But when all of that is done, remember—the cross is still there. Pick it up, and follow me.”

Amen.

Service Bulletin