No More Parades

2026-25
sermon preached at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
www.goodshepherdfw.org
by the Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector

The Day of Easter, April 5, 2026

Jeremiah 31:1-6; Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24; Acts 10:34-43; John 20:1-18

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Mary—not the mother of Jesus, but a different Mary, possibly from a village called Magdala. We hear in Luke’s gospel that Jesus healed Mary of a powerful demonic affliction. After this she joined Jesus’ wandering group of disciples and helped provide for them, both financially and in daily service to their needs.

Mary Magdalene doesn’t appear in the Bible outside the four gospels. Only in Luke’s gospel is she mentioned at any time prior to the crucifixion, and then just in passing. What more do we know about Mary Magdalene? Honestly, not much. After Easter morning, she never appears in the Bible again.

Yet Mary is the only person named as the first witness to Christ’s Resurrection in all four gospels—and in all four, she is one of those who brings the news to the men. Before there were any deacons, bishops, or priests—in a time when the witness of women was not generally seen as reliable—Mary was ordained to share the Good News.

But the Day of Easter begins only with Mary’s grief. When she comes to the tomb, she brings no spices, no anointing oil. The usual funerary duties of women must seem so useless to her today. Jesus was all her hopes, and, she suspects, all of God’s hopes for the future of the Jewish people! So Mary just needs to be close to Jesus’ body for a while.

But Jesus’ body is gone!

At this point it may occur to Mary that if there are graverobbers nearby, she shouldn’t allow herself to be seen. She races back and tells Peter and Tod. Yeah, I call him Tod—T.O.D. “The Other Disciple.” Get it? So next there’s this relay race, and for some reason the author needs us to understand that Tod wins.

But I’m not focusing on the men today. Peter and Tod see the empty tomb and go home, but Mary stays. She looks into the tomb again—wait! Now there are two figures there in white, and they ask: “Why are you crying?”

“They’ve taken him away!” Mary replies in anguish. Then her tears flow freely, blinding her to everything else around her, even the man approaching from behind.

He also asks, “Why are you crying? Are you looking for someone?”

“Just tell me where he is!” she cries out. “Whatever you’ve done with him, give him back!” She assumes this man is the gardener. Who else would be hanging around the tombs early on a Sunday morning? And Mary is still trying to grasp that she just saw two angels. This makes no sense to her at all.

But the supposed gardener cuts through her confusion: “Mary!”

And then she knows who he is. “Teacher!”

Was Mary blinded by her tears, or just blinded by her grief? Can grief sometimes prevent us from seeing the hope standing right in front of us? At this point I can only imagine Mary rushing into Jesus’ arms.

“Wait,” Jesus warns. “Don’t hold on to me.” Why not? “I have not yet ascended to the Father.” What on earth could that mean? Maybe he’s saying, “Don’t get too attached to this moment. We’re not done yet. There’s fresh work to do.” Jesus meets Mary’s grief with a confusing imperative to let go. Yet he is also present with her—perhaps more so, even, than he ever was before his death!

We think of death as the moment when a person just stops. No more consuming food. No more spending money. No more keeping appointments. No more of any of the busy-ness they used to occupy themselves with. From now on we must always settle for memories of who they once were, and what they used to do. And this is why we rightly grieve.

But that’s not happening with Jesus. This death isn’t a stoppage. It’s a startage! What is starting? Mary has no way of knowing. All she knows is that her grief is not staying stuck. Everything must now change.

If you’re in grief today about something—anything—and wondering how on earth you made it to such a celebratory occasion with all these apparently happy people around you … let me assure you that you’re not alone. I know we’re all grieving something. The only thing that really helps with grief is for it to be witnessed and held by others.

At the very least, like me, you must also be feeling the constant grief of a world spinning out of control, leaderless but for those who exploit their privilege for corruption on a scale the world has never before seen. There are so many crucifixions that are going on today: the bombing of a girls’ school in Tehran … the starving of children in Gaza … local concentration camps filling up with our neighbors … the trauma of those victimized by powerful men who have not yet been brought down from their thrones. Significant chunks of future history books are being written right now, and those who study these times in the future will not look kindly on our nation. War: what is it good for? Well, if you’re the one running it and you’ve successfully eliminated all checks on your power, it’s excellent for your stock portfolio!

In the midst of all this atrocious chaos, I saw the other day that a church was advertising a huge “Jesus parade” for Easter. The invitation was to pour into the streets and let everybody know who their Lord and Savior is. And I thought, this may be well-meaning, but to me it just seems both forced and tacky. This is exactly the kind of performative nonsense that those same wealthy, corrupt people in power encourage. They gather at their political prayer breakfasts and pull one or two Bible verses out of context to assure that some minority of Christians will identify with them. Then they go back to their main work, which has precisely zero overlap with the work of Jesus Christ. If I sound disgusted, it’s because I am.

Easter is not about parades. That was Palm Sunday—last week. But that was the show before the storm, the subversive protest, when the people put Jesus on display and tried to crown him king. Jesus allowed them their misunderstanding. They couldn’t imagine that their king would swiftly be executed by the state. Or that Jesus’ public execution would be only the beginning. Not a stoppage, but a startage!

Because when Jesus returns on Easter morning, even those who loved him most don’t recognize him at first. There are no parades this time. Only a grieving woman confused yet hopeful, terrified yet leaning into the physical presence of her lost-and-found teacher. Even then, she will find only a moment of consolation before being sent back out into the world—not to conquer, but to serve. Because this isn’t your typical victory, and Jesus has no use for winners.

On the other side of the empty tomb, when we proclaim Jesus Christ to be our king, please understand that we are doing so ironically. No actual king is like him. Jesus proclaims an end to swords and guns and bombs. Jesus decided it was better to die than to kill, and when he went to the cross, he left his followers in danger. How naïve, we say! Yet here he stands, alive, in front of Mary. And his work still isn’t finished. Easter is fifty days long, so in this place we’re only beginning to tell stories of resurrection. So never settle for a king who crucifies others instead of going to the cross himself.

Y’all. What are you doing here today, if not entertaining the notion that all of this is true and real, and that it still matters? Admiring the teachings of Jesus—that’s one thing. Easter is quite another. And the news doesn’t arrive with a triumphal shout, and war horses, and trumpets, and parades. No! I don’t trust the kind of shallow, clingy certitude that leads only to parades and steely-eyed proclamations of greatness. Because that’s not how the story happened.

The news arrived in a mysterious whisper to Mary Magdalene, a woman in grief, and what reason do you have to believe her tale? If it’s just hearsay from 2000 years ago, it’s not believable. Not on its face, with no independent evidence. You won’t find proof of Christ’s resurrection in the text of the Bible, or in the earnest work of scholars and archaeologists. It’s just not there.

So why would any of us believe in resurrection? Wouldn’t it more sensible to let Jesus stay dead? To say, “What a shame—he said some good things”—and then get back to numbing out on our phones and waiting for the end of the world?

I can think of only two reasons to believe Mary’s story. One, you’ve experienced it yourself in some direct and mysterious way. Two, you are nurturing a simple conviction that no other solution will suffice. Believing this story requires your fervent desire for a world reborn.

But don’t stop there. If you never go back to the tomb, you will never discover that the body is missing. So keep returning to this empty tomb, as part of a believing community, again and again and again. Those who place the risen Christ at the center of our lives find that he’s still not done working. Honestly, he’s hard to keep up with. He’s always on the move, and he keeps sending us back out into his divine classroom.

See, here’s the actual Good News: when God became a victim of our hate, God endured it without ever seeking vengeance. So, please—no more militant coronation parades. No more retribution and revenge. No more talk of who has what coming to them. Jesus is bigger than all that, and he is insisting, “Don’t hold on to me! We still have work to do.” Christ will see our world through to real justice—the kind of justice that looks at first like unbearable mercy.

What we Christians have is this persistent belief, recorded in ancient story, lived in actual human history, that God will not allow our grief to stay stuck. That beyond the depths of our pain lies a resurrection we cannot see clearly, but only hope for. But that doesn’t mean forced cheeriness. Your grief and your joy belong side by side in the presence of the Risen Christ. Embrace him today, but don’t linger there. We have fresh, joyful work to do. Will you come along with us? We need to love this world back into wholeness. Amen.