He Calls You By Name

Introduction

John tells us that Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark.

That detail matters. Not because it is poetic, but because it is honest. This is not the hour of confidence or clarity. This is the hour when grief wakes before reason does. The hour when the body moves forward even though the mind has no map. Mary is not coming to make a declaration of faith. She is coming because love has nowhere else to go.

She comes expecting death.

John does not soften that. He does not say she came hopeful. He does not say she came believing resurrection. He says she came while it was still dark. That darkness is not only outside her. It is inside her understanding of what has happened. She knows Jesus has died. She knows the story appears finished. And yet, she comes anyway.

That alone should slow us down.

Mary’s presence at the tomb is not the result of correct belief. It is the result of attachment. She comes not because she understands, but because she belongs. Her feet carry her before her theology catches up.

And when she sees the stone removed, she does what most of us do when confronted with something we do not understand: she interprets it according to her grief. “They have taken the Lord,” she says. The empty tomb does not yet signal victory. It signals loss compounded by confusion.

John does not correct her at this point.

Peter and the other disciple run to the tomb. They see. They examine. They leave. The text is almost abrupt about it. But Mary stays. She lingers. She stands outside the tomb, weeping.

That, too, matters.

She does not leave because answers have not yet come. She remains because love does not resolve quickly. And it is there—in that staying—that the resurrection first meets a human being.

But even then, John is careful. Mary sees angels and still does not move toward understanding. She turns and sees Jesus standing there and does not recognize Him. The risen Christ is present, and she does not know it is Him.

That should unsettle us—in a good way.

Because it tells us something essential about resurrection faith: recognition is not immediate. Presence does not guarantee perception. Christ can be nearer than we realize, and we can still misname what we are seeing.

Jesus speaks to her. He asks why she is weeping. He asks whom she is seeking. These are not trick questions. They are invitations. But even then, Mary answers out of her grief. She assumes He is the gardener. She asks where the body has been taken.

And then—without explanation, without correction, without instruction—Jesus speaks a single word.

Her name.

“Mary.”

That is the turning point of the entire passage.

Not because new information is given.

Not because evidence is produced.

Not because an argument is made.

But because she is addressed.

Recognition comes not through reasoning, but through being known. The resurrection does not announce itself with spectacle here. It reveals itself relationally. Jesus does not say, “It is I.” He says her name. And that is enough.

Only then does Mary say, “Rabboni.”

Understanding follows being called.

Faith follows recognition.

Mission follows belonging.

John is deliberate about the order.

Mary does not arrive at clarity and then receive a relationship. She is already claimed, already known, already loved—and from that place, her eyes open.

This matters because many of us live as though the order must be reversed. We assume we must understand before we can trust. We assume clarity precedes peace. We assume faith is something we arrive at once the darkness lifts.

But John shows us something quieter and truer.

Mary belongs to the risen Christ before she understands Him.

Before she recognizes Him.

Before she knows what comes next.

She is not asked to prove her devotion. She is not asked to explain her grief. She is not corrected for misunderstanding the empty tomb. She is named.

And only after that does Jesus send her.

“Go to my brothers,” He says.

Not because she has passed a test.

Not because she has achieved clarity.

But because resurrection life moves outward from relationship.

This is not a story about arrival. It is a story about recognition on the way. Mary does not leave the garden with a settled future. She leaves with a word entrusted to her. She is still in motion. Still carrying grief. Still learning what resurrection means.

But she walks now as someone who has been named.

That is the texture of this passage. And it is the texture of much of our faith.

We come while it is still dark.

We stay when answers do not come quickly.

We misinterpret what we see.

We fail to recognize Christ even when He is near.