7/22/2025 (Tuesday) Today’s Gospel reading: John 20:1-2, 11-18

1 On the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early in the morning, while it was still dark, and saw the stone removed from the tomb.
2 So she ran and went to Simon Peter and to the other disciple whom Jesus loved, and told them, “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they put him.”
11 Mary stayed outside the tomb weeping. And as she wept, she bent over into the tomb
12 and saw two angels in white sitting there, one at the head and one at the feet where the Body of Jesus had been.
13 And they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid him.”
14 When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there, but did not know it was Jesus.
15 Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” She thought it was the gardener and said to him, “Sir, if you carried him away, tell me where you laid him, and I will take him.”
16 Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni,” which means Teacher.
17 Jesus said to her, “Stop holding on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am going to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”
Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord,” and then reported what he told her.

7/22/2025 (Tuesday) Today’s Gospel reflection / homily / sermon: John 20:1-2, 11-18

We all face moments when sorrow clings to us like morning mist—heavy, cold, and unwilling to lift. Loss, confusion, betrayal, or simply the ache of uncertainty can draw tears from our hearts. In one such moment, a woman named Mary Magdalene stood outside a tomb, weeping. She had seen everything she loved seemingly vanish. The one who gave her hope, identity, and purpose was gone. Her tears flowed not just from grief but from disorientation, when the very foundation of life seems pulled out from under us.

And then comes a voice, not a thunderclap, not a dramatic miracle, but a quiet question: Why are you weeping?

It’s not a dismissal of pain but a divine invitation to look deeper. That question echoes through centuries and speaks directly to us today. Why do you weep? Is it because something you depended on has vanished? Because love feels lost, dreams seem shattered, or life hasn’t unfolded the way you expected?

Often, like that woman by the tomb, we don’t recognize hope even when it stands before us. We’re too immersed in the shadows of what we think we’ve lost. But heaven doesn’t just comfort. It transforms. The question isn’t meant to shame or rush us through grief; it’s meant to turn our gaze, gently but firmly, toward a new reality we hadn’t imagined.

Then comes another moment of tension: “Stop holding on to me.” At first glance, it sounds harsh. Why would love ever ask us to let go? But this is not rejection. It is a commissioning. It’s a call to release our grip on the past, not because it wasn’t real or meaningful, but because something greater is unfolding. Letting go is not forgetting. It is allowing love to evolve into its truer, fuller form.

So often, we cling, not just to people, but to identities, old roles, beliefs, routines, even wounds. We grasp at what was because we fear what will be. But the divine invitation is always forward, always deeper. Faith is not about preserving what was; it’s about participating in what is coming alive.

In our lives today, these questions are deeply relevant. Whether we’re mourning the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, or the collapse of plans we held dear, the question remains: Why are you weeping? Not to invalidate our sorrow, but to awaken us to a deeper truth: what feels like an ending may be the first breath of something new.

And when we hear, Stop holding on to me, it’s not abandonment. It’s God asking us to release control, to make space for the resurrection happening right now, even if we can’t yet see its full form.

Weeping has its place. But it is not our destination. Clinging has its moment. But it is not our calling. We are invited into transformation, into going, telling, living in the truth that death is not the final word and loss is not the end of love.

In every sorrow, listen: the Gardener is speaking your name.

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