A Sermon for The Sunday of the Resurrection: Easter Day
April 5, 2026
Text: John 20:1-18
Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Some of you already know this about me already, but I have a very special place in my heart for nurses.
My grandmother was a nurse at Andalusia Hospital for many years—someone just about everyone in the community knew and loved. Caring for others wasn’t just her job. It was who she was. And she lived that out—right up until the day she died.
My sister, Haiden, works as a part-time nurse at an urgent care in Newnan, Georgia.
And my wife, Chelsea, has been a registered nurse for almost twenty years.
So I’ve had a front-row seat, in many ways, to what nurses do.
And if you ask me, they’re some of the most under-appreciated people in the world.
They don’t always get the recognition they deserve. They work long hours. They show up at all times of the day and night. And more often than not, they meet people in some of the most difficult and desperate moments of their lives.
They give of themselves—quietly and faithfully—because someone needs them.
I saw a good example of that recently.
Chelsea works as a circulator nurse in the surgery department at the hospital.
She was on call one night last week, which means you have to be ready at a moment’s notice to drop everything and go if there’s an emergency.
Around 3:30 in the morning, the phone rang.
There was an emergency C-section that needed to be done.
And just like that, she was out of bed—fully awake in an instant—and began making phone calls.
One by one, she called the rest of the team who needed to be there.
And I remember lying there, half awake, listening as she spoke to each person, explaining the situation.
What really struck me—and what stayed with me ever since—was how each person responded.
Not by complaining.
Not with hesitation.
But with a sense of urgency and care.
“I’ll be there as soon as possible” they said.
One after another.
And in that quiet, early hour of the morning, it was almost surreal.
Almost like something out of a movie.
You know those scenes—where there’s a moment of crisis, and people are called, and one by one they respond… and they come running, not because they have to, but because something in them says, “this is important.”
That’s what it felt like.
It wasn’t dramatic or flashy.
But it was one of the most incredible things I’ve seen in a long time.
Of course, you could say—that’s their job.
That’s what nurses are supposed to do.
But what I witnessed that night felt like something deeper than that.
Not just an obligation—but a calling.
After Chelsea left the house, I just sat there in silence, taking it all in.
And I’ll be honest with you—I got a little emotional.
Which, I’ll admit, seems to be happening more and more these days. I don’t know if that’s just part of getting older or what.
But there I was, lying in bed at 3:45 in the morning, getting teary-eyed.
Because I had just witnessed something beautiful—and holy.
Not just because of what one person did—although I’m so proud of the work she does.
But because of what it revealed.
It revealed something about the kind of love that moves people to show up.
To leave the comfort of their bed in the middle of the night.
To respond to someone else’s moment of need.
And that’s when I realized something.
This is what love looks like.
The truth is, we all catch glimpses of that kind of love in our lives.
For me, it’s through the nurses in my family.
But for you, it might be something else.
It might be a friend who shows up when you need them.
Or a neighbor who quietly takes care of someone who’s going through a tough time.
Or a teacher. Or a caregiver. Or a parent.
Moments when love breaks through in a way that feels real and tangible.
We see it here at St. Mary’s, too.
Just a couple of weeks ago, at our Rice and Beans Ministry, one of our members brought a woman with her we had never met—not to volunteer, but simply to receive.
The woman had no home—no where to go, no one to take care of her.
She came and got her food, had breakfast, and quietly sat at one of the tables in the Parish Hall.
And at the end of the morning, she came back into the kitchen in tears.
And she said something I won’t soon forget.
She said she had no idea that churches like this existed.
That people would actually take the time to show up and help others in need.
Friends, that’s what the love of Christ looks like.
That’s what God’s grace looks like.
All of these moments—
Whether it’s a nurse answering a call in the middle of the night,
or a church opening its doors to feed and welcome others—
They are glimpses—
Signs that remind us of something important.
Love is not gone.
Love is not lost, despite what the world might try to tell us.
Love is alive.
And that’s exactly what we proclaim on this day as we celebrate our Lord’s victory over sin and death.
In the story we just heard just a few moments ago from the Gospel of John, we are taken to the tomb.
A place that should have been the end of the story.
A place of grief. A place of loss.
The final resting place of our Lord.
Mary Magdalene arrives in the darkness of early morning, expecting to find the body of Jesus.
But instead—
The stone has been rolled away.
The tomb is empty.
The world tried to silence him, but death could not hold him.
Easter is the moment when love refuses to stay buried.
It is the moment when life breaks through death.
When light overcomes darkness.
When hope rises out of hopelessness.
I was thinking about that this week as I reflected on the anthem our choir is singing this morning.
Because it so beautifully puts into words what Easter feels like:
Light after darkness, gain after loss,
Strength after weakness, crown after cross;
Sweet after bitter, hope after fears,
Home after wandering, praise after tears.
That’s what resurrection looks like.
Not that the darkness never existed—but that it doesn’t get the final word.
And then the refrain says this:
He is making all things new.
Not just someday.
Not just at the end.
But even now.
In ways both quiet and unmistakable.
Life after tomb.
And because of Jesus’ death on the cross—and his rising again—we are given this unshakable promise: that new life is always possible.
That no darkness is final.
That nothing—not even death itself—can overcome the love of God in Christ.
Today, we don’t just hear that story.
We see it.
Last night, at the Great Vigil of Easter—as we celebrated the Passover of our Lord from death to new life—we baptized Ruby Waldroff and welcomed her as the newest member of the household of God.
And later this morning—together with his parents and godparents—we will baptize A.J. Fowler.
In those moments, we’re not just welcoming them into the Body of Christ.
We are witnessing resurrection.
We are seeing new life spring up right before our eyes.
Because baptism is where the story of Easter becomes our story.
It is the outward and visible sign that we’ve been joined with Christ in his death and resurrection and marked as Christ’s own forever.
And I can’t say this strongly enough.
There’s something truly remarkable about this.
That even now, in the world we live in—in a world that can often feel lonely, dark, and hopeless—people are still choosing life over death.
Still choosing to be baptized.
Still choosing to walk in the way of Jesus.
Because what they’re choosing is not comfort or convenience.
It’s a life shaped by the cross, a life of self-giving, sacrificial love.
A life that looks like showing up for those in need.
A life that reflects the very love we see on the cross…and the very life we see in the resurrection.
What we witness in baptism is not all that different from those moments I was talking about earlier.
It’s people saying, in one way or another:
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll show up.”
“I’ll give my life to something greater than myself.”
And every time we witness a baptism, we’re reminded of something else.
This isn’t just their story.
It’s ours, too.
Because in every baptism, we renew our own baptismal vows.
We remember who we are.
We remember that the powers of sin and death no longer have dominion over us.
And we’re sent back out into the world…
To live as people who carry that same love.
To be those glimpses of God’s love for others.
To embody the love of Christ in a world that so often feels dark and uncertain.
Because the good news of Easter isn’t just about something that happened long ago.
It’s about something happening right now—all around us.
In nurses who answer the call and show up at a moment’s notice.
In churches that open their doors.
In water poured over those who are making the commitment to follow Christ.
In bread and wine, broken and shared.
In ordinary people like us…who choose, again and again, to live in love.
Because Christ is risen.
And even now—
He is making all things new.
Amen.
The Rev. Eric Mancil 