Easter Reflection
READING: John 20 1-18
“Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,”
Have you ever noticed just how much of the Holy Week and Easter stories actually take place in gardens? You might not be the world’s best gardener, or even have a garden, but I wonder if you have ever imagined what these gardens looked like, felt like, or even smelled like.
The garden of Gethsemane—full of olive trees—just outside the city, probably a quiet, secluded place. The garden where there was a tomb, where the body of Jesus was laid after his death. And that same garden on Easter morning, when Mary, going to anoint his body, thought that the risen Christ was actually the gardener.
A garden among the tombs.
What, I wonder, do we imagine that to have looked like?
Even if you can’t name or identify the plants and trees of that region, you might still have a sense of what you think the scene looked like.
Many areas of the UK have been hit by storms this last year. The Isles of Scilly, off the coast of Cornwall, were particularly affected. Trees were uprooted. Landscapes reshaped. The hedging and planting that had protected the islands for generations were almost completely destroyed. The famous Tresco gardens lost iconic plants and trees. Paths were blocked. Water and electrical systems were severed. People knew what it was like to stand at the heart of a destructive force and feel how fragile everything is.
And then comes the quiet work after the storm
Taking stock. Clearing what has fallen. Working out what needs replanting. Asking deeper questions: what is right for now? What species will flourish in a changing climate? What kind of landscape do we need for the future? How do we rebuild in a way that is more sustainable, more resilient, more attentive?
And there is waiting too. Waiting to see what seeds remain in the soil. Waiting to notice what begins to regenerate on its own. Waiting for life to return, slowly, quietly, almost unseen.
Perhaps that devastation of gardens after storms is closer to the Easter story a than we sometimes realise.
Because Good Friday feels very much like the storm.
Not only the death of Jesus, but the exposure of a world capable of violence and domination. A regime prepared to execute. A culture that allows injustice to unfold while many stand by. Lives shattered. Hope uprooted. The landscape of human trust torn apart.
And then—silence.
And then—waiting.
And then, in a garden, something begins.
Almost unnoticed at first. A presence mistaken for a gardener. A voice speaking a name. A moment so small it could be missed.
And yet everything has changed.
There is a book in the Bible that returns again and again to secret meetings in a garden: the Song of Songs. It is a poem of love—physical, intimate, passionate—where human longing becomes a kind of worship. In the embrace of two lovers, we glimpse something deeper: God’s desire for us, and our desire for God. And at Passover, the time of Jesus’ death, this song of love is read aloud.
Again and again, it speaks of a garden.
In a dry and uncertain land, a garden is never ordinary. It is a miracle. Water where there should be none. Life pushing through dust. Beauty flourishing where none is expected. The very word “paradise” means an enclosed garden—a place of life held safe and nurtured.
Easter happens in such a place.
And in that garden, the beginning meets the end.
At the start of the Bible, there is a man and a woman in a garden—Adam and Eve—where all creation is held in relationship, possibility, and trust. At the end of the Bible, there is another garden, where God dwells with humanity and the leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations. And here, on Easter morning, we find another meeting: Jesus and Mary Magdalene, a man and a woman, standing among the soil and the growing things.
Beginning meets end. Creation meets completion.
But this is not a return to what was before. It is something deeper. Something transformed.
Just as those storm-broken landscapes in the Scilly Isles are not simply being restored to how they were, but reimagined for what they might become, so too the resurrection is not a resetting of the past. It is the beginning of a new creation.
A new way of loving.
A new way of living.
A new way of being human.
In that garden, the body meets the soul.
Jesus is not a ghost or a memory. He is real—scarred, wounded, bearing the marks of what has been endured. And yet he is also filled with a new kind of life. The resurrection does not abandon the physical world; it renews it. It does not escape suffering; it transforms it.
This is what it means to be fully alive.
And in that garden, the personal meets the cosmic.
Jesus speaks Mary’s name. Not a crowd. Not a concept. A person. Known. Loved. Called.
And yet this moment is not hers alone. It opens outward—to the disciples, to the community, to the whole of creation. The garden is not just a private meeting place; it is the place where the healing of the world begins.
Like seeds beneath disturbed soil, something is stirring that will grow far beyond what can be seen.
And perhaps this is where we find ourselves now.
Living in the aftermath of storms—personal, communal, global. Clearing what has fallen. Reassessing what matters. Learning to live differently in a changing world.
And waiting.
Watching.
Trusting that even now, life is quietly rising.
“Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,” the hymn reminds us.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But faithfully.
Easter does not begin with certainty or control. It begins with a gardener, a name spoken, and love that refuses to let death have the final word.
This is the secret of the garden.
This is the quiet revolution of Easter.
And it is happening still—beneath the surface, in broken places, in hearts and communities willing to begin again.
If you listen carefully, you might hear it.
If you look closely, you might see it.
New life.
Already rising.
Image: Vytas | Unsplash.com
