A new reality

On Easter Monday, I woke later than usual—6:30 a.m.—and even that felt like an effort. My body was heavy, my mind slow, and somewhere deep within, I could feel the quiet echo of all that Holy Week had taken out of me. The long days, the sacred intensity, the emotional weight of walking with Our Lord through His Passion, Death, and Resurrection—it had all settled into my bones.

The night before, I had called a dear friend—the one who so faithfully coordinates our Monday morning services—and told her gently that I would not be there. “Please find a replacement,” I said. It was not easy to admit. But I knew. I had nothing left to give.

And so, Monday passed. Then Tuesday. No newsletter. No words. Just a kind of stillness.

This morning, as I sat to write, I felt as though I were trying to brush cobwebs from my mind. And then, quite unexpectedly, I thought of Mary Magdalene. How did she do it?

After all she had witnessed—the brutality, the suffering, the unbearable grief of watching Jesus die—how did she find the strength to rise early, while it was still dark, and make her way to the tomb?

There is something deeply human here, something that speaks to our own tired hearts. It could only have been love.

Only love could have stirred her from that place of sorrow and exhaustion. Only love could have given her the courage to walk into the darkness of that early morning, carrying spices to anoint a body she believed still lay lifeless.

In the Gospel of John, Mary Magdalene stands in a unique light. She is not just part of a group of women; she is seen, named, encountered. She becomes the first witness to the Resurrection—the one sent to tell the apostles. The “apostle to the apostles.”

The other Gospels—the synoptic writers—tell the story beautifully, but often collectively, speaking of the women together and placing greater emphasis on the apostolic community. But John… John pauses. He lingers. He draws us into something more intimate. Why?

Because he wants us to understand something essential: the Risen Christ is encountered personally. Not first as a concept. Not first as a doctrine. But as a Person… who calls us by name.

And yet, this personal encounter does not stand alone. It leads us into community. Mary meets the Lord in the garden—but she is sent to the others. The personal and the communal, like two hands, clasp together in the mystery of faith.

As I reflect on my own tiredness this week, I realize something humbling. Like Mary Magdalene, I too must find the courage to rise—not necessarily physically at dawn—but interiorly. To rise in love.

Because the truth is, we cannot go out and “find” the Risen Christ as one might search for a lost object. It is He who comes to us. He who reveals Himself. He who calls our name in the quiet places of our lives.

But we must be disposed to receive Him. We must, even in our fatigue, even in our emotional emptiness, make that small interior movement toward Him. And perhaps this is where many of us find ourselves now.

Easter has come. The celebrations have passed. The alleluias have been sung. And yet… our problems remain. The burdens have not magically disappeared. Life, in many ways, looks the same. It can feel almost… anticlimactic.

Christ is risen! But my struggles are still here. And this is precisely the moment where Mary Magdalene becomes our guide. She teaches us that resurrection is not first about the removal of difficulties, but about a transformation of vision.

Something has changed—profoundly, eternally. Death no longer has the final word. Hope is no longer wishful thinking. Love has proven itself stronger than the grave. But for this truth to take root in us, we must undergo an interior shift. We must allow the Resurrection to awaken in us a new way of seeing, a new way of responding, a new way of living. A new hope. A new attitude. A new beatitude.

We are invited, even in our tiredness, to gather what little strength we have and step forward—not in our own power, but in the quiet assurance that Christ has already gone ahead of us. He is risen. And because He is risen, something new is always possible.

Perhaps, in these days after Easter, our task is simple: not to do more, not to strive harder, but to awaken gently to this new reality. To let the joy of the Resurrection seep slowly into the cracks of our weary hearts. And together—as a faith community—we can walk this path.

In the days and weeks ahead, I hope we can journey side by side through these reflections… discovering, little by little, what it truly means to live as Easter people. Amen.

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Dear Friends, I still have a few spaces left in my upcoming course Writing as a Way of Healing and Spiritual Growth. If you are interested but still have not made up your mind, please send me an email at coachbengo@gmail.com and I would be happy to discuss your concerns.