“Why Are You Weeping?”
return to the main player
Return to the Main Player
return to the main player
Return to the Main Player

“Why Are You Weeping?”

 (ID: 3728)

Failing to grasp that Jesus would be raised to life, Mary found her grief matched by confusion when she saw His tomb was empty. Until He called her by name, she didn’t even recognize that it was Jesus Himself who asked, “Why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” In this Easter message, Alistair Begg walks us through the historical reality and universal impact of Jesus’ resurrection. Tears give way to joy once we recognize that Jesus is who He claims to be—the risen Christ.


Sermon Transcript: Print

John chapter 20, and I’m going to read from the eleventh verse. Justin has read the first ten, and now we take it to verse 18.

John 20:11:

“But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb, and as she wept she stooped to look into the tomb. And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet. They said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ Having said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?’ Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She turned and said to him in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni!’ (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, ‘Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, “I[’m] ascending 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 that he had said these things to her.”

Amen.

Well, a brief prayer together:

Father, what we know not, teach us. What we have not, give us. What we are not, make us. For Christ’s sake. Amen.

We either know this by experience or by observation: that the death of a loved one is a devastating thing; that one’s psyche is immediately filled with a huge combination of emotions—fear, disappointment, a sense of loss, pain, anger, and a prevailing emptiness; that the person who even hours before was in our company is no longer present. And the inevitability of tears is quite obvious.

Our Jewish friends perhaps understand the nature of mourning better than those of us who do not come from their background. Because, as you will know with your Jewish friends, they observe a seven-day period of mourning. I think it’s pronounced “shiva.” And that gathering is a solemn gathering. You’re not invited to bluster in with photographs from people’s twenty-first birthday party. You’re not really invited to speak to the person who is mourning unless the person who is mourning chooses to invite your comments. It is a profoundly solemn experience.

And it is one that actually may not go all the way back to Genesis, but if you recall the story of the death of Jacob (how he gathered his feet up on the bed and breathed his last)[1] and then the response of Joseph to that, in deep pain and heartache, and then, in obedience to Jacob’s request, making their way to the place of Jacob’s burial, we’re told that at some point along the way, they paused. And this is what Genesis 50:10 says: “They lamented there with a very great and grievous lamentation, and he made a mourning for his father seven days.” In one of her last broadcasts, Queen Elizabeth said at one point, grief is the price we pay for love—that genuine love is revealed in loss, in genuine grief.

Now, I begin in that way because I think we take this for granted. And therefore, when we come to the record here, it’s not surprising that John records the reaction of Mary. In fact, immediately it becomes clear that Easter morning has begun with darkness; that the darkness begins to dissipate—the kind of darkness that was around at five o’clock this morning, if you were up, and when you looked out, you realized, “Those are trees; those are not people.” But if you were somewhat sleepy, you might have considered that that was a possibility. You just don’t see things. You might see someone that you should recognize, and then you don’t recognize them. And into that fragile darkness Mary comes, and she’s weeping. That makes perfect sense. That’s what you do. In fact, he says that she was weeping outside the tomb, then she was stooping to look inside the tomb. And it is in that context that she makes this discovery.

Now, what is fascinating is this: that while her reaction to things is perfectly understandable… Because, after all, the verdict had been rendered against Jesus. They had rejected him. They had humiliated him. They had executed him. And so, in a very realistic way, it would have made perfect sense for Mary simply to say, “You know, that was good while it lasted, but it’s just a lost cause.”

She sees the two angels. He was crucified between two thieves, and now he’s entombed between two angels. Keep in mind that Mary is there not looking for Jesus. She’s looking for a corpse. And her reaction makes perfect sense: loss, sadness, pain, emptiness, disappointment, and tears. That’s her reaction.

Now, look at the question that is posed to her by the angels: “And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet.” And “they said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’” Now, if I’d been there, I would have said, “I should have thought that was perfectly obvious why I’m weeping.” But she says, “Well, the fact is that they have…” She’s made the assumption that the reason the tomb is empty is because someone has come and taken Jesus away. And so she says, “They[’ve] taken away my Lord, and I do[n’t] know where they[’ve] [put] him.” It’s wonderful irony.

Christ actually is unrecognizable to us apart from the work of God’s Holy Spirit.

So the question to her seems highly inappropriate. Why would you say to somebody at a funeral service, “Why are you weeping?” It goes with the territory in the face of that kind of loss. But from the perspective of heaven, it’s the tears that she sheds that are inappropriate. The angels are addressing it from the perspective of heaven. She is facing it from the only perspective she can—namely, from life itself and from her experience with Jesus, who had meant so much to her. So what appears to her to be perfectly straightforward is actually inappropriate. Bruce Milne says, “If there is one place in space and one moment in time when tears are least appropriate, it[’s] at the empty tomb of Jesus on Easter morning!”[2] Right? Why would you be crying then?

Her reaction is understandable. The question is straightforward. And then it gives rise to confusion. Confusion. Because as you look at the text, you realize that the person standing there was Jesus. She’s about to make a discovery that this seeming stranger who has now crossed her path is none other than Jesus himself. But she doesn’t recognize him. Why not? I guess because she wasn’t supposed to. There’s a lot of occasions in the New Testament when people do not recognize Jesus.

Some of us, when we read that, we say, “Well, that’s quite remarkable. I would have recognized him immediately.” Really? Let’s be honest: If you have only recently come to Christ, you never recognized him once. You read those books. You heard those sermons. You knew about him. You understood history, biography. But he was unrecognizable to you. Christ actually is unrecognizable to us apart from the work of God’s Holy Spirit. She may be just blinded by her tears, but she doesn’t see it’s Jesus.

And then the question comes again: “Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’” She might have said, “You’re the second person who just said that to me in just the last couple of minutes here. I mean, ‘Why are you weeping?’” And then he adds to it: “Who are you looking for?”

You see, it’s clear that, along with the other disciples, she had not grasped the fact that when Jesus had explained what was going to happen to him when he entered Jerusalem, neither did they fully comprehend the first part, in his death, but they certainly did not grasp the last part, in terms of the fact that he would be raised on the third day to life. And so, in that encounter, she must have said to herself, “Who else would be around here at this time in the morning?” and makes the assumption that it’s perhaps the gardener.

And then this amazing statement: “Sir, if you have carried him away…” It’s good. She’s speaking to Jesus. Keep this in mind! She’s not speaking to a gardener: “If you have carried him away…” This is the kind of thing that grief and joy and confusion reveals: “If you have carried him away…” Now, let me just say: In the profoundest sense, Jesus is certainly responsible for his disappearance. No one has carried him away. He has walked away. But she says to him, “If you have carried him away—if you’re responsible for the fact of his disappearance—perhaps you’d be willing to tell me, and then I can go and get him.” Mary, remember: He’s dead, Mary. You’re looking for a corpse. You’re going to carry a dead body? Where are you planning on taking him?

Remember, Jesus had said, “No one takes my life from me. I have the power to lay it down, and I have the power to take it up.”[3] “Supposing him to be the gardener…” What kind of king would be mistaken for a gardener? Kings wear crowns. Kings have robes. Kings are dramatic. Kings have an entourage. How would she ever imagine that he was just the gardener? Because he’s the Servant-King. In one sense, he is the Gardener.

Now, the fact is that Jesus has asked the question of Mary not in order that he might learn but in order that he might teach. And so he speaks to her tears, because he cares about them. And at this moment, unbeknown to Mary, he is the answer to them. Let me just say that to you again: that Jesus knows Mary; he understands her tears; he understands her sadness; and in this moment, although she is unaware of the fact, he is the answer to the tears and to the sadness.

He knew that she was sad because the truth hadn’t dawned on her. Her reaction was understandable. The question was intriguing. The confusion was straightforward. He doesn’t rebuke her. In fact, it’s quite amazing to me that the appearances of Jesus are so gentle. They are so sensitive. They’re so wonderful! I mean, you get it later on in Luke chapter 24, with the two fellows on the Emmaus Road, and you have this strange, ironic conversation there where he says, “You know, you seem to be a little sad today, fellows.” And they said, “Hey, sad? You know, given everything that was going on in Jerusalem…” And he doesn’t go, “Hey! Don’t worry about it.” He goes, “What’s been going on in Jerusalem?” And they say, “Are you the only person that doesn’t know what’s been going on in Jerusalem?”[4] That’s confusion. That’s confusion.

So if you’re here this morning, and you have come because a friend invited you or because it’s Easter and you probably should, because of something in your background—you went to school, and you were supposed to go to church on Easter—but your head is full of confusion, you’re in good company. Because even those who were right there at the epicenter of the unfolding drama are themselves not able to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

But notice: no theological treatise, no rebuke for Mary. He doesn’t say to her, “You of all people should have known about this.” No, just one word. One word—a word which dried her tears and changed her life forever, and that word “Mary.” “Mary.”

The Gospel writers tell us that Mary’s life had been checkered for sure. In fact, “checkered” is an understatement. Mary of Magdala is known as the one from whom seven demons had gone out.[5] And therefore, she knew that the power of Jesus had transformed her life; and therefore, she knew that if Jesus was dead and buried and gone, she had no hope for her life going forward. But she gets it because she heard the voice of Jesus say, “Mary.”

You see, when you hear the voice of Jesus by the Spirit, through the Word, that’ll be a very different day indeed. And so she responds, “Rabboni!” In fact, Matthew tells us that in this encounter, along with other women, she fell before Jesus’ feet. We just sang about it: “We fall at your feet.” Matthew says that they fell at his feet, and they clasped his feet, and they worshipped him.[6] And it seems almost inevitable that she would lay hold of him, cling to him.

And look at what Jesus says to her: “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I[’m] ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and [to] your God’”—“and announce it to the disciples.” Jesus had explained to his disciples that when he left, he wouldn’t leave them as orphans, but he would come to them by the Holy Spirit.[7]

G. K. Chesterton… A friend sent this to me. I’m so grateful for friends helping me! G. K. Chesterton, in his book The Everlasting Man, pictures this scene as follows:

On the third day the friends of Christ coming at daybreak to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of the gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but [in the cool of] the dawn.[8]

Now, Mary is to go to the disciples. The disciples are going to receive the same message, when they get themselves all tied up thinking that this is a great nationalistic endeavor. And they are all informed of the fact that when the reality of the truth of the risen Jesus dawns in a life, it is a privilege not only to embrace it, but it is a privilege and responsibility to share it. And that is why Jesus, before he ascends to the Father, is going to send the disciples out to Judea, to Samaria, and to the ends of the earth and so on.[9]

And although they don’t get it at the moment, they finally hit the streets of Jerusalem with a kind of “waft of the supernatural,”[10] and the lips of Peter betray his conviction: “God raised Jesus from the dead, and we are all witnesses of this fact.”[11] In other words, this story that we’re considering now (and about to stop considering)—this story is universal. Universal. There are places in the world where certain religious entities have managed to gain a foothold. You identify the place with them. But the unique thing about the gospel of Jesus Christ is that it has pervaded all of the continents of the world—indeed, all of the nations of the world.

When the reality of the truth of the risen Jesus dawns in a life, it is a privilege not only to embrace it, but it is a privilege and responsibility to share it.

When I was a teenager, Albania was the most closed country. They used to say, “You can go in it, but if you go in as a Christian to witness, you probably won’t come out of it.” And last year, with a group in Albania, we gathered with a churchwide event in the central hotel that was once the stomping grounds of the Albanian Communist Party—long gone! And there we stood together, them in Albanian and me pretending in Albanian, and we declared what we’re declaring now. This is universal. This is not to be kept to ourselves.

And the reason it’s universal is because it’s historical—that what we’re dealing with here is time and space. We’re dealing with a reality. We’re not dealing with a concoction. We’re dealing with something that took place. It took place at Passover, AD 33. The location was the tomb of a man called Joseph of Arimathea. No one had been in the tomb. He, discovering there was need for a tomb, said, “Well, you could use the place that I have”[12]—a real man, a real need, a real tomb, a real time.

Consider it, if you’re wondering about these things: Without the reliable testimony of the emptiness of the tomb of Jesus, the early Christian community would never have got off the ground. It would never have got off the ground. It would have fizzled out. It is the reality of the tomb being empty and the significance of it.

Why was it empty? People say, “Well, I think it was removed by the disciples.” To what end? Why would they remove him? “Well, I think it was probably stolen by the religious authorities.” Really? Well, they were very concerned to deny the reality of Jesus. So if it was stolen by them, why didn’t they just produce the body? Why didn’t they just say, “You want to come out with some story about Jesus being alive? Look: We have the corpse!”

And the appearances of Jesus. The appearances of Jesus. “On the third day, he rose again from the dead.” We say that in the Creed. And the record is clear: He appeared to Mary (we’re considering it), to Peter, to the Twelve. Paul, when he writes about it in 1 Corinthians 15, says, “[And] he appeared to … five hundred [people] at one time.” That kind of knocks on the head the hallucination idea. You might hallucinate one at a time but probably not five hundred at a time. And Paul adds, “most of whom are still alive.”[13] So you could put up your hand and say, “I was there.”

What about the conversion of Paul—Saul of Tarsus? It’s impossible to understand that Saul of Tarsus, the new Paul, has written so much of the New Testament. He was a monotheistic Jew. He was an arch critic of Jesus. He was expressly committed to the destruction of this strange sect that was beginning to make a nuisance of itself all throughout the area. But what he’d gone on to say is inexplicable unless what he said happened to him on the Damascus Road actually happened to him. One of my friends in Scotland says we cannot use Paul to explain the rise of Christianity; we need the rise of Christianity to explain Paul. I think that’s really good. I wish I’d written that.

Now, I could go on, but I’m not going to. Consider, for example, the fact that you have a New Testament in your hands. There wouldn’t have been a page of the New Testament written were it not for the reality of the risen Christ. There would be no reason, and there would really be no story. It would be obvious that the whole thing had come to a crashing halt, and he was buried and dead and finished, whatever the explanations might be made. And consider the existence of the church, as I say, throughout the world today. Throughout the world today, men and women are considering what we’re considering.

Let me say this, finally, in light of this passage and in light of the universal impact: The universal impact is only valid on the strength of the historical reality. And that historical reality may be considered, may actually be believed, and at the very same time miss the personal dimension of what’s involved. In the passage that Justin read, we saw that “the other disciple”—that is, John—“who had reached the tomb first, also went in, … he saw and believed.”[14] “He saw and believed.” Mary’s testimony, when she’s dispatched by Jesus to go, is to run into the context of these disciples and say to them, “I have seen the Lord.”

There wouldn’t have been a page of the New Testament written were it not for the reality of the risen Christ. There would be no reason, and there would really be no story.

When Thomas, who’s the doubter in the process, finally manages to get his hands on Jesus, quite literally, Jesus says to him, “Thomas, you believe because you have seen, but blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”[15] I would say that is probably the vast majority of us. We haven’t seen Jesus, but we have met Jesus. Somewhere along the line, whether in reading a book, whether in a conversation with a friend, whether an Easter service—or any other kind of service, for that matter—that which had been for so long just at arm’s length to us impinged upon us.

And now, we might not know how that goes. We were having a conversation just the other day about you never know you’re asleep until you waken up. And then you say to somebody, “Was I asleep?”—when your mother calls you for school, and at first it’s just a noise, and then it’s a voice, and then it’s a voice that seems to be a stirring voice, and then it’s my name being called.

Some of you, I think, would testify to coming to faith in Jesus along those lines: Starts off as a noise—perhaps an annoying noise. And then, as you listen a little longer, you realize that in the same way that one word dealt with Mary’s tears and transformed her life forever, so one word from Jesus may actually do the same for you and for me. Might not be my name. It might be that he just says, “Come.”

“Why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?” Who are you looking for this morning? These questions are good. All these Easter questions are good. I wish we had some more Easters. Who are you looking for? What are you looking for? Looking for love? Looking for meaning? Looking for forgiveness? Looking for hope? Looking for peace? Looking for freedom? “If only I could get out of this mess…” It’s all in Jesus. It’s all in Jesus.

One of my favorite little autobiographies is perhaps your favorite, too, and that is Surprised by Joy, which is the story of the conversion of C. S. Lewis. C. S. Lewis’s life, as you perhaps will know, started off in a very sort of religious context, as a small boy, going to school and going to church. In his book, he says somewhere along the line he decided, “No. I’m not going with this program.” And he decided that he was an atheist.

And when you read the story, you realize that, first of all, he moved from atheism to theism. He said, “You know, I’m now considering the possibility that God actually is the Creator.” So he moves from atheism to theism. But it was the person of Christ that really stalled him—wrestling with the question “Is Jesus Christ the person he claimed to be?” Because that’s the $64,000 question. If he is, we have a conversation. If he isn’t, let’s get out of here and not do the second service. It’s as cut and dry as that. If he is the risen Christ, there is a conversation. If he is not, the whole thing is bogus. There’s no two ways about it. That’s what Paul says in 1 Corinthians 15.[16]

And so he’s struggling with that. And he’s talking to his friends. He’s talking to Tolkien. He’s drinking in the bar, and he’s having these conversations. He’s smoking his pipe, and he’s doing what he’s doing. And he’s wrestling in himself: “What am I going to do with this Jesus?” Essentially, he’s dealing with Pilate’s question. He’s saying to himself, “What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”[17]

Now, let me ask you: Anybody here who has come to believing faith in Jesus while on a motorbike? You can put up your hand if you want. While on a motorbike. I’m not asking if you have a motorbike. While on a motorbike. And that is exactly what he tells us: that on September 28, 1931, he and his brother headed out by motorcycle and sidecar—he was in the sidecar—all the way to Whipsnade Zoo. He writes,

When we set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ [was] the Son of God, [and] when we reached the zoo I did. … I had not exactly spent the journey in thought. Nor in great emotion. “Emotional” is perhaps the last word we can apply to some of the most important events. It was more like when a man, after [a] long sleep, still lying motionless [on the] bed, … becomes aware that he[’s] now awake.[18]

“From death to life. From darkness to light. The fog had lifted, … the Son was now shining bright.”[19] And the unrecognized stranger became his Lord and King.

I leave it. I leave it with you.

A brief prayer:

Father, thank you that we can read the Bible and think about things. Thank you that this is not, as C. S. Lewis reminds us, some kind of emotional trip—that we lose sense of our thinking—but rather that we bring our minds down underneath the rule of your truth and, like John and Mary, and so many Johns and so many Marys, come to trust in Christ. Thank you that when that is the reality, then our closing song is the testimony of those who are in Christ. May it be that if, as of this moment, that is not our testimony, that even in the singing of the song we might actually say, “When I came in at quarter to nine, I did not believe that Jesus is the Son of God. But it’s now just after ten, and suddenly, I believe.” May it be so, for Christ’s sake. Amen.


[1] See Genesis 49:33.

[2] Bruce Milne, The Message of John: Here Is Your King!, The Bible Speaks Today (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 1993), 291.

[3] John 10:18 (paraphrased).

[4] Luke 24:17–19 (paraphrased).

[5] See Mark 16:9; Luke 8:2.

[6] See Matthew 28:9.

[7] See John 14:18.

[8] G. K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1926), 244.

[9] See Acts 1:6–8.

[10] James S. Stewart, A Faith to Proclaim (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1953), 45.

[11] Acts 2:32 (paraphrased).

[12] See Matthew 27:57–60; Mark 15:43–46; Luke 23:50–53; John 19:38–42.

[13] 1 Corinthians 15:6 (ESV).

[14] John 20:8 (ESV).

[15] John 20:29 (paraphrased).

[16] See 1 Corinthians 15:13–19.

[17] Matthew 27:22 (ESV).

[18] C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life (1955), chap. 15.

[19] Pete Lange, “Sunshine in September: The Story of C. S. Lewis’ Conversion,” 1517, September 28, 2020, https://www.1517.org/articles/sunshine-in-september-the-story-of-c-s-lewis-conversion.

Copyright © 2025, Alistair Begg. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations for sermons preached on or after November 6, 2011 are taken from The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

For sermons preached before November 6, 2011, unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® (NIV®), copyright © 1973 1978 1984 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Alistair Begg
Alistair Begg is Senior Pastor at Parkside Church in Cleveland, Ohio, and the Bible teacher on Truth For Life, which is heard on the radio and online around the world.