Easter Sunday 2026

Welcome to everyone and Happy Easter to you all.

Every year, the Easter Vigil begins in darkness—with the great story of creation.

We hear again those first words: God saw all he had made, and it was very good. Light burst forth from darkness. Chaos gave way to order. The breath of God brought life, beauty, and meaning into the world.

And yet—we know the story does not stay there.

Something goes wrong.

Darkness returns. Chaos creeps back in. And by Good Friday, the light seems to have been extinguished altogether. A small group stands at the foot of the Cross, watching, grieving, powerless. The body is taken down. The tomb is sealed. Silence falls.

But this morning begins, once again, in darkness.

On the first day of the week, while it is still dark, a woman walks quietly to the tomb. Her eyes are heavy with grief, her heart burdened by loss. Perhaps she brings spices. Perhaps she simply comes to be near the one she loves. When love has been broken by death, sometimes there is nothing else to do but remain close.

The woman is Mary Magdalene.

And, in the Gospel we have just heard, she stands at the threshold of something entirely new.

She finds the stone rolled away. The tomb is empty.

At first, it seems like one more cruelty. “They have taken him,” she thinks. Even in death, there is no peace. She runs—urgently and breathless—to Peter and the beloved disciple.

They run too.

Peter arrives and rushes in, trying to make sense of what he sees. The linen cloths are there, but the body is gone. Something is not right—but he cannot yet see what it means.

Then the younger disciple enters.

And everything changes.

No evidence has been added. No explanation has been given. But something stirs within him. A new perception. A deeper seeing.

“He saw—and he believed.”

In that moment, the darkness lifts.

This is no theft. No trick. No confusion.

This is a new creation.

The God who once said, “Let there be light,” has now spoken into the darkness of the tomb. And the light has returned—not just to the world, but to the human heart.

Out of darkness comes light.

Out of death, hope is born.

And, out of despair faith arises.

That is why, on this day, the Church dares to sing with full voice, even in a wounded world: Out of darkness, God has called us into his marvellous light.

The resurrection of Jesus is not simply the happy ending to a tragic story. It is the beginning of a new creation.

The beloved disciple sees this and believes.

And his belief changes everything.

No longer is his life overshadowed by fear. No longer is it trapped in confusion or grief. Faith rises in him—not as an idea, but as a living reality.

On Easter morning that same invitation is given to us:

To see and to believe. To recognise that God is still at work—bringing light out of darkness, even now.

There are moments in every life when darkness seems to return. When chaos threatens. When grief, uncertainty, or fear take hold.

Easter speaks into those moments with an unshakeable confidence: This is not the end.

Because Christ is risen, nothing is beyond redemption. No life is beyond hope. No darkness is final.

And so, as we come to receive him in the Eucharist, we do not come empty-handed. We come with our lives—our joys and our wounds, our clarity and our confusion—and we place them in his hands. And there, by his kingly power, he transforms what we offer, just as surely as he has transformed the tomb.

And then, sent forth from this place, we are not sent back into the world as we were. We go as witnesses.

For Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Most Rev. Anthony J. Ireland
Archbishop of Hobart
5 April 2026