Scripture | Story | Prayer

Mary Magdalene oil on board, 1895-96 Maurice Denis, France  Musee du Prieure, Saint Germain-en-Layle, France

Mary Magdalene

Scripture | Story | Prayer

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark,
Mary Magdalene came to the tomb
and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.
So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple,
the one whom Jesus loved,
and said, to them,
“They have taken the Lord out of the tomb,
and we do not know where they have lad him.”
Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb.
The two were running together,
but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first.
He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there,
but he did not go in.
Then Simon Peter came following him, and went into the tomb.
He saw the linen wrappings lying there,
and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head,
not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself.
Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in,
and he saw and believed;
for as yet they did not understand the scripture,
that he must rise from the dead.
Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb.
As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb;
and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one st the head and the other at the feet.
They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” 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 Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her,
“Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father.
But go to my brothers and say to them,
“I am 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 she told them that he had said these things to her.

(John 20: 1-18)

Scripture | Story | Prayer

Mary Magdalene

If you ever have lost someone whom you loved deeply, you have some idea of the state of my heart on that morning, that long ago Easter astonishing morning. I was quite beside myself after he died. I watched myself go through the motions deeply disconnected, detached from my soul, as if some deep underground part of me had died with Jesus. A world of rich color turned into a prison of shadows for me, for all the disciples. I suppose you might label it shock, even panic or horror, unqualified dread, some confused combination of all these responses. Even so, my wracked body felt each little thing.

I remember the dawn air felt dry and unbreathable. My bed was uncomfortable and, I can tell you, not one of my many weary rearrangements of sheets and of bedclothes improved it at all. A dog howled in some distant place and the sound of it, though far away, filled and tortured my ears. My soul was dumbfounded yet all of my senses were sharp. Grief does not (as some think) make you numb. It makes you more sensitive to every word, every sound, every image. My mind was circling endlessly the graphic memory of what they had done to my Jesus.  It was as if a living picture of Golgotha had been implanted within me. I could not believe that I lived in a world in which people did things like that to one another.  Torture, persecution, dishonor, and murder.

Sleep was impossible. I actually prayed for a nightmare or two to cut into the one I was living. I felt quite a desperate need to do something, anything to make the terrible memories go away. Early that morning, then, while the deep darkness was taking its time giving up, I went to the tomb, to where Joseph of Arimathea had buried him. I do not know why exactly I did this. Perhaps I just thought it would help to be near what was left of him. I imagined that when I arrived at the tomb I could sit by myself and converse with him, as if he were still alive.

There were so many things I desired to say to him and wish I had while he still walked the earth. I wanted to tell him how deeply I loved him, how grateful I was for his friendship, his patience, his teaching me trust and true worth and forgiveness, his daring to love in me that which no one else could see. I wanted to ask him, “Oh why, Jesus, why did you let them do this to you? Could you not run? Disappear for a time?” I think I was angry at him.

I pondered these things as I solemnly walked to the tomb, and arriving, received a fresh shock, a new blow. The stone that entombed him had been rolled away. My heart fell, my eyes closed, my mind raced, my feet froze. And all I could think was that someone had stolen him, someone had taken his body away. It felt like an insult on top of the others. It wasn’t enough to have beaten and killed him. Even in death, they would not let him rest.

Frantic and frightened, I ran like the wind. I ran ‘til I thought I would drop but kept going directly to Simon called Peter and John, who took hold of my panic and ran there themselves. John outran Peter but both outran me, leaving me in the dust panting wildly. When, at last, I caught up with them they had looked in and discovered him gone, as had I. Only linen remained, scraps of grave’s cloth. Those two were bewildered and in some small way I found this reassuring: the fact that they shared my confusion. They could make no real sense of this turn of events any more than could I.

Now Peter was stunned and said nothing at all. But John spoke like a madman, I thought (at the time with the vision of one who does not fully see.) He kept saying this meant that our Lord was among us, that he was not dead. But I knew that was grief speaking, crazy talk, nonsense, and I? I dismissed it. I hoped they would help me but they walked away. John and Peter just left. Alone at the tomb again, watching their figures grow smaller until they were gone, I was struck by a wave of sheer emptiness and there I wept salty tears, bitter tears, weary tears, hopeless tears. I no longer cared what might happen to me.

I stooped down and, with stinging eyes, looked in the tomb. Jesus’ body was gone but where it should have rested, two bright angels sat. Looking back on what happened, it seems like a dream, like a vision from heaven beyond all reality I’d ever know. I fell to my knees, humbled by what was happening. Never before had I seen such a messenger, but I knew right away, they must be angels. One of them spoke to me, asking a question, “Oh, woman, why? Why are you weeping?” A voice from within me replied, “I am weeping because they have taken away my dear Jesus, and I do not know where they’ve left his poor body.”

More confused than before I turned ‘round, left the angels, and there stood before me a gardener of sorts. As if he’d been standing there listening to us, he asked the same question the angels had posed, “Oh, why are you weeping?” And I could not answer. The lump in my throat was too heavy for speech. He asked me another, “For whom are you looking?” I guessed from the way he was speaking to me that he must have some answers. He must know what happened. Perhaps he had moved Jesus’ body himself so I spoke to this gardener forthrightly, “Sir, tell me, please, if you have taken and carried him off. Tell me where you have put him, please sir, for I have to find him and lay him to rest.”

He looked at me as if he’d found someone lost. He spoke to me gently and called me by name. “Mary,” he said, and the sharp stinging haze in my eyes disappeared. I could see then quite clearly, miraculously, that the gardener was Jesus, my Rabbi, my friend. And all of the life that had drained from me earlier swelled up inside and returned to me fresh. All the color that had vanished returned to my life in an instant – in hues brighter than ever I’d known them before. “Rabbouni!” I cried, as a term of respect and endearment. I reached for him, wanting to touch him again.

I cannot explain how I felt in that moment. I cannot find words that are adequate. None! I wanted to hold him. He said, “Do not touch me,” and I understood in that moment that mere mortal touch would be pointless. He offered a presence that went well beyond mortal touch to the core of my soul. An impossible joy filled my fast beating heart, as he told me to go tell the others the news. I ran, once again, to the hiding disciples and told them about what I’d seen and I’d heard. I told them that some transformation had taken place. Christ was among us yet not the same way.

Now I know those disciples. I know they were thinking, “If Jesus were back he’d have come to us first.” “Why a woman?” they’d ask. Jesus did not seem to care for distinctions. He counted both women and men as his friends (which some of the men never did understand). But, all that aside and whatever the reason, I was the first witness to the resurrection. I was the first witness, an undeserved privilege for which I give thanks to the God who is not bound by death or by time, to the God who continues to offer new life, to the God who transforms us and calls us by name, to the God who send angels and Christ in disguise to ask us the question: “Oh, why are you weeping?” Oh, why are you weeping?

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You are welcome to use these narratives for worship or study but please give the author, Sarah M. Foulger, credit for the writing - and consider making a contribution to Seasons of Change, a non-profit mental health agency in Edgecomb, Maine. Send contributions of any amount to Seasons of Change/ P.O. Box 277/Edgecomb, Maine 04556.

Sarah M. Foulger may be contacted at: sarahfoulger@gmail.com