Two Marys
arrive at the tomb in the hour before dawn. They carry spices and other supplies, perhaps unsure that
the men who entombed Jesus in the short moments before the start of the Sabbath
had time to do a thorough job.
Perhaps they wanted to add their own touch, or needed to be with Jesus
one last time. We don’t know. We do know that they didn’t come
expecting to find anything other than the body of their teacher, their master, and
their friend. Whatever they wanted
to do, they wanted to do early, before people were up and about, probably
before they would be seen.
The Marys were
sensible women. They knew the way
things are in this world. Yes
they’d seen the Teacher perform amazing signs, including the raising of their
brother and friend Lazarus. But now
Lazarus had a price on his head, and besides, if the one who called him back
from the grave was dead himself, how would he call himself back? No, he was gone, and it was possible
that anyone associated with him was in danger. That’s why the men were in hiding. Their hopes and dreams were blasted, and they were in
despair. So, this morning it would
be just this last courtesy, this final parting and goodbye.
We may find it
difficult to fully empathize with the Marys, because we know how the story
turns out. No immersion in the
scripture readings and the liturgies of Holy Week can make us unknow what
happens next. The closest we can
come is to recall our own experiences of loss, particularly unexpected
traumatic loss. Remember that, and
then multiply it several times over, because even in our own losses, we as
persons of faith find hope in the experience that came next for the Marys.
Busy with the
work and duties of grieving, they are shocked and alarmed to find the tomb
empty. Who has taken him? Where is his body? What are they going to do with it? And then, beyond all expectation, come
the answers. Angelic figures speak
of him as “risen,” and charge the women to inform the men. Women, to inform the men? Oh, but women aren’t accepted as valid
witnesses – no, but then it wasn’t proper to heal people on the Sabbath
either. So the women become the
first evangelists, apostles to the Apostles. Ponder that bit of scripture if you want to keep women from
preaching. Later, they encounter
him in person: not a hallucination, not a dream or vision, not a ghost, but himself. Himself, but with something different:
he appears to dwell in two worlds at once. Locked doors are no obstacle, but he
enjoys some grilled fish. At first
he mustn’t be touched, but a week later he invites skeptical Thomas to do just
that.
The world is
turned inside out, or is it actually set right side up? Nothing will ever be the same again,
and over the next fifty days a bewildering series of encounters makes that
point. “Oh,” say the skeptics,
that’s the problem: the story is confusing and even seems to contradict itself
in places.” “Yes,” we may reply,
“That’s just the point. Real
events in this world are confusing, and often seem to hold contradictions, but
made-up stories are usually quite tidy, and when lots of different witnesses
agree on all the details, you can be pretty sure someone handed them a script.”
Our challenge,
two millennia later, knowing the whole story, is to retell it in such a way
that we convey some of the despair Jesus’ followers felt from Friday through
Saturday, some of the confusion that came with Easter morning, and finally the
joy of grasping the reality of the resurrection. God grant us all the gift of glimpsing the fullness of this
day that changed history.
Howard MacMullen
© April, 2014
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