There is so much in this resurrection story that speaks to my heart. It has the ring of authenticity. Our text tells us that hope began “while it was still dark.” That is when Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb, carrying the weight of grief. She came to anoint Jesus’ body, to try to get some closure, but the body was gone. Mary is frantic. What have they done with him? Where did they take him? Will this nightmare never end?
Easter begins in the dark; not with bright banners, painted eggs, and the scent of flowers, but with broken hearts, blood-stained linens, and the reek of death. It is an appropriate place to start because that is where so many people find themselves. Easter begins where we are: lonely, afraid, uncertain, anxious, bereft, numb, distracted, indifferent. We all have to look loss, and fear, and failure in the face eventually. We are all vulnerable. If you find yourself in the dark today, please know that you are not alone. You’ve come to the right place.
Mary Magdalene is the brave one. She is willing to acknowledge reality, even when it is painful. She doesn’t run away from her grief. She is doing the best she can. But finding the body missing is the last straw. Then Mary does something even braver. She runs to Peter and the unnamed disciple whom Jesus loved and shares with them what is going on. She asks for help.
Easter begins in darkness, but the first rays of dawn’s light emerge when the darkness is shared, as the burden you are carrying is made lighter because you are no longer carrying it alone. This is the first step in the renewal of hope. For some, that first step takes them into an AA meeting or a therapist’s office. Many have found hope renewed at their first Black Lives Matter protest or Take Back the Night march. That first step might even be tentatively crossing the threshold of the church door. Easter becomes possible when we are no longer alone.
Sharing our vulnerability with others, trusting that they will hedge that vulnerability round with dignity and care, opens us to the possibility of new life. Peter and the Beloved Disciple, like Mary Magdalene, struggle with their own responses to the empty tomb. Still, at the very least, they reassure Mary that the tomb is indeed empty. She isn’t crazy. The trauma and loss are real. But even more, they begin to struggle toward making some meaning of this experience; even the possibility that Jesus is still with them somehow, as he had promised.
The male disciples return home, leaving Mary weeping outside the tomb. She musters her courage once again, and peers inside the tomb to see for herself what they have reported. Sometimes, maybe for quite a long time, what keeps us going is the hope that we might share the healing that others seem to enjoy. We want what they have; if they can get it, maybe it is possible for me too. But that only gets us so far. It is one thing to credit the witness to hope of others. It is quite another thing to experience its fulfillment yourself.
Mary, perceiving with the eyes of the heart, is able to see what the others could not yet see: not just the possibility of resurrection, of new life, but the reality. This capacity turns on the ability to entrust oneself, not only to the care of others, but to the care of God. This brings us to a whole other level of healing.
First, the angels appear, raising the question, “Woman, why are you weeping?” The divine messengers cut to the heart of the matter. They invite Mary to fully embrace her grief. There are no shortcuts in the spiritual life. Articulating a story about our fear, our failure, our loss is an essential step in healing. The formation of memory makes the past, the past, so that we can begin to imagine a future no longer limited by it.
As soon as Mary names her grief, the shape of healing immediately comes into view. But it is not a clear vision. The Risen Jesus stands before her, but she is not able to recognize him immediately. She thinks he is the gardener! He asks again, “Why are you weeping?” Healing is rarely a one and done sort of thing. We circle around our wounds again and again, until an answer to the question appears.
The answer comes clearly into view for Mary when she hears Jesus say her name. Easter is not an abstract theory, a generic offering of resurrection and new life. It is always specific. There is resurrection for Mary, for Peter, for the beloved disciple, for you, for me. It is always an experience of personal encounter, in which the Holy One whispers our name, and we recognize, finally, that we are held, wounds and all, in a love that never dies. This is the high noon of resurrection light, which we could not possibly have imagined at dawn. In its light, everything looks different.
Of course, Mary can’t hold on to this moment or to Jesus. Healing is always a great letting go, an unconditional openness to reality. Knowing that she is loved, Mary can let go of the past – even her past experience of Jesus – so that she is free to embrace the new way of being with Jesus that is opening up for her and for us. Mary is free to embrace the future that God has promised: a future in which all things are being made new.
Mary runs to tell her friends, “I have seen the Lord!” That is, after all, what friends do: they share the new life they have discovered so that others may experience it for themselves. And so, Easter comes, again and again and again.
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