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This
reflection is the third of a three part series titled The Mary Passions.
The Mary Passions take the biblical text for the Passion of Christ, the
anointing of Jesus' feet, and the resurrection and re-imagine them
through the lens of Mary, the mother of Jesus (Palm Sunday); Mary of
Bethany (Maundy Thursday); and Mary Magdalene (Easter). All three may be found at Feminist Theology in an Age of Fear and Hope
These
reflections were inspired by The Rev. Terri C. Pilarski, and written in
collaboration with The Rev. Dr. Kate Hennessy-Keimig (Palm Sunday
reflection) and The Rev. Anne Wolf Fraley (Easter morning reflection).
Anne Fraley wrote this Easter Day reflection.
The Passion of Mary Magdalene
Easter Morning
I had
not slept. Since leaving Golgotha I had been overwhelmed by despair. Whether
from gray skies and starless nights or the weight of grief pressed against my
heart, I do not know. But I did not sleep—my mind raced, struggling to grasp our
crushing loss. Was he truly gone, my
beloved Jesus, my friend?
I was
there, crouched beside his mother as we watched the wind whip against the
bareness of his body, the force of which blew his hair across his face. I could not turn my eyes from his. I did not
want the memory of his suffering to burn itself into my mind, so I looked only
at his eyes. I must tell you, his eyes
were extraordinary. They bore the pain of his injury, a tender, forgiving dullness
outshone by deep and abiding love. I do not know how such contradictory
expressions could be revealed at once, but I should not be surprised. He is no
ordinary man.
I
remember that my hands were numb. His mother and I clung tightly to one another
during those endless hours. She was drained of strength, stumbling several
times as she stood faithfully near her son. A merchant whose curiosity had led
him off the path as he left the city gates drew a cushion from his stores and
brought it to Mary to ease her plight.
Jesus’
breathing became shallow, yet he did not fight what he knew awaited him. He
raised his head a bit and looked at us. Upon his mother he looked long and with
deep devotion. I felt the tension slip from her being with a deep sigh, and when
I looked her face was drawn with comprehension and the tug of peace suggested a
smile. My eyes shifted back to his, and
in the deepening darkness of them I saw the world gathered to him. He did not smile, but the same peace that
touched his mother radiated from him. Our eyes locked in wordless farewell, and
with one last, penetrating gaze he entrusted his heart and wisdom to me and
released his last breath.
Mary
sank against me, and I was grateful for the need to tend to her as the enormity
of our loss gripped my soul. I remember little else, for which I am glad—no one
should endure the agony of love being stolen from them. What I recall is that we were swallowed by the
deep darkness of night, and there remained until the song of the birds alerted
us to this dawning day.
We
gathered our oil and spices and ventured into the early morning light to go to
the tomb. We did not speak. The ritual of this loving obligation to the dead
was well known to us, and conversation flowed between us in the sorrowful
echoes of our footsteps.
It
looked as it did when his body was laid to rest two days before. The entrance
to the tomb, small but easily accessible, was marked by the scars of its recent
hewing, jagged and raw. I felt oddly
comforted by its gaping darkness, as it reflected the state of my own
soul—jagged, raw and dark. Perhaps it
was for this reason that I gathered the folds of my dress around me without
hesitation and ducked through the opening to confront the reality of my
lifeless beloved.
The
others followed behind me, and our eyes adjusted to the darkness with growing
puzzlement. “He is not here,” my voice
broke the silence after several moments. We looked at one another, fear
beginning to creep into our blood. I set the ointment down beside the lonely
shroud that had wrapped his body and made my way around the perimeter of the
tomb. It was as empty as I felt.
Of a
sudden the tomb was filled with light, as though the sun had breached the
horizon and directed its rays to illuminate our devastated world. So vivid was the light that at first we did
not see the two men who stood before us in radiating brilliance. It was too
much for our heavy hearts to bear, and our knees gave way to our fear as we
fell to the ground, averting our gaze from this terrible wonder.
“Do not
be afraid,” one of them spoke gently. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He
is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in
Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified,
and on the third day rise again.”
My
thoughts reached deep into the mystery that was this man we all loved, Jesus,
whose teaching changed our hearts and thus, our lives. The experience of him, of what had become
known through him, began to take hold and banish the fear that had begun to
settle in my heart. I had no answers, but neither was I afraid. “He is not here,” I heard my voice again,
this time with a hint of confidence. Could it be? Was it possible that the promise
of his triumph was more than a metaphor, that it was, in fact, the miracle we
were blessed to witness here in this tomb?
“He has
risen?” queried one of my companions behind me, and another shouted with
excitement, “He is risen!”
In one
heartbeat we turned to find the men gone. The light, however, continued to fill
the emptiness, permeating our hearts with the fullness of love. Then grief gave
way to awareness, and in that shattering awareness we began to leap with a joy
that we had never known.
Before
we knew it we were rushing from the tomb toward the village, and before long we
came upon the place where the disciples had gathered. Peter, hearing our
ruckus, got up and began to move toward us. When he saw who he were he stopped,
puzzled by our exuberance. One by one
the others got up and moved toward us, and by the time we reached them they
were drawn together in a cluster of confusion and concern.
Peter
grasped my arms in his hands. “What is it?” he demanded, fearing, I think, that
our mourning had given way to delirium. We began to talk all at once, sharing
the gleeful news of our Lord’s rising. The significance of our words began to
sink in, but they were backing up and turning away, dismissing our claims as
fantasy and wishful thinking. Only Peter continued to listen, but doubt, too,
clouded his eyes.
At last
we fell into silence, and Peter looked at each of us, furrows of weariness and
the weight of sin etched across his forehead. “Go home,” he said at last. “You
are tired. We are all tired. We will talk soon.”
In
stunned silence we turned away and began our walk to the place where we lodged.
I turned once to look back, and saw Peter begin to move in the direction from
which we had come. Our heads were swimming, our hearts were bursting, and in a
daze we returned to the city while the miracle of the morning began to take
hold and fill us with hope and expectation.
That
evening Peter came to see us, bringing with him the oil and spices we had
abandoned at the tomb. I knew when I saw
him enter the doorway that he had seen and believed. His face was no longer
ravaged by the bitterness of the last few days, but was illuminated by the
light of joy and renewal. I took the jars from him and wrapped my arms around
him, and in that moment we felt buoyed by the love that been bequeathed to and
would now sustain us.
We
talked long into the night until the full impact of all we had witnessed and
come to understand was within our reach. Outside the door, stars hidden from
view the previous nights seemed to sparkle with a new brightness, and though my
heart still ached with loss, peace coursed through my veins like a soothing
tonic.
He was
risen. The world might appear the same, but in each breath I took I would draw
in the power of love as I served God’s people with compassion and mercy. There
was joyful news to share about the God of our people, and as the knowledge of
that love unfolded in the days to come, lives would be healed and restored,
love would bind wounds and forgiveness would open hearts to reconciliation. Our Lord had work yet to do, and we would be
part of it. He was risen indeed. Alleluia!
