Why Are You Weeping

My name is Mary of Magdala.  My name means “bitter one” and it is true that I have led a bitter life.  At least this was the case until I met Jesus.  I felt his healing touch, I became his friend and was the first of my companions to greet Jesus, our risen Lord.  It was early morning, just before dawn, the sky was still dark except for a sliver of orange light on the horizon.  As I walked to the tomb I was distracted by my own mournful thoughts.  The previous three days had been a blur; as if I had left my heart there at the foot of the cross the moment Jesus breathed his last.  Although I was exhausted, I made my way to the tomb carrying a heavy jar of spices made to ensure that my teacher and my friend has a proper burial.  As I approached the tomb, something was off, I couldn’t believe my eyes, the stone was rolled away!  I peered into the darkness, looking for the shrouded form of Jesus in the niche carved for his body, but he was not there!  I dropped my jar of perfume, and it shattered on the stone floor.  Drawing my skirt up around my knees I ran, tripping and stumbling over roots and stones as I hurried to the village.

I entered the house where the disciples were staying and breathless as I was I said to Simon Peter and Jesus’ beloved disciple, “Jesus is gone! I do not know where they have taken him, go and see for yourselves, Jesus is not there!”  No doubt they thought these were the ramblings of a hysterical woman wrought with grief.  After all, unlike them I had never left Jesus’ side until he was laid to rest in the tomb and since that time, I hadn’t slept at all.  They looked at one another and ran from the house, down the street and toward the place where we had wrapped Jesus in the shroud and placed him.  I followed after them hoping for answers.  It had taken five strong men to place the stone, who could have moved it away?  Why?

Upon their arrival the disciples found, just as I had told them, the wrappings of Jesus lying on the ground, but his body was nowhere to be found.  Peter found the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head set aside, folded neatly by itself.  There was terror on their faces.  They began to argue as to who could have moved his body.  Was it the Romans? Was the enemy close at hand?  What were we to do without Jesus to guide us?  Surely, in some of those riddles he spoke he could have left us some instruction.  They fled back to the house leaving me alone beside the boulder.

I was exhausted, too overwhelmed to move.  My friend, my teacher, my Lord, why had these terrible things happened to him?  He was a good man, why did he suffer? And why could he not be put to rest in peace, this is all we had wished for him.  I believed with all my heart that he was our Messiah, for he had shown us wonderful signs and worked miracles, even in me.  I remember thinking, “now he is gone, how am I to go on without him?”  I fell to the ground amongst the flowers, the dust settled on my cloak, and I wept.  I had been strong, but I could bear no more.

I heard a voice behind me ask me why I was weeping.  How could I respond?  This person would not understand all I had seen, all that we had been through over these last days.  I became angry then, I turned further away from the man behind me, “They have taken my Lord, I do not know where they have taken him!”  The man appeared to be little more than a nosey gardener, I had a mind to put him in his place, but he asked again, “Woman, why are you weeping?”  Had I not already answered him?  As I wiped tears from my eyes with clenched fists I cried despairingly, “If you have carried him away tell me where you have put him, so that I can take him away!”  Then the man called my name, “Mary.”  Then I turned around and came face to face with my Lord Jesus!  “Teacher, teacher!” I cried and threw my arms around him.  Jesus gently pulled me away from him as though it pained him and told me not to hug him so, but instead to go back to my brothers, the disciples and tell them that he was ascending to God.

My jubilation at seeing him alive, warm to the touch was quickly mixed with sadness that he was not here to stay but merely to help us understand in our unbelief.  I regained my strength as I had been given a mission; the Lord had trusted me, a woman of little consequence in the world to share his Word.  My beloved teacher was now more than a teacher, he was truly the Messiah and he had asked me before all others to spread the good news.

My heart full of joy I ran back to the house and told the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!”  They struggled to believe me that day, especially Thomas, but Jesus appeared to them as well on three different occasions.  We all had to see him to believe it was true, but Jesus asked Thomas, “Do you believe in me because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”  And now I must wonder if Jesus perhaps appeared to me first because of my belief.  I cannot be sure but perhaps my belief in Jesus as Lord caused him to appear to me first.  I never left Jesus, I was near him as he carried his cross, I wept at his feet as he died, and I lingered at the tomb as a pup who had lost its master.  Now I understand what our Lord meant when he told us of the things he was passionate about, a world filled with love and justice for all people.  Jesus’ kingdom had come, and we must all strive to live into that kingdom each day.  Our Lord died for us, wiping away our sins and has gone ahead of us to prepare a place for each of us.  I know it is hard to believe in a Messiah you cannot see, but he is there, alive in each one of you.  Indeed, I now understand Jesus’ words; perhaps one must believe, to truly see.