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Judy Wolfgram Matz sent an email this morning with Easter greetings to the community, with the observation that this would have been Marilyn’s seventy-seventh birthday. A good reminder about the cloud of witnesses that surrounds us at this table . . .
So . . . let’s consider for a minute what happened in between the end of John 19, which we were immersed in on Friday afternoon, and the beginning of John 20, which Steve just proclaimed for us. In John’s gospel Jesus dies not just on the eve of a Sabbath, but on the eve of a Sabbath which also happens to be the beginning of Passover. No sooner had Jesus been buried by Joseph of Arimethea and Nicodemus, than Passover began. Surely Mary of Magdala, Peter, and the disciple who Jesus loved would have come together – somewhere – with the rest of the disciples. They would have had to scurry to pull it all together – but not marking this holiest of feasts would not have been an option. They would have had to jostle through very crowded Jerusalem, tossed about in a sea of people who had no idea what had just happened to Jesus or to them. They would have eaten the unleavened bread and bitter herbs. They would have told the story of Exodus – of freedom, salvation and joy, of death and life crashing up against one another. How surreal it must have been. And how they must have missed Jesus through it all – more than they thought their hearts could bear.
Then, the next day. At home – because of the Sabbath and out of fear of the authorities – they would have talked and cried and questioned and raged and doubted and wandered around in that fog peculiar to grief. When they were finally able to go to bed that night, no wonder Mary of Magdala couldn’t sleep. She was exhausted, but with a heart and mind too full to rest. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well get up and go to the one place where she might find some comfort. Even if Jesus was dead, at least she could go sit where his body was. Maybe she would feel closer to him there.
Which brings us to the beginning of today’s gospel. Only in John does Mary come in darkness; in the synoptic gospels the story takes place at varying points of the dawning day. Only in John does she arrive empty-handed; in the synoptics various disciples come to anoint the body. In John that had already been done.
Now the light begins, but it is gradual. When Mary gets there, all she can make out is that the stone has been dislodged. By the time she runs back into the city and returns with Peter and the Beloved Disciple, there is enough light for them to make out the contents – or lack thereof – of the tomb. Possibly they make it home before the rest had even awakened. So the gospel ends, with the community together, not yet having met the risen Jesus, with varying responses to what they have seen, and not understanding how the scriptures had been fulfilled.
We know that the gospel of John is profoundly symbolic. The movement from darkness to light is a favorite theme for this author. Those in darkness are the ones who cannot see who Jesus is; those who embrace the “light of the world” have eternal life. Each of the characters in this narrative represents a different response to the Easter event. Mary panics and leaps to a conclusion based on what she sees and what she is afraid of; the tomb has changed, so someone has taken the body. Peter acts quickly, but is perplexed by the evidence. It is the Beloved Disciple who is meant to be the model here. He sees the same thing everyone else does, but in a moment of logic (grave robbers don’t neatly fold the burial cloths) and intuition (which often accompanies deep love), he believes.
Given all that, let me repeat something. The gospel ends with the community together, not yet having met the risen Jesus, with varying responses to what they see, and not yet understanding how the scriptures have been fulfilled. Sound familiar? It’s us. It’s clear to us what wasn’t clear to those disciples, but what we’re in the midst of . . . not so much. Perhaps, when all the busy-ness of the last few days slows – maybe sometime this afternoon or evening – maybe, for some, in the middle of this night – each of us can ponder what’s “between the chapters” of this Easter event:What keeps me up at night?
What, or whom, do I miss more than I think my heart can bear?
What sends me out into the darkness?
When I look into the empty tombs in the world, the church, our community, my life . . .what do I see?
Do I look with suspicion or perplexity or faith – or some combination of all three?
What causes me to hope enough to keep walking?
As I do, am I willing to share my confusion and conviction with those who share this journey?
As the light gets stronger, what is dawning?“On the first day of the week, Mary of Magdala came to the tomb early in the morning, while it was still dark, and saw the stone removed from the tomb.” Amen. Alleluia.