My Story — Mary Magdalene
John 20
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.
But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.
My story doesn’t begin here. Actually, in some ways, what happened in this passage of scripture could easily have described my story’s ending, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams. If I had immediately died after this reunion with my Lord, I would have considered my life to be complete.
You know me. I appear in all four of the Gospels in your Bible. For a time, you may recall, I was thought to be a prostitute, saved by Jesus. Well, in truth, I was saved by Jesus, freed by his healing power from forces attacking me; but I was not a prostitute. In fact, I was a respectable woman who followed Jesus and who, along with others, gave financial support to his ministry.
I was undoubtedly an unlikely choice to be the first to witness the resurrection of Jesus. Why? Because women in our culture were not considered to be credible witnesses to anything, much less the most significant event in history. Why me?
And what’s more, why not one of the twelve? These were the notable apostles, as official as anything ever connected to Jesus. I will come back to that question in a bit. But first, here is my version of what happened.
I awakened in the dark of early morning. Actually, I’m not certain that I had ever really gone to sleep. You see, the shock of the past few days had rendered sleep all but impossible. So, rather than spend more time tossing and turning, I arose to go to the tomb. It was almost as if I was being drawn there, quite without any conscious thought.
I knew that my visit to the burial place of Jesus would be in vain. Why? Because the tomb in which Jesus lay was sealed by a stone, a boulder, really. All I could possibly do would be to sit beside it, outside the final resting place of my Lord. But I went anyway. Perhaps, I just wanted to feel as close to Jesus as possible, as close as could be with a large stone separating his body on the inside from me on the outside.
Walking down dark and lonely streets, outside the city gate to the garden burial site, I pondered my past life with Jesus, and I worried about my future life without him. He was the heart and soul of my existence, the total center, and the focus of everything. There would be no life without him; it felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of my body. I could go on living, but it would be life in a shadow world, a loveless world, one without any vitality, one without, as he himself had said, “the light of the world.” What kind of life would that be?
And there it was, the tomb. For a long time, I just stood, facing it, and as I did, all the images of his crucifixion rushed through my mind. I wanted to erase the horror of them and yet at the same time I also sought to preserve any memory of him, any vestige of his life, even of his dying moments.
And that’s when I noticed: the stone was not there; it had been moved aside, leaving a gaping hole in the rock face of the burial site. Why I didn’t immediately see this, I cannot say, except to explain how dark it was in the garden. Or maybe how deeply I was immersed in my thoughts.
In my day, grave robbers were common, and that’s what I quickly concluded: the body of Jesus had been stolen. But by whom and for what purpose? I couldn’t say, but the possibility shocked and horrified me. After all that had been done to him, the injustice, the humiliation and the cruelty, couldn’t the body of Jesus at last be given a bit of dignity? A little peace?
We had to find him and re-bury him. It was the least we could do, to honor the body of our friend and Lord. All I thought to do was to run and tell the eleven.
I knew their hiding place. They feared, of course, that the treatment received by Jesus would also fall to them. You might think of that as cowardice, but let me tell you, their fears were serious and well-founded.
Peter and John quickly got out of bed and raced to the tomb. I followed, but could not keep up with them. Actually, we passed as they were returning into the city while I was still on my way out of it. As they rushed past me, I hoped for some confirmation of what I had seen, but received none. They were clearly agitated, and I could only assume that they were on their way to tell the others, and to begin a search for the body.
The sun was now up and as I reached the garden for the second time, it was obvious that what I had seen in the dark was the new reality: the tomb had been breached. At this point the emotion of my discovery caught up with me. Why couldn’t the body of Jesus lie in peace? Why?
Now weeping bitter tears, I actually felt some release. And I knew in my heart that we would do what we could to restore some degree of honor to the body of Jesus.
And that’s when I saw them: two figures, all in white, inside the tomb. They were sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and the other at the feet. I had never in my life seen anything like these two figures. And for whatever reason, their appearance seemed to add to my sadness, resulting in an even greater flood of tears.
They asked why was I weeping. Why was I weeping? Why indeed? I wasn’t sure if I should even attempt an answer, not only because it was so obvious, but also because I wasn’t sure that I could regain my composure. In the moment, their question seemed absurd, even cruel.
I offered the briefest possible answer: “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Then, I turned away, not expecting any response from these two mysterious figures.
That’s when I saw him. Another figure, one I had not noticed before, was standing near the entrance to the tomb. Like the two inside, he also asked “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”
Who was he? I could only assume that he was the custodian of the garden, at work early on the first day of the week. Surely this man knew who I was looking for. For whatever reason, he must have been the one who rolled aside the stone and removed the body of Jesus.
“Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”
I hoped that this man could explain. Surely, he had some knowledge of the fate of the body of Jesus. Possibilities raced through my mind. Had Jesus’ body been moved on orders of the Romans, fearing an uprising? Or had the high priest wanted Jesus moved to hide him from a crowd of mourners? My mind was getting dizzy from the trails of these thoughts.
Like a knife, a voice cut through my wild conjecturing. “Mary” was all the voice said. And again: “Mary.”
There was no mistaking this voice.
It struck me to the heart. It was his voice, calling my name. My name. Just as he had done countless times before, he called my name. And when he did, he melted all of my fears. There was no need to understand, only believe. All that I could say in response was “rabbi.” No other words were needed.
You know the rest of the story, how Jesus was raised from the dead, just as he said would happen.
Appearance of Jesus Christ to Maria Magdalena (1835) by Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov. In John 20:1–13, Mary Magdalene sees the risen Jesus alone
You may wonder why I did not understand when Jesus first spoke. I don’t know. All I know is that I knew him when he called my name. And I have to say that when he called my name, he did so with such love. It’s hard to explain, but Jesus could express such love in a single word. There was such a love in his “Mary” that was unmistakably Jesus!
And you may also wonder about our brief conversation that followed. In truth, though he was clearly Jesus, there was something different about him. I can’t describe it, but when I hugged him, he told me to let go, that he hadn’t yet ascended to the father.
So, I ask again: why me? Why was I the first witness to the resurrection of Jesus? It was certainly not because I was more worthy. Or more credible. In fact, consider how credible it would have been if the Risen Jesus had appeared to the chief priests. Or to Pilate, or to Joseph and Nicodemus, the men who saw to his burial. Think how credible they would have been!
But that was not God’s way. And as I reflect, the irony of the Mary’s is inescapable. You see, two unlikely Mary’s bookended the life of Jesus. Mary, his mother, a teenaged unmarried girl, was chosen to bear him and to witness his birth. And at the end of his earthly life, I, the second Mary, was chosen to witness his re-birth, his resurrection as the Risen Christ. How much more unlikely could we have been?
What prompted Jesus to call my name? Why did he reveal himself to me and not to someone more important? In truth, he might as easily have criticized my lack of faith. Like the others, I had heard him when he told us that after three days, he would be raised. No, he didn’t call my name because of my faith. Then why?
It could only have been out of love. I could never earn the love of Jesus. My faith could never be strong enough. But despite that, I loved him and he loved me. That was enough.
I have reflected on this encounter with my Risen Lord. And it occurs to me that someone needed to be there, a witness to his resurrection. And to my amazing joy, it was me. Yes, undeserving me. And as I said, if I had died that day, my life would have been complete.
Actually, Jesus doesn’t call us to do great things for him. I certainly never did. But instead, he calls us to be witnesses to the great things that he does in obedience to the father. In fact, there is no higher calling than to be a witness to the wonder of our God.
And that’s a calling that falls to each one of us, to witness to the wonder of our God. So, when Jesus calls your name, I am confident that you will know him, and that you will respond, just as I did. In love.
Would you like to see a video of this story? If so, then go to https://vimeo.com/showcase/11005935