JOHN 20: 1-18 (NIV)
Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance. 2 So she came running to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved, and said, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!”
3 So Peter and the other disciple started for the tomb. 4 Both were running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. 5 He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there but did not go in. 6 Then Simon Peter came along behind him and went straight into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, 7 as well as the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’ head. The cloth was still lying in its place, separate from the linen.8 Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. 9 (They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead.)10 Then the disciples went back to where they were staying.
11 Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb12 and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.
13 They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”
“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” 14 At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.
5 He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”
Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”
16 Jesus said to her, “Mary.”
She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”).
17 Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”
18 Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them that he had said these things to her.
I came across this passage, and, obviously, it wasn’t really by chance, even if I did open my Bible somewhat at random. What struck me was perhaps the time of day when it all takes place. It’s morning, but it’s not quite morning yet. It is still dark. In fact, it is very dark. For Mary, could the world have seemed any darker than it did that day? She has nothing left before her but a corpse. Just a few days ago, Jerusalem was echoing with Hosanna! Jesus was entering, riding on a donkey, just as the prophets had said[1]. The crowd was cheering Him. Branches and cloaks thrown on the ground cleared the path for Him[2]. Everything seemed possible. Yet, this morning, even the dead body of that crucified hope has vanished. The tomb, like death itself, is empty, cruelly stripping away even the little she had left.
First, let us remember that, for her, this is probably the first day in too long where she feels she can actually do something. On Friday, she watched the person she loves most in the world, her hope, the very meaning of her life, be put to death. Before meeting Him, she had been possessed by demons[3]. We can only imagine what her life was like back then. Being looked down on, rejected, gossiped about, or laughed at. Then, after meeting Him, she became part of the crew, part of the Messiah’s inner circle. The Messiah! At least, that is what they believed and hoped. But on Friday, everything shattered. She saw Him disfigured, bloodied, walking painfully down the street, weakened, the cross on His shoulders. Roman soldiers all around, the one in front chanting « here is the King of the Jews » to mock Him. Some people even spat on Him. She could do nothing but watch Him be brutally stripped, watch one arm get nailed down, then the other, then His feet; watch Him cry out, hoping something would happen. Nothing happened: they cast lots for His clothes, they gave Him vinegar to drink when He was thirsty, He groaned, and then, completely exhausted, He bowed His head. He was dead.
Joseph of Arimathea, helped by Nicodemus, managed to give Him a hasty burial before sunset. After that, it was the Sabbath. There was nothing to be done. Nothing left. Even mourning seemed impossible[4]… How, anyway, could anyone believe in such a catastrophe? In such a sudden reversal? Did Mary spend the Sabbath in a state of shock, or did she weep without stopping? The text doesn’t say. But this morning, this Sunday morning, is the only moment in two days where she feels she can do something. True, all she has left is a corpse, but she was at least going to honor that corpse.
The text doesn’t tell us what Mary did on Saturday, but we can guess she probably didn’t sleep very well because, when she arrives at the tomb, it is so early that it is still dark. This darkness, however, does not stop her from seeing that the stone in front of the tomb has been rolled away, that the tomb is empty, and that she has nothing left. Panicked, she runs to tell Peter and John. The scriptures often hint that these two shared a bit of a rivalry. You can still feel it at that moment. John, of course, gets there first. John always gets there first, but Peter is always the one who goes further. He goes inside, sees that the linen cloths that wrapped Jesus’ body are on the ground. The ones that should be around His head are rolled up, in their place. John goes in too. He sees the same thing. For both of them, the light dawns. They remember certain teachings, and the pieces click together: He is risen.
I don’t know if it’s because they didn’t see Mary outside in the dark, or if Mary came back to the tomb later and they missed each other, but everything suggests they didn’t think it necessary to let her know there was no need to worry. All we know is that Mary stands beside the tomb, weeping. And how she must be weeping! She looks inside again. In the place where Jesus’ body should have been, two angels. Two ANGELS!!! Yet, Mary is so consumed by her despair that even this extraordinary sight seems to have no effect on her. No trigger, no light, no exclamation; nothing to suggest a new perspective on what she sees in the absence of the body. So much so that when they ask her, « Why are you weeping? », her answer is: « They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid Him. » She is still that woman who no longer hopes for anything, except the corpse of what she has already lost. Emptiness against emptiness. Loss against loss. Everything inside her is terribly dark. So dark that she cannot see anything else.
Then, she senses someone behind her. Once again, the same question: « Why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for? » In the darkness, she thinks it is the gardener. And even when this gardener guesses she is looking for someone, her night is so deep that she cannot envision anyone other than a random gardener, a cemetery employee. Desperate, she asks him, « Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away. » Mary is still only hoping to perhaps find the body of a dead man.
In these two questions, the exact same phrase repeated twice— »Why are you weeping? »—I wonder what the tone was. Was it filled with empathy, seeking to know the cause of a heartache? Or did it convey surprise, a lack of understanding? A « Why are you weeping (when there is absolutely no reason to cry, but quite the opposite)? » Again, the text doesn’t say, but I like to imagine that both tones are there, one after the other, or slightly layered over each other.
For Mary, however, it is still too dark to distinguish anything, even by sound. It is only when the one she thought was the gardener calls her by name— »Mary! »—that the morning breaks. When she recognizes that she is known just as much as she recognizes this voice that knows her, the night finally stops being the night. She understands then that an empty tomb is one **** of a good news. She turns around. She cries out, « Rabboni! » which is a term loaded with both respect and affection. The light, right there, next to her. This morning was the most beautiful morning in the world; she just hadn’t seen it yet.
Then Jesus says to her, « Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to my Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’ »
Which is what she does, announcing to the disciples, « I have seen the Lord! »
Reflections:
Reading this passage, I asked myself the following question: how many times in my life, overwhelmed by difficult emotions, do I fail to see the resurrection that is nevertheless right there in front of me? I don’t mean to deny the validity of the emotions we can feel, let alone challenge their intensity or their right to exist. But is it possible that these emotions sometimes engulf me in their darkness to the point where I don’t see the miracle that is undoubtedly unfolding right in front of (or behind) me? My prayer has become that, in those moments, I might hear my name. More precisely, that I might hear Him say my name. That a « Mary! » might echo within me and that I may know how deeply I am known and seen, but above all, that He lives.
Then, I wondered if, after these epiphanies, I would be able to not cling to these experiences. Could I let Jesus go, trusting that His God is my God, His Father my Father, and that He will return? Can I simply believe that He is the one holding me, that it is not up to me to grasp Him or hold Him back; that I must not confine Him to this single magical moment to be repeated exactly the same way every time? Little by little, I am learning that I can never force Him to stay, but most of all, that I never needed to worry about it. He is the one who came to me, and nothing can snatch me away from His hand.name. More precisely, that I might hear Him say my name. That a « Mary! » might echo within me and that I may know how deeply I am known and seen, but above all, that He lives.
[1] In John 12:16, it is mentioned that « At first, Jesus’ disciples did not understand all this. They realized it only after he had received glory. Then they realized that these things had been written about him. They realized that these things had been done to him. » It is therefore quite probable that Mary was unable to make the connection between the donkey and the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9. Nonetheless, such a welcome, even if it wasn’t interpreted for what it truly was, must have reinforced the disciples in the specific messianic vision they held of Jesus.
[2] John12:12-15
[3] Luke 8: 1-3
[4] In Rabbinic Judaism, public mourning is forbidden on the Sabbath. This custom, already mentioned in the Mishna, suggests that while Mary may have wept, she could not wear mourning clothes or truly give free rein to the expression of her distress anywhere other than in private. Since the disciples gathered together, I wonder if this gathering was viewed as a private one for those who loved Jesus, or a public gathering (John 20:19 might imply that they had already assembled). The timing of Jesus’ death, when related to this practice of a « pause » in mourning—or at least a public silencing of sorrow— and how it must have already been embedded in Jewish culture fills me with wonder. Jesus knew He would die on the eve of a Sabbath, and furthermore, a high holy day Sabbath (Passover). Because this fact practically forbade the disciples from any expression of grief the day after His death, it is as though He prevented them from weeping too much over what, the very next day, would awaken for them (as well as for us!) as an absolutely marvellous (and yet paradoxical) source of joy and gratitude (John 16:20).
[1] In John 12:16, it is mentioned that « At first, Jesus’ disciples did not understand all this. They realized it only after he had received glory. Then they realized that these things had been written about him. They realized that these things had been done to him. » It is therefore quite probable that Mary was unable to make the connection between the donkey and the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9. Nonetheless, such a welcome, even if it wasn’t interpreted for what it truly was, must have reinforced the disciples in the specific messianic vision they held of Jesus.
[2] John 12:12-15
[3] Luke 8: 1-3
[4] In Rabbinic Judaism, public mourning is forbidden on the Sabbath. This custom, already mentioned in the Mishna, suggests that while Mary may have wept, she could not wear mourning clothes or truly give free rein to the expression of her distress anywhere other than in private. Since the disciples gathered together, I wonder if this gathering was viewed as a private one for those who loved Jesus, or a public gathering (John 20:19 might imply that they had already assembled). The timing of Jesus’ death, when related to this practice of a « pause » in mourning—or at least a public silencing of sorrow— and how it must have already been embedded in Jewish culture fills me with wonder. Jesus knew He would die on the eve of a Sabbath, and furthermore, a high holy day Sabbath (Passover). Because this fact practically forbade the disciples from any expression of grief the day after His death, it is as though He prevented them from weeping too much over what, the very next day, would awaken for them (as well as for us!) as an absolutely marvellous (and yet paradoxical) source of joy and gratitude (John 16:20).
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