Finally - Easter Sunday.
****
an unnamed woman
We spent the sabbath day in shock. Comforting Mary. Comforting each other.
Today we will serve Him for the last time. I dread it. This is goodbye. After this, there will be nothing left to do for Him. I will have to build a life without Jesus. Is it even possible? I know intellectually that life is always possible with God. That God is still good and still in control. But I can't feel it. I pray that He will have mercy. This is not the normal bereavement experience. I know - I don't just feel it - that the Light has been sucked out of the world and things will never be right again. Lord, have mercy.
We rise and prepare to go. We don't talk much - there isn't much to say.
We walk to the tomb, feeling the cool morning air. Wondering who will roll away the stone. Slightly intimidated at the thought of the Roman guards.
We get to the tomb and discover that the guards are nowhere to be seen, and the stone has already been rolled away. Odd. But it makes our task easier. I brace myself and walk into the tomb.
He isn't there.
It's such a shock that I don't know what to think. Rational thought flees. It is too much. All that we have been through and now the body disappears? We can't even do this one last thing for Him? I am just barely holding myself back from hysterics, and I sense the other women in the same perplexity.
As I try to get a grip so we can decide what to do, the soft morning light is suddenly electric. There are two - men - among us, dazzlingly white, of tall and imposing stature. Their faces are otherworldly. I cry out and fall on my knees, looking at the ground because I cannot bear to look at them.
A voice fills the tomb: "Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen."
My heart stops. I can't breathe.
"Remember how He told you, while He was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men and be crucified and on the third day rise."
It is not a question, but a command. Remember.
I do remember. Three times He told us, and we hadn't listened. It was too impossible to picture Him dying. But now that that impossible thing had happened, was it really unbelievable that He be risen?
No.
In less time than it takes to process, I believe.
I look up and the angels are gone.
For a moment there is stunned silence. Then chaos - joy - skepticism. Mary Magdalene in particular is too stunned to believe it. But I know that it is true, and that we must go to tell the disciples. I start to run.
They are all up and gathered together. I burst in first, exclaim, "He's alive!" and then all the other women catch up. Chaos. Uproar. Too many people talking. I look around at the fear and skepticism on so many of these beloved faces instead of the joy that fills me so that I could burst.
Thomas says we must be imagining things. That the strain of the last four days has been too much.
I stamp my feet, dancing in frustration.
I tell him that we were absolutely not imagining things and how could those men be made up and remember what Jesus said???? And if they didn't believe us they should go look at the tomb themselves. Imagining things?!?! This is the only way that God could still be good and in control. I don't know how I didn't see it before. I am in a frenzy of joy and frustration and impatience.
Peter and John, at least, take my word for it and bolt for the tomb.
****
John
I wake worried for Peter. As hellish as the last few days have been for all of us, Peter is at his wit's end. He doesn't talk much. When he does, he keeps saying things about his "perfect [threefold] denial."
I don't know how to help him. I can't express the devastation of being with Jesus as He died, but I also know there is no other place I would rather have been. I want to tell Peter that the Lord understood and still loved him, but that would have to come from the Jesus Himself. And that is not possible. My face crumples.
I look at Peter. He's lying on his side with his face to the wall, but I can tell he's awake. I brace myself to try to get him to get up and have something to eat. Previous efforts have been exhausting.
A commotion breaks out downstairs.
Peter rolls over and looks at me. Sighs. Says we'd better go down. I am grateful for something to do. A distraction. A flicker of Peter's old tendency to be in the thick of things.
We go downstairs, pause on the bottom step.
It's mayhem. The women have seen - something - and the men are questioning them. For a moment I can't understand what anyone is saying.
Then two sentences hit me.
Mary is frantic: "They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him!"
She is standing in front of me, wringing her hands.
But another woman grabs her by her shoulders and shakes her. She turns to me, face radiant, and before she says it a wild hope springs up. Lazarus...
"He is risen!"
I think she says more, but Peter is running and I am running and I have to get to that tomb.
I outrun Peter, but pay the price for it. My lungs are about to burst. I bend over outside the entrance - the stone has been moved and the guards are gone - trying to catch my breath. I look into the tomb, and Jesus isn't there. But His grave clothes are.
Peter arrives, panting, and goes into the tomb.
I follow. He stands, silently gazing at the remnants of burial.
I look. Possible explanations flash through my mind. But suddenly I know it's true. It has to be true. The Lord is alive. Alive! ALIVE! I believe it with every fiber of my being, and the joy is so great that I can barely stand.
Peter is in a stupor. I don't know what he is thinking or feeling, but I don't have to. Jesus is alive. And He will make things right with Peter.
I am going to burst with joy.
I don't understand it, but I know this is not wishful thinking.
What grave robber would leave the clothes?
And then I remember Mary. His mother. I have to find her, tell her, share with her the great eucatastrophe.
He is alive!
****
Mary Magdalene
I follow Peter and John back to the tomb. I don't know what else to do: I had thought of this place as the closest I could come to Jesus, and now He is gone. I weep in grief and fury and frustration. What right did they have? First to kill Him and then to take His body? The last remaining vestiges of His presence among us? It brings the grief of His death - which had numbed a bit - back in full force.
I suspect the others think I am over-indulgent in my grief, but I can't help it: I can't bear it.
WHERE IS HE?
I am still crying, but less violently. I notice the garden for the first time. It is beautiful. Contemplative. Lovingly tended - a peaceful place for a tomb. A bird sings. I wonder who the gardener is. A man who tends a garden with this much care wouldn't disdain speaking to me. All I want is to find the Lord - be near Him even in burial.
I realize subconsciously that Peter and John have left. That there are two strangers in the tomb. I answer their questions mechanically, not really paying attention.
Where have they taken Him?
Where is the gardener?
I sense someone behind me. I turn and glimpse a figure standing there. I quickly turn away again to try to wipe my tears away and compose myself.
"Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?"
I take a deep breath. Try to speak calmly.
"Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where," the tears start flowing again and I squeak out, "tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away."
So much for remaining calm. But how am I supposed to speak calmly of Him? He is - oh Lord, was - my everything. Oh God, is this a penalty for idolatry? Lord have mercy, and show me where He is. Let this man have mercy toward me, or my heart will shatter.
How am I supposed to live without Jesus?
I cannot stop sobbing.
Then in a voice so low I barely hear it, but so resonant with compassion and joy it reverberates through the garden: "Mary."
My name. How many times have I heard Him say it? I thought I would never hear Him say it again. My world, which had come crashing down in the last days, rebuilds itself with a speed too dizzying for me to comprehend. But it doesn't matter. My world doesn't really concern me right now. My Lord does.
I turn - "Rabboni!" - and fling myself at His feet. I don't know what is going on. Intellectually the pieces are all muddled. But I know that this is my Jesus, my Lord, alive, and I will never let go of Him again. My intellect is slow but my emotions are on overdrive and I almost choke on the laughter and tears bursting from my frame.
He places His hand on my head, and I grab it, feel the scar, kiss it. There are no words for this explosion of joy.
He pulls me up, laughing deep wells of laughter and joy. I have heard Him laugh so often, but never like this. Like hell itself has no more power.
"Ssshh. Hush. Mary, don't cling to me so. You will have to let go. I have not yet ascended to the Father. And remember? I promised that when I do ascend I will send you a greater gift even than my physical presence. So continue to rejoice! But you must go and tell my brothers the good news. Tell them that I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God."
****
the unnamed woman
I'm jittery and totally unable to stay in one place or focus on one thing for a reasonable length of time. I believed as soon as we saw the angels this morning, but I haven't seen Him and it's driving me crazy. But now four people have seen the risen Lord. I bounce up and down.
Mary Magdalene is near a window, beaming. Sometimes a cluster of people will gather around her and she will speak with animation. At other times she simply gazes out the window, radiant.
Peter is sitting at a table, staring at nothing. He is very unforthcoming about what the Lord said to him. I think he is still wrestling with guilt about denying Him. But he is more at peace than he has been since that night. People have given up trying to talk to him.
Cleopas and Mary Cleopas are now the center of attention. They just arrived, and they, too, have seen the Lord. They are being peppered with questions.
Someone makes sure the doors are locked. Resurrection or no resurrection, the Pharisees may still be out for blood.
The mood is chaotic. The four who have seen Him insist that He is alive. Some, like John and I, have not yet seen Him, but we believe without doubt that He is risen. Others are skeptical - afraid to hope. Unable to wrap their minds around the possibility. Besides - why is He so difficult to recognize? And why doesn't He stay put? Could it be that they were seeing a ghost?
Someone posed this question and instantly voices are raised in an escalating argument. I stay out of it because I have zero evidence. I go and stand beside Peter.
Things are getting heated when suddenly He is in the room. "Peace!" - in the voice that calmed the storm. Instantly there is complete silence.
My heart leaps into my throat. It is the Lord. I recognize Him at once, though I see why the others didn't. There are lines of sorrow on His face that were never there before, but also unrestrained joy in His eyes, no longer tempered by knowledge of future suffering. His body is whole - no longer battered, shredded, and bruised, though I think I see - is it my imagination? - glimpses of the nail holes.
The silence lasts only a heartbeat.
"It's a ghost!" Someone shrieks - "Only a ghost can pass through locked doors!"
Instant mayhem, for the umpteenth time that day. Peter's voice cuts through it all: "Even before, He walked on water. This is no ghost."
In the hush, Jesus speaks. He released a sigh in the midst of the hubbub, but now a smile plays around His mouth and lights His eyes.
"Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See My hands and My feet, that it is I Myself. Touch me, and see. As the Father sent me, eve so am I sending you."
He goes to each person in turn, seeking to them quietly. I drink Him in. Marvel that He stands among us, watch the release in each disciple's face as He speaks to them.
He embraces John, tears filling both their eyes.
He stands before Peter, who bows his head and murmers: "My Lord." Jesus touches his shoulder. When Peter looks up, He bends down and breathes on him. Peter's tension relaxes, but he ducks his head again, overwhelmed.
Now Jesus is standing before me, looking at me. I look at Him and marvel at His compassion and joy and strength and love. This is the same Jesus, but as if a veil has been removed from my sight. I fall on my knees at His feet, weeping and laughing with joy. His feet are scarred. He lifts me up, taking my hand in His. When I stand, He shows me the nail holes in His hands.
"You are bound to Me by these scars. As you walked with Me in My death, so now abide in Me in my Life. Apart from Me you can do nothing. Cleave to me."
I want to pour out my soul to Him, but I can't find the words. So I just look at Him, overwhelmed and overjoyed by His presence.
He smiles, leans forward, and breathes on my forehead. "Receive the Holy Spirit." It is the breath of an anointing.
I am the last one.
As He steps away, He glances at the table, where someone had absentmindedly left some dried fish. He raises His eyebrows: "Anything to eat?"
I grin and offer Him some fish. He takes it and eats it before us all. This is no ghost. And suddenly we are all dancing, the joy too great to contain. At first, Jesus dances with us. Then He steps back. Later, I look around and notice that He is gone.
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