Scripture Reading John 20:1-18
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’s 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 touch 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.
Sermon
In early spring 1912 a pharmacist by the name of C. Austin Miles was in a cold, leaky basement in Pitman, New Jersey, meditating on the passage we have just read from the gospel of John. His great-granddaughter would later say that he basement didn’t even contain a window, let alone a view of a garden. Nevertheless, Miles was captivated by a vivid image that came to him. He later described it this way:
“As the light faded,” he said, “I seemed to be standing at the entrance of a garden, looking down a gently winding path, shaded by olive branches. A woman in white, with head bowed, hand clasping her throat, as if to choke back her sobs, walked slowly into the shadows. It was Mary.” He continues, “As she leaned her head upon her arm at the tomb, she wept. Turning herself, she saw Jesus standing. So did I. I knew it was He. She knelt before Him, with arms outstretched and looking into His face, cried, “Rabboni!”[i]
This vision became…
I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses…
… the gospel hymn, “In the Garden,” which I would describe as a song both beloved and reviled. And unknowingly, C. Austin Miles had tapped into an ancient stream of thought about this scene, of Jesus and Mary in the garden. We read passages of scripture in the light of other passages of scripture. The early church connected this passage from John to the Song of Solomon in the Old Testament: A woman moving through a garden, searching for, and then finding, her beloved.
My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away,
for now the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth;
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
is heard in our land.
The fig tree puts forth its figs,
and the vines are in blossom;
they give forth fragrance.
Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away. ~Song of Solomon 2:10-13
This is our celebration of the day of Resurrection, and no matter which gospel you choose to read, you will find Mary Magdalene at the tomb on Easter morning. In John’s gospel she comes alone, no herbs or potions to belatedly tend to Jesus’ poor, battered body. The men have taken care of that—Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus have beautifully prepared Jesus’ body with a hundred pounds of herbs, plus the linen wrappings. Mary can only be there out of a sense of longing, and grief, and perhaps disbelief, which so often accompanies us in the early days after we’ve lost a beloved. Mary goes to the tomb to grieve.
Finding it open, and Jesus’ body nowhere to be seen, Mary immediately runs to fetch Simon Peter and the disciple whom Jesus loved, that elusive character whose name we are never told. The men have a race: Who will get there first? Who will look into the tomb first? Who will go into the tomb first? Who will believe first? All these questions settled, they appear to shrug their shoulders and leave Mary there, still weeping. See her as Miles described her. A white robe. Choking on her sobs.
She bends over to investigate the tomb and sees two angels, also in white, sitting where Jesus’s body should have been. Instead of giving her the good news, they ask her a question: Woman, why are you weeping? And Mary says the only thing that makes sense to her: Someone has stolen Jesus’ body.
This makes perfect sense. Jesus was crucified by Rome, a punishment for sedition. A descendant of David, with followers ready to crown him king—he was a threat to the Pax Romana, the Roman peace. It makes sense that they wouldn’t want him in a tomb that could be visited by his followers, that could become a shrine to a martyr, and encourage them when they were ready to revolt for real.
Mary explains to the angels, They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where to find him. Distracted by her fear and grief, she doesn’t even seem to notice that they are angels. She turns away, and she sees Jesus. But she doesn’t recognize him.
This happens sometimes in the resurrection stories. I think there’s a fairly good explanation for it. Jesus is supposed to be dead. Jesus is not supposed to be walking in a garden in the early hours of this third day since he was laid in the tomb. He is supposed to be in there. He is supposed to be dead.
Mary doesn’t recognize Jesus—in fact, she thinks he’s the gardener. (Some paintings of this scene show Jesus dressed as a gardener—wearing a hat, gardening tools around him.) But with a specific idea of who he is, Mary wonders whether this gardener has carried Jesus away. She begs him to tell her where he is, so that she might go and retrieve her beloved’s body.
Finally, Jesus speaks her name. “Mary.” What goes through her head in that moment? Is she recalling fragments from the prophets? “Do not be afraid… I have called you by name… you are mine” (Isaiah 43:1)? Or is it simply hearing her name formed by that beloved voice that finally breaks through? “Rabboni!” she says… perhaps sinking to her knees? Reaching out?
The art on the screen right now is a 16th century painting of this moment by the artist Titiano Vecelli, known to English speakers as Titian. In it, you can see that Mary is on her knees, reaching for Jesus. Jesus is leaning towards her, holding his garments back.
The gospel doesn’t tell us that Mary reached out for Jesus—we learn that by what he says in response—Don’t touch me, or as some bibles translate it, Don’t hold on to me, because I haven’t yet ascended to my father. Jesus’ body seems to be in some transitional state.
Different artists have captured this moment in different ways. This ivory plaque is by an early 12th century artist, name is unknown. Jesus’ body language on this plaque is significantly different. Jesus points at Mary, almost accusingly, his head nodding towards her even as his body is turned away.
These differing interpretations are important. One focuses on the prohibition of Mary touching Jesus, while the other, you might say, focuses on the blessing Jesus bestows on her, even without touch.
Touch is important in the gospels. There are countless stories of Jesus touching people to heal them. A few weeks ago we heard the story of Jesus healing the man born without sight—spitting on the ground, making little mud pies that he then rubbed onto the man’s eyes. Jesus touched lepers and dead people, Peter’s feverish mother-in-law and the unknown woman in a crowd who only wanted to touch his garment. To hear Jesus say, “Do not touch me” must have come as a shock to Mary.
Also, the early church encouraged new Christians to be like Mary—to grasp onto Jesus (as she does in the resurrection scene in Matthew), to cling to him, to let that clinging be at the heart of their faith.[ii]
But then, the blessing. Jesus gives Mary the commission that has caused her, from the second century on to be called “apostola apostolorum,” “apostle to the apostles.”
Go, he says, tell my brothers that I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God. Mary is charged with carrying the message of the risen Christ to the rest of his disciples. She is charged with being the first ever preacher of the Good News. This woman who, moments ago was weeping in grief and fear is charged with letting others know of the outcome of the harrowing days past: The one she loved and searched for is not lost but found—he lives. He breathes. God has raised him from the dead, and now, like the lover in Solomon’s song he can tell her:
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm,
for love is strong as death,
passion fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
a raging flame.
Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it. ~Song of Solomon 8:6-7a
Easter is the love story between God and humanity. God came among us in Jesus Christ, experiencing everything human beings experience, including pain and death. But the love of God is stronger than death; the passion of God is fiercer than the grave. And so, impossibly, Mary finds Jesus in the garden, and we find him in the garden, too. And we still find him in our midst today. Sometimes, like Mary, we don’t recognize him, but there he is, gazing out at us from the faces of the people we pass in the street, the people we work with, the people we love, the people we don’t love. And just as he calls Mary’s name, he calls our names. I have called you, God says, and you are mine. And every so often when we hear him speaking our name, we realize—we want to reach out. To cling to him. To trust in him. Easter is the love story between God and humanity. Love, as strong as death—stronger. Passion as fierce as the grave. He is risen. Thanks be to God. Amen.